Burning Dandelions
She squeezes my hand.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
And that's it. The berries pass both of ours lips, and the sweet taste fills my mouth. Soon it will all be over. I can't help but think of home, of all the days spent making baked goods that so little of the District could afford. I think of the girl who desperately tried to sell baby clothes for food, who went digging in our trash for food. I think of the heat in the bakery, the chilling rain outside, and I still wish I had gone out in the rain. That I had somehow gotten her more food. That I had said something to her the next day. But I didn't. And none of that matters now. All that matters is that she makes it out alive.
We both stand, each second agonizing. The forest is eerily quiet around us; nothing to disturb the remaining wildlife, and no reason for the Game Makers to add any new dangers to the arena…yet. The sweet taste. Still nothing. Maybe they do need a victor, but they can still ensure that only one of us survives, and that's what worries me. The sweet taste. Nightlock isn't sweet. The thought sticks in my mind, but before it fully registers, Katniss falls to the ground. "No," I barely recognize my own voice. Her beautiful face, the face that I wanted to protect more than anything in my life, is pale. The girl that I loved so dearly is fading away. "Katniss…no…why…" I can't think. I fumble for words as I try to come up with a solution, but it is already too late, and we both know that.
"Peeta." Her whisper is so quiet, and I know it will haunt me for the rest of my life. "Peeta, I had to," she whispers, "I couldn't let you die for me." I'm mortified. I swore to protect her, and now she's sacrificing herself for me. The girl on fire, who undertook the burden of caring for her whole family, who doesn't know the effect she has on people, who doesn't realize that she is more radiant than the sun, is slipping away, and I can't save her. I can't throw her a loaf of bread, I can't confess my love for her to the world, and I can't tell her to run away from the danger.
"Stay with me?" she pleads.
"Always," I tell her. I want to tell her that she shouldn't have done this. That I can't bear living without her, and that I would have gladly died in her place, but it's too late for that. Now, every word is precious, every moment is a lifetime. I'm squeezing her hand, willing warmth and life to flow from me into her, but her grip only grows feebler, and there is nothing I can do to stop the tears streaming down my face. "Katniss." My voice is even quieter than hers had been. I gently bring my fingers to her wrist, and my head is turned to rest just below her collar. Nothing. No pulse to push against my fingers. And the only sound I hear is the echo of a single, lone cannon shot.
Katniss Everdeen, the girl I will always love, is dead.
I scream. I'm vaguely aware of the hovercraft descending over us. One to collect me. One to collect her. No. I hug her tightly to my chest as I sob into her long, black hair, dark and comforting, but then there's a hint of gold. Her mockingjay pin. I fumble for it, pricking my finger, aware of the many cameras that must be pointed on me. But I can't put it in a pocket or fasten it to my shirt, they'll take it the moment I'm on the hovercraft, so I shove it in my mouth and pray that I won't accidentally swallow it.
A ladder is dropped down, and when I don't move to take it, I think they realize that I plan on laying there until the day that I die. Half a dozen men in white uniforms drop down and advance towards me. I know I must look pretty disturbing, covered in dirt and blood with a horribly pained expression in my eyes, and I'm clinging to what to them must be just another dead body. I stare at them, and they freeze for a moment before continuing towards me. One of them reaches down to pick her up, and I punch him as hard as I can. "You can't do this!" I'm screaming again, punching and kicking in every direction. "You killed her!" They're slowly separating us. No matter how hard I fight against them, they pull us away inch by inch. The fatigue of the past week pulls on me just as strongly as they do, but I can never give up. Giving up would mean giving her up, and I cannot, will not do that. I won't lose her. I have the strength to free myself one last time, and I get one last glimpse of the girl on fire. Her hair is still in that braid, she's still the beautiful love of my life, but the fire in her eyes is gone, replaced with a cold, barren glaze. And that's what gets me in the end. That's when I can't fight anymore. She's gone.
I go limp, and we're quickly carried away. I close my eyes, and all I can see is that last view of her perfect face, and then I succumb to sheer exhaustion.