Thump. Thump. Thump Thump.
My feet make contact with the ground rhythmically, keeping pace with the steady drumming in my chest.
I'm walking, hand clenched tightly like a child onto my mother's. She's guiding me slowly down the dimly lit streets of District Thirteen. Only a few people are scattered about, and each one is eying me, whispering as I pass by. I catch one middle aged woman's eye. She holds my gaze and shakes her head, whether in pity or disgust, I can't tell.
Walking is an interesting sensation, like trying to stand on unsteady ground, though the ground beneath me is perfectly flat. My brain feels relief with its reintroduction to fresh air, and it sends me the urge to run. I want to, but I don't think my wobbly legs will allow it. I feel like a victim of a stroke. My mother has had one or two over the years. I remember feeling sorry for them as they struggled to relearn everything- how to eat, how to walk. It's past the point of being humorous now that that almost describes me now. This vegetable lifestyle.
We're headed to see Haymitch. When we left the underground stronghold that had been my home, my mother asked me what I wanted to do, maybe see Gale, Prim. I don't even feel guilty that I vehemently denied this request, although I'm sure I will later. I need to talk to Haymitch. I have so much to catch up on. And I don't feel like I'm ready for much else at the moment.
Haymitch is staying at a sort of 'military headquarters'. I remember this from when we first arrived here. Plutarch Heavansbee, previous Head Gamemaker turned rebel leader is there with him, along with Finnick and several of the rebel leaders who were already here in district Thirteen. My mother tells me they are planning, stocking weapons, rallying troops- all the things I should have been doing. But I wasn't. I was sleeping, crying in a bomb shelter. Hiding from my problems some hundreds of feet beneath the ground when a rebellion was going on up above. "Shut up", I tell myself. "You're out now, aren't you?" Well, yes, I am. But there's no way to tell if I'm too late. Well, there is, I suppose. I just need to talk to Haymitch.
As we continue winding through the nearly vacant streets, I wonder how different things might have been. If I could go back, before the Quell, before any of this mess happened. Back to when I was sitting in a tree in the arena, listening to Claudius Templesmith announce that not one, but two victors could make it home alive… what if I had shrugged that off? Put my life alone before anyone else's, before Peeta's? Would I have won? Peeta certainly wouldn't have, he would have died given the condition he was in at the time. The only thing that saved him was me. But on the other hand, I condemned him as well, with the berries. My head spins sickeningly. Thinking about this is like one of those old mind bending riddles my father liked to make me think with. If you kill a butterfly, how does that change the world? If you go back in time, and you step on a twig, how much does that affect in the future? Exactly how did my decision to keep both myself and Peeta alive affect the country?
Vomit spills from my mouth and I fall to my knees. I'm gasping for air between gags and I can't make my eyes focus on anything.
"Katniss!" My mother has slipped into action mode and apparently has found something wet that she's splashing on the back of my neck while I retch. Melted snow. I can sense that a couple of witnesses nearby have come to try and offer some help, but there's really nothing they can do but watch as I lose- what exactly am I losing? I can't remember the last thing I ate, unless you count the pain killer my mother gave me. Unaware of the fact that there is nothing to throw up, my stomach heaves painfully at the emptiness while I make awful guttural noises. Humiliating.
Finally, after several more minutes of this, my stomach gives up and the heaving ceases, but I still cannot stand. My eyes struggle to focus, but I see there are two men, they look to be about twenty, staring at me warily. With a sudden pain I realize that they don't seem to be surprised at all by my actions. Do I really seem that weak to them? So fragile that a spontaneous vomiting attack seems something of an expected occurrence? I can just read their thoughts. "Poor Katniss Everdeen, made so weak by the loss of some boy she didn't even love." Although that's probably not what they are thinking, I feel so angry that I want to grab my bow and shoot them, but I doubt I'd even have the strength to string it.
What has happened to the Katniss I once knew? The girl who could take down her game with one arrow, the girl who could drop a nest of tracker-jackers on a group of Careers? The girl who could stand up against President Snow himself?
And as my mother convinces the two men that I'm okay and helps me off the ground, wiping the bile from my face, the Katniss I once knew all but vanishes.