THIS IS LITERALLY SO BAD BUT I HAVEN'T POSTED ANYTHING IN ALMOST A YEAR SO OH WELL. Enjoy, maybe?
I sit in my bed, Katniss' bed, and look down at the freshly bloomed primrose that sits in my hands. It's crudely potted in a tin cup, the white petals barely peeking over the rim. My mother found it a few days ago, growing in the shade of our front steps, and promptly dug it up, replanted it and brought it to me. I can see why I am the little flower's namesake; it's small, plain, barely brave enough to stick its head a few inches out of the soil.
It's unlike the katniss plant, which my sister is named after. Her plant is strong, useful, beautiful, even.
In the other room I hear Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith comment on the tributes that have been lost in the four days since the 74th Annual Hunger Games started. Thankfully, one of those names is not Katniss Everdeen. The last time I watched the games, last night, to be exact, Katniss was safe and sound. She was making her way through the forest, the place she feels safest, only stopping to cook a squirrel or sleep on the wide limb of a tree. I stopped watching when I knew she was safe, then retreated to the bedroom. I haven't glanced at the screen since. If I don't see anything bad happen to her then I can pretend she is still alive. Still, I can't help but listen in on the conversation between the two Capitol men, my ears scanning for any mention of my sister's name.
"Katniss!"
It's not Caesar or Claudius' voice, but my mother's, shrill and tense with worry. I bolt out of the bedroom, dropping the tin of primrose in the process.
In a few seconds I'm behind my mother, who sits on a small, wooden stool, her hand over her mouth. My eyes lock on the screen where I see Katniss: eyes wide, braid flying behind her as she runs from a wall of fire.
"How—" The words barely make it out of my mouth before my mother screams again. On the screen, Katniss narrowly dodges a fireball as it hurls past her head.
My breath catches in my throat as I watch my sister, the bravest person I know, flee with real terror in her eyes. Tears well up in my own eyes, blurring my vision so that all I see are the red flames behind her.
Another fireball flies toward her, seeming to appear out of thin air. It hits her in the calf, and she shouts in pain as she dives behind a large boulder.
"They're trying to drive her away from the edge of the arena, back to the other tributes," Claudius comments, though the screen is still focused on my sister's face, her eyes screwed shut, mouth open in silent groans of agony.
I watch, bated, as she stands, her injured leg wobbling slightly, and begins to run again.
The fire behind her dies down as she retreats, and minutes later she is at a shallow river. I watch as she wades in; she winces when the cold water hits her wound.
My mother's hand finally lowers from her mouth, her breathing shallow, as if she's been running as well. "She's safe now, Prim. She's safe."
"I know," I say, my voice quivering. Though, I'm not confident in the thought.
"I cannot believe the Girl on Fire made it out of that one," Caesar exclaims. "Can you, Claudius?"
"I'd say for a moment she truly was the Girl on Fire."
They both laugh at their wit for a moment, before Caesar's eyes grow wide, undoubtedly looking at something on the screen in front of him.
"Oh, is that the pack of Careers, coming toward Katniss?"
"Oh," Claudius' smile thins into a straight line. "It is. I hate to say it, Caesar, but a cannon may be in Katniss' future."
The screen cuts back to the Games, and I'm horrified by what I see: Katniss, eyes closed, leaning against a rock on the bank as the group of Careers edges closer and closer to her.
"She's dead," mother says, slowly rising from her seat. She walks toward the bedroom.
"No," my voice squeaks as I say the word. "Katniss is smart. She'll get away."
"No," my mother's voice echoes my own, squeak and all. "No, she won't." She sinks to her bed, our bed, and stares at her feet. Caesar and Claudius' excited voices fill the silence.
I kneel down and get a good look at my mother's face: downcast eyes with a blank expression, seeming untouched by human emotion. I remember seeing this face once before, the night she found out my father died.
Panic is suddenly in my voice. "No, mom, you can't check out again. Remember what Katniss said? You have to take care of me."
Her eyes do not move from the floor. She doesn't speak.
"Mom, you can't do this, you can't leave me."
Still no answer.
Tears start to well up in my eyes again. "Mom, stop it! You can't leave me too. Katniss is gone, you can't leave me too!"
At this moment, before a single tear leaves my eyes, I remember what Katniss said to me before leaving for the Games.
"You can sell cheese from your goat. Gale will bring you fresh game. You'll be fine without me."
And I realize that it's up to me to take care of us now. Not mother. She is the one who needs me to care for her.
With one swift motion I wipe the tears from my eyes, then gently take my mother's shoulders and lay her back on the bed, covering her. Her eyes continue to stare at the floor, and I glance down to see if she's looking at something.
The tin cup is on the floor, its contents spilled haphazardly around it. I pick it up, scooping what I can of the soil back into the container, and notice something I did not before: a bright red primrose, covered in dirt as if it had been buried, growing next to the white one. Its color is brilliant, fierce, and strong.
I place the flowers by the corner of the bed and leave the room, grabbing a bucket on my way out. I walk outside to find my goat grazing, and as I kneel to milk it I hear Gale call my name from a distance. He is carrying two dead squirrels, and I wave to him. He waves back.