She woke up in a cold sweat, sheets plastered to her legs. It was dark, unbearably dark, and she didn't know where she was. Then the memories came flooding back.
She was alone. Some of this solitude was by choice, and some of it was not her choice. Not at all.
The Capitol, the power-hungry, blood-thirsty, sequin-studded monster, that gruesome, unforgiving machine, had taken away the mere notion of choice. The moment she took that first step, the moment that she stepped up to the plate to protect the one that she loved most, her last voluntary decision had been made. Everything else was a cut-throat struggle to return to equilibrium.
Yes, she was home, she admitted, but not like she remembered. Not like she wanted.
I believe I can see the future, because I repeat the same routine.
Carefully, she pried her legs from the sheets – slate grey, non-descript, and not particularly luxurious, but they served their purpose well enough. She lay there for a moment, staring up into the darkness, listening.
Not a sound.
Often, she might hear Haymitch breaking things, or Peeta getting into fights with the abominable Delly Cartwright. Sounds that made her stomach churn. Of course, that was some progress. It meant that she was eating – she did, occasionally. It also meant that she was feeling, too. Feeling something other than the urge to lie face down in the bath.
I think I used to have a purpose, but then again, that might have been a dream.
Returning to the rebuilt District 12 hadn't changed things. She had caused enough pain and destruction to last everyone – not just the ones close to her, but everyone who inhabited Panem – a lifetime. Nearly everyone that she had ever cared about was dead.
Not just six feet under. That wasn't the only way to be dead. Sure, some were actually dead – burned to a crisp, into a tiny thousand pieces. Others were broken inside, irreparably fractured, or far enough away, both physically and emotionally, that they might as well have been dead.
Gingerly, she rolled into a sitting position, her knees pressing into the meager flesh on her arms as she contemplated what to do next. She did nothing but sleep, really, and listen to Peeta and Haymitch knock on her door every so often. She felt that it was every Sunday, but she couldn't be sure. All of the days melted into each other, and why should she keep track? She was a useless, cantankerous, mentally unstable wretch.
I just do what I've been told. I really don't want them to come around.
She got up carefully, slowly, and made her way to her dresser. She slid open the first drawer, and her fingers fell upon a tiny box of matches. In a very practiced, mechanical fashion, she found a match and struck it upon the side of the container.
She lit a candle, and started to walk down the stairs.
I think I used to have a voice, but now I never make a sound.
It was highly probable that they were waiting for her to die. No one had checked on her, although, she had to give credit where credit was due: some had tried.
No, they wouldn't really check on her, they wouldn't really make an attempt, until the smell had become unbearable, and Delly would make a complaint to the new mayor. It would be a sickly sweet sort of stench, wafting through open windows. She would remember, too, to leave the windows open. Listen to birds sing, listen to Delly's tinkling laughter at some delightful joke that Peeta had made, listen to the almost melodic smashing of liquor bottles at Haymitch's.
I can feel their eyes are watching, in case I lose myself again.
Of course, this would be, granted that she had even the energy or motivation to follow through.
Eventually, she found herself in the kitchen. She set the candle on the granite counter.
Sometimes, I think I'm happy here.
Well, Katniss, she told herself. You might as well indulge. She found some milk in a pitcher, and a single, dull grey bowl, and a cardboard container with some fancy Capitol cereal in it. She almost laughed at the irony. Almost. Amusement was like a flicker, a blink, a beat of a moth's wing, across her mind. The most imperceptible twitch of the corner of her mouth was only habit. She hadn't been smiling, much. She couldn't even remember the last time she smiled.
Sometimes… yet I still pretend.
A tiny, hidden part of her remembered what to do. It seemed like millions of years since she had done it, but she had done it easily enough. First, the cereal was poured, and then the milk. The corn flakes were dumped out, and elevated with the addition of milk. Something in her mind registered the milk as more of cream, or custard, as opposed to actual milk, but she wasn't picky. She didn't care. In fact, it might expedite the process.
I can't remember how this got started, but I can tell you exactly how it will end.
She took the candle, and placed it on the table. Some light had begun to shine through the thick, dusty curtains. Everyday is exactly the same. Then she placed her cereal at the head of the table. She was, in truth, the guest of honor, was she not? Everyday is exactly the same. She found a spoon in a kitchen drawer. She noticed something was missing. The she realized that there was an absence of forks. There is no love here… Yes, the forks and the knives. They were gone, but she couldn't quite recall why. And there is no pain. She decided not to dwell on it. Everyday is exactly the same.
She took her spoon back to her seat, and began to eat the cereal. She didn't taste anything, but she still chewed anyway. She wasn't picky. She didn't care.
I'm writing this on a little piece of paper that I'm hoping someday you might find. Well, I'll hide behind something they won't look behind.
They found her, soon enough. Haymitch had stopped drinking long enough to feel concern and with Peeta's help, the broke down the door.
Peeta was the first to find her.
A low scream had resounded throughout the house, and Haymitch had come light speed up the stairs.
The first thing he did was start crying.
Not caring at all about his nice, pressed shirt, he shoved his hands in. Into the water, and under her arms in order to hoist her out of the bathtubs. He didn't care about disease. He didn't care about evidence and doctors and charges or anything. He only was numb, numb with loss and pain and regret. Why hadn't they put two and two together?
Why didn't she tell anyone?
Didn't she know how loved she was?
Past the grief, past the funeral, past the burial, past three years, there was still a bit of numbness in everyone. Her mother wasn't alerted, and for good reason. Nobody quite knew where her mother was, and nobody was interested in locating her and contacting her. One day, she might come back to District 12, looking to bond with her only daughter. But for now she was elsewhere, finding love and starting a new family. Nobody had the heart to put her through once again what she had been through twice before.
I'm still inside here. A little bit comes bleeding through. I wish this could have been any other way. But I just don't know – I don't what else I can do.