Epilogue
Disclaimer: I don't own Hunger Games or their characters.
I have to say, my favourite characters in the series is hands down Finnick and Johanna, no contest. I find their characters are extremely multifaceted. Originally I had wanted to write about Finnick, but there are so many wonderful stories already out there.
Johanna stories are a little harder to come by. Hopefully this fanfic shows her progression as a person, and I've done her some justice by portraying her more than that evil deceitful bitch cross with malicious killer. Warning though, she is a lot nicer in the earlier chapters... but don't worry, the foul mouth, jaded bad ass will emerge eventually if you stick around long enough
PS My writing skills have taken a great hit from disuse over the past few years. :(My apologies in advance.
Apple and walnut.
The sweet, warm scent teases my nose, its tendrils slipping into the recesses of my dream, tugging at my conscious until my eyes open. I sit up, breathing deeply, letting the bright sunlight that splashed across the hardwood floor come into focus, and wait for the chickadees's awful singing. It never came.
Either I've gone completely deaf or I missed it. And my money's on the latter.
Groaning, I jump with a start and scramble towards the door, almost tripping over the small mass of brown and white fur by my bed. Two ears perk up, and I am greeted by the yawn of Dalton's dog who is absolutely miffed I have disturbed her sleep. She stands up, places her paws delicately in front of her, extends her back, twirls twice before ungraciously plopping back on the floor.
"No one gets to sleep in today," I growl, nudging my toes further and further into the fluffball, until I get a satisfying squeal. I deftly retract my foot and laugh as Dove's snapping jaws catch nothing but air.
"Better luck next time" and give her a quick rub of apology. She eyes me warily, unamused. Apology rejected. Unlucky for her, I don't have the time or patience to win back the trust of a spoiled brat of a dog.
I stumble down the stairs, sailing past the final seven steps in one leap for efficiency sake, and burst through the kitchen. My father is sitting in his favourite chair, clutching the newspaper while my mother is by the stove with a skillet in her right hand, her face radiating from the glowing coal, both are completely immersed and oblivious to my entrance.
" I slept in," I accused my mother. The table is already set with our finest china and a hour shaped pitcher brims with fresh orange juice. It didn't sparkle or glitter or burst out in song. I almost sigh. It is the real deal and not the fake disgusting Capitol powder stuff that you mix with water.
I force myself away from the sight because my table etiquette is hanging by a thread and a moment longer I would have dived headfirst into the pitcher. Instead I concentrate on the single lit white candle wreathed in walnuts, mimicking the flame's strange intricate dance with my lips.
"Stop making faces," my father scolds. He hasn't moved an inch, and his head is still lost in the papers. So much for being oblivious. But then again, nothing ever gets past him. I am convinced an extra pair of eyes lurks beneath that mop of hair. In fact when we were young, Dalton and I were so keen on proving this theory, we had snuck into our parents bedroom one night armed with scissors, only to be apprehended and given a stern reprimand, followed by the beating of our lives. I haven't dared test that hypothesis since.
"You were smiling in your sleep... I didn't have the heart to wake you. Don't worry, I have your dress all ironed out, the ribbons and hat are on the dresser, and your Sunday shoes are polished. We don't have to be to the town square for at least two hours. And I'm just finishing the last batch of pancakes. Look! Not a burnt one this year! " she beams, bends down to kiss my forehead, and I instinctively draw back. She laughs at my stiffened expression and holds out the plate. I grab it and place it gently on the table, careful not to disturb the centerpiece, the aroma of apples eliciting a longing groan from my abdominal region.
From the corner of my eye, I catch my mother's turned back, move safely out of father radar and within a second, I was in heaven, chewing blissfully and savouring the soft texture of the pancakes. I had already spared the orange juice, so the pancakes puts me right back on par. And oh, was it worth it. The lingering tart apple is still clinging on my palate.
Ironically, for a district whose livelihood solely depends on trees, apples are a prized rarity. Ever since the rebellion, our lovely Capitol has branded all trees tasty a District eleven responsibility and uprooted and transplanted our ancient fruit tree groves east. Not only do these apples cost an arm and leg, many don't survive the three week tumultuous journey from District eleven. But Dalton loved them and would work an extra night at the lumber yard in order to trade in his timber at market for half a pound of apples. It is never enough for a pie, so on special occasions, my mother will make her infamous apple pancakes. It has now become an annual tradition.
I take my seat across from my father, who remains rooted to his spot. I wonder if he can smell apple treason on my breath and down a glass of water as a preemptive measure.
My father is a man of few words, but when he's up to it, he can tell you all the inner and outer workings of our town, the sordid history of Panem, and the hidden tales of almost every living and deceased person and I'm willing to include animals and trees on that list. Yet, I can't recall the last time we've had these conversations. Nowadays, I'm fortunate if I can elicit more than the occasional nod or offhand remark
Over the years, the crevices have deepened around his dark intelligent eyes, his hair has ebbed away into mottled shades of gray, a hump has formed between his shoulder blades, his well defined muscles has atrophied from the long hours spent logging and carrying timber.
My mother sits down beside my father. She is a petite woman and wears her hair properly - tied back and pinned up. Her eyes are a speckled brown, wide set and tired. Her hands are chapped and worn from the paper mill, and she looks as if she is made of glass. On rare occasions, she still manages a smile that warms an entire room.
The last chair beside me, reserved for my brother, Dalton, is empty.
It's been empty seven years today.
To everyone in town, it's Reaping day. To us, it's the anniversary of my brother's death.
AN: Hopefully it was clear, but yes, Johanna's brother was a tribute The next chapter draft is already done, just need to fine tune it =)