I wake to beams of sunlight streaming through the window, as always. Another day is here. Last night was the usual dreams, as always. Replays of the Games, and Prim. Always Prim. I only ever see her at night anymore. I've long since stopped having flashbacks. I still dread sleep, though, because the dreams never leave. I go about the morning as always, pulling on clothes as always, forcing food down my throat as always…I only eat because it is necessary for me to live. There's nothing enjoyable about it.
I walk out of my house and down the street without glancing back, as always. I still live in the Victor's Village, because there really is no place else to go. I stop in the nearest shop and buy a few bottles of liquor for Haymitch, as always. One for me, too, as always. I'm not as heavy a drinker as Haymitch, but I always keep something lying around in case I have a bad day.
A few doors down is the bakery. I stop inside to say hello to Peeta, as always. He's hard at work, pounding some dough into a ball. When I open the door, he glances up. I see his fists clench, a glint in his eye. He's having one of those days. Usually we're okay together. I stop by every day. It's become a routine, which I like. Routine is good. Repetition is good. But on Peeta's bad days, my visits are even briefer than normal.
"Hello, Katniss," he says, fists now pounding the dough furiously. Maybe he imagines it's my face.
"Hello, Peeta," I say back stiffly. He knows he has no reason to hate me. He can't help it, though. We exchange a few comments, and I leave without buying anything, as always.
On my way to the Meadow, I pass Gale's house, as always. He's out front, tending to his garden, as always. When I first saw it, I didn't think he was the type. He isn't, really. Most of it is dead. The primrose he has managed to keep in perfect shape, though. It blooms beautifully every spring. On the ground in front of it is a small granite stone. Engraved on it are the words, "In Memory of Primrose Everdeen".
I forgave Gale long ago. There was nothing to forgive.
"Hey, Catnip," he says without looking up, as always. Although we never go hunting anymore, our connection hasn't broken and he still senses me, as always.
"Hey," I greet him in return, as always. "Garden's looking good."
He gives a sort of grimace in return, because apart from the primrose it doesn't. He thanks me anyway. "Those bottles aren't yours, right?"
"Just the one," I say. "The rest are for Haymitch." Even though he drinks quite a bit himself, Gale doesn't like it when I do. Out of the four of us, Peeta's the only one who has managed to avoid alcohol completely. I don't know how he does it. His good days are my bad days, and on my bad days it's easier to blur my thoughts with drink than to suffer through them. If I were Peeta I'd be a goner. I'm not, though.
I continue down the path and duck under the fence, as always. I don't worry about crossing paths with anyone, as always. The entire District knows not to come out during this time every day, even though they have every right to. Apart from liquor, routine has become my only distraction. But routine is good. Repetition is good. As always, I sit down in the nook that Gale and I used to sit in long ago, in another era. Another life. I lay my head back and close my eyes as always.
I come to several hours later, as always. The sun has just began to sink below the horizon, so I stand up. Pick up the bottles from the mossy ground. Take a swig from one. Walk back to the fence, as always. Past Gale's house, the bakery. Both are shut tight, even though it's early evening, as always. I stop to drop the liquor off to Haymitch as always. He's passed out, as always, so I just leave it on his kitchen table. Then it's back at my house. I eat a bowl of stew and a slice of bread, strip my clothes off, and climb into bed, as always. I ignore the shower as always; I could use it twice a day if I wanted but usually I only bathe every three days or so. I leave the light on, as always. I think it helps, but I've never bothered to find out. I close my eyes and wait for tomorrow to come. This is what I've done for the last fifteen years. So has Peeta. Gale. Haymitch. No reason to live, but no reason to die. So we're stuck in the middle, living but not alive. Doing the same thing, over again. Every day. Routine is good. Repetition is good. As always.