Johanna Mason's life after Mockingjay through the eyes of her little companion. My first one-shot, thanks for reading. I really appreciate any feedback!
She comes downstairs every morning with kind words and a cheerful smile, but she cannot fool me.
When the sun rays come creeping into the living room, when the first shaft of light drifts into our world and provides a small bulb of light, when my eyelids flutter open of their own accord, I can hear her slippers coming down the stairs. She thumps softly, trying not to wake me. Turning over, I imagine her struggle to tie the sash of her bathrobe. I may know a lot more things than I should, but I don't know why she has a bathrobe since she never takes a bath. It's difficult for her to shower as well.
She stumbles into the living room muttering unintelligible things. She fiddles with her wispy bun of hair and grunts. I watch her, intrigued by how such a lovely woman could create such manly sounds. Not that I blame her, of course. I know what she's been through. I've seen her face, heard her scream through all her horrible nights.
Sometimes it's so bad that she blindly claws at whatever appears to be near her. Usually it's me; I'll be trying to get to her and she tries to keep me away. She claws at me, calls me names, and threatens and swears to kill me. I duck every blow, leap out of the way of every punch. But I continue to move towards her because I am the only one who can calm her down.
I lick her tear-streamed face, kiss her wrinkle-stained forehead. She has far too many scars for a young woman. I even lap at the hands which had almost killed me once. But I don't hate her, and I know she doesn't hate me. I love her. Even if she hates me, I can never bring myself to hate her.
In the mornings after, she usually has no memory of the night before. She comes down weary and red-eyed, and then when I come to her she always notice the new scars. She has a traumatizing moment blaming herself. What I would do to ensure her that it is not her fault.
This morning she comes to me and rests my head against hers. I bury my face in her hair as a lover would. I wish constantly that I could do more for her to show her I care. She gives a small whimper, then goes to fetch my breakfast. I never see any of the disgusting canned food most other cats do. She feeds me straight from her own plate.
Usually when we finish eating we talk. She talks and I do most of the listening. Sometimes I want to reply back. Sometimes I desperately want her to know what I'm thinking. She breaks down constantly but I can tell she tries to hold in her tears for me. She knows I hate seeing her so upset. When she cries I cry with her.
She doesn't do much. She spends most of the day moping about and sometimes she bakes to forget her pain. She also paints, but not much. She occasionally reads, always inviting me to join her. I wonder if she can feel my happy aura when I'm cuddled next to her? Does she know how much she means to me? I would lie beside her and listen, because at the end of the day, she is all I have and I am all she has. I know I am probably not enough for her, but she is enough for me. Does she know I would do anything for her? Does she know that I love her with all that's left of my heart, even more than myself?
She probably doesn't.
But that's okay.
Because at the end of the day we are always here for each other. We cuddle. We look into each other's eyes and communicate through our souls. We are each other's world. And because we once lived in such a horrible one, I intend to make hers the best a little cat can make for a past Hunger Games Victor.
Bless all the reviewers who come forth to share their talented insight to a very new Fan-Fiction writer.