Clang.
Think of the beach, Katniss. The sand…
Clang.
The sand, under your blistering feet, the surf on the shore…
Clang. Clang.
Think of how it felt. When he held you…
CLANG!
I shoot up instantly, hyperaware if the whirring and banging coming from somewhere within hovercraft. I run my hands over my face, through my hair. Ugh. It's impossible to fall asleep here. Not that I could. With each passing minute we grow closer to our enemy. Each mile brings me closer to finding Peeta. Or avenging him. Whichever comes first.
I glance over to Gale, who's snoring quietly in the bunk a few feet from mine. Many nights the sound would comfort me, but not tonight. I'm almost certain sleep will not come to me on this night, not without a miracle, or some sleep syrup. I'd look for some, but I doubt it's easy to come by on this packed ship. No, no sleep for me. I can't suppress the anxiety, and the memories that come with it.
Two men, I don't recall their names, sleep in the beds above Gale and myself. I'm sure Gale introduced me to them at some point; I think I remember meeting them. But who could be sure? There is no way my mind can retain things like that now, with such a huge fate looming above us all. Ironic that they'll risk their lives on this suicide mission I've arranged, but I can't even remember names... The man above me rolls over, the mattress crackling loudly in this confined barrack. I think Gale called him Roan, yes, that sounds right. But as soon as I remember the name, I want to forget it. It'll be easier to burn the dead bodies afterwards if I can't put a name to a cold face. If there's even time to burn.
I swing my legs over the edge of my mattress and pull myself up. The floor is concrete and sends a cold shock through my feet. I shiver, and wrap the scratchy wool blanket from my cot around me. I intend to wander the rooms of this spacious craft until morning. But first, I cross the floor to make sure Gale is asleep. Otherwise he would surely make me go back to my bed, and tell me I need my rest. This is true, of course, but Gale has become somewhat of an annoyance these past few days. He's been at my side constantly, making sure I don't do anything rash or dangerous. I'm sure he thought I would try to set off on this journey without him, which is why he kept such a close eye on me. But I wouldn't do that, even though I probably could have. I knew the moment I heard the resolve in his voice the night he kissed me that I couldn't change Gale's mind once it was made. It's been true since I've known him-once he's decided on something, he'll do anything to see it through. Besides, who am I to stop him? I've denied Gale so much already.
I kneel at his bedside quietly as I can manage, my popping joints betraying me. But Gale doesn't stir. He's exhausted. Even in sleep, his face is set in an expression of stress and worry. I frown. This won't do. Very gently-the last thing I need right now is to wake him-I take my fingers and un-furrow Gale's thick brow. Then, I trace my hand along his jaw to relax it. There, he already looks so much more peaceful. It reminds me of the way Gale used to look in the woods, when the realities of home seemed so far away. I was foolish then, for thinking Gale and I could continue that way forever, But then again, I was happier then too. I was blissful in my ignorance, content. What I wouldn't give to be ignorant now.
As I patter into the hallway connected to not only my barrack, but all the barracks in the ship as well, I sneak a look at Prim and my mother, nestled together just like old times in the room next to mine. The only thing missing is Buttercup, the mangy old tomcat who used to sleep by Prim's feet. He was a clever thing, I'll give him that. I wonder if he made it out before they blew District 12 to pieces.
I notice there are a few scattered lights on in the hallways, and I pick up bits of hushed conversations as I pass. Apparently I'm not the only one who can't sleep tonight. After all, in only a few more hours we're scheduled to make a fuel stop –Haymitch wouldn't tell me where- as well as pick up more troops. Or suicidal rebels, as I like to call them. After that, it's a half a day's journey to the heart of the Capitol, where I expect we'll all be slaughtered. Ah, the Capitol. It's hard to believe that the last time I was there, I was met with the adoring coos of my bizarre Capitol fans as a beloved icon. People threw me roses. Now the only thing I expect will be thrown at me is bombs, or otherwise deadly devices.
I pace the halls for a good half-hour, and finally resolve to go find something to munch on until morning comes. It probably isn't such a bad idea to get some food in me, at any rate.
The door marked "Dining Hall" is closed when I get there, but light escapes from the crack by the floor. This is odd, considering it'll be at least four hours until it would be called a suitable time for breakfast.
The fluorescents sting my eyes when I manage to pry the metal door open, and I have to blink a few times before they can come back into focus. As soon as they do, I scan the room for life and come up empty. Chairs sit against empty metal tables, ovens and other appliances I have no name for sit stationary in the corner to my far right. The distinct odor of bleach still hangs in the air from this room's last cleaning. I listen for a few minutes, an old habit, before I decide someone must have just left the light on, and make my way over to the area where food is stored.
An ice box humming near the back of the dining hall is where I decided my best bet for something fresh might be. Maybe I can find a fish, maybe even some meat. I think I remember how to work an oven to heat it. If not, eating raw fish isn't a practice that's new to me.
A freezing burst of air blows my hair behind my shoulders when my fingers pry open the ice box. Ah, it feels so nice against my flushed cheeks, so I stick my entire face inside. The thing is filled with freeze dried packages and carefully rationed meat and bread. These are meant to sustain us on our journey-No telling how long we might be away from a ready food source. No. I'd better leave this stash alone. I should try looking in those cupboards I saw earlier, they looked promising…
Something taps my shoulder, and without thinking, my hunter's senses I thought were lost kick in. I whirl around and land a good blow right on my assailant's nose. Finnick's nose.
"Oh!"
Hastily I run to the cabinets and throw the doors open, deperatly seeking something to staunch the steady flow of blood streaming from Finnick's nose. I find a dish rag and scamper back with it to where I left poor Finnick, who is lying awkwardly with one hand hovering above his nose and the other clutching an empty mug which I'm guessing used to hold the coffee that now drenches his shirt.
"Oh, oh," is all I can say as I try to sop up the blood that has stopped flowing and is quickly drying on the cold floor and all over Finnick's face. He doesn't say anything, just watches me with those sea green eyes as I go to wet the cloth and wipe his face. This surprises me. Usually something this demoralizing would provoke a snide remark from someone as haughty as Finnick. Though in these circumstances, none of us are really acting like ourselves anymore.
When I've finished, and all the blood I can clean has been transferred to the dish rag, I stand over Finnick.
"I'm sorry, Finnick, I didn't know it wa-"
"Hey, no apology necessary. It was my fault not yours," He's grinning now, that famous milky white grin of his. He hoists himself off the ground before I can stop him. I hold my arms out awkwardly, ready for him to get lightheaded and collapse. But he doesn't, instead, he pokes me in the arm playfully.
"Sneaking up on Katniss Everdeen? What was I thinking?" Then he actually laughs, and the sound of it takes me aback. "I'm lucky I didn't get an arrow through my head!"
I don't understand his behavior, but his joking, paired with the reference to my arrows, makes me forget that I'll be dead within the next few days. So I decide to joke along with Finnick.
"We couldn't have that, could we? Wouldn't want an arrow to ruin you're most prized possession!"
He laughs at this, feels his nose, and then changes his expression to mock horror.
"Is it crooked? You broke it Katniss!"
I almost believe him before I observe the perfectly straight, chiseled line of his nose. I grasp the air and pretend to aim and shoot an arrow at Finnick's face, and smile.
"That should take care of the job. Now would you like to tell me what you're doing here at such an absurd hour?" By the rings under his eyes and the wrinkled state of his clothes, I can tell he couldn't sleep either.
"I could ask you the same thing, Ms. Everdeen. But I was getting coffee…"
We both look at the empty mug in his hand and the dark stain covering the entire front of his shirt. I grin guiltily.
"That was the last of it," Finnick says, "But I could make more… if you want?"
After mopping up Finnick's gushing blood, I doubt I could stomach much more than coffee now.
"That would be perfect, thanks Finnick."
Soon, we're seated in two of the metal chairs which we've propped up against one of the ovens. We sit for a while, sipping our coffee and occasionally talking. I despise the bitter, dark taste-but tonight I couldn't ask for anything better. The acrid flavor burns through my senses and thoughts, making thinking about the coming days nearly impossible.
Talking to Finnick helps, too. Between the two of us there is an unspoken agreement to avoid painful topics. So we talk of home. He tells me of the ocean, and of his fishing boat. He talks me through different fishing methods, which I listen to intently. He tells me how the surf sounds when it laps the shore at sunset, and how he misses waking up to the calls of sea birds in the morning.
In turn, I tell Finnick about my woods, the place I consider my home. He listens as I tell him about my father teaching me to swim in our pond, and Katniss tubers. I describe the taste of fresh rabbit, and the sound the wind makes when it blows through the pine needles. I thought I would feel pain talking about a place that no longer exists, but instead I feel relief. As I tell Finnick the story of the bobcat that followed me around and solidified my nickname of Catnip, I internally vow to never forget District 12.
Finnick and I sit there swapping stories until, despite the coffee, I begin to doze off. I rest my head on Finnick's muscled legs, and he strokes my hair gently as I lose consciousness. There is nothing romantic between Finnick and I, and there never will be. But I feel a connection to him, a camaraderie forged by the understanding we have of one another's situation. He may be the only one in Panem who knows how I've been feeling since I lost Peeta. And because of this , I know I can expect him by my side until the end.
However soon the end might be.