Something about colors
This is a series of Hunger Games stories, each focusing on a color and Katniss' feelings about it.
Chapter 1 Red
"Peeta, I can't do this." I exclaim, staring at him accusingly, like suddenly all my troubles are his burden and he ought to be able to fix them. He turns around to face me, his hands busy with twisting the tie around his neck in elaborate knots to make it look fine and respectable. I could never do that. Knot a tie, I mean. My natural clumsiness regarding everything pretty would mess it all up, and I would probably get frozen in fear of having something encasing around my neck somewhere in the process. He makes it look so easy, like he has done it all his life. But I know him better. This is the first social event we are attending since the uprising, and Peeta is terrified. I know because his hands are shaking slightly and his gaze flickers randomly to different stuff in our bedroom, like he is unsure where to fix it permanently.
I feel bad for him, and a little guilty for imagining that I was the only one being uneasy with this. But of course Peeta, always calm and gentle, overlook the tone in my voice and crosses the room to stand before me. He squeezes my shoulder in an attempt to manifest some courage in me I cannot find myself. "It will be okay" he says reassuringly, and then glances at our bed, where a ton of dresses and other festive clothing is covering the duvet, "Have you figured out what to wear?"
I hesitate, glancing down at my very much undressed state. "Underwear?" I suggest in an attempt to be witty, but it seems a sort of miserable joke. He chuckles a little, then picks up a red dress from the pile, "You always looked good in red" he says, but when he sees my expression he hangs it back in the closet, closing the door firmly. I feel relieved. He knows that I cannot stand the red one, which is a little ambivalent, I know, since I still own it and all. It was a gift from Haymitch, but his sense of fashion is actually, and very surprisingly, quite good, so it is not because it is hideous that I can't stand it. And red is not a bad color, really. It symbolizes passion, danger, aggression, even love. Something wild and energetic and vibrant. Those are not bad qualities, one would think. And yet.. The girl on fire. I almost always wore red in the interviews before and after the Games. I would be fiery and aggressive like a sharp-pointed flame, or delicate and innocent, like the dancing flickering of candlelight. Cinna had made me all those things. He had shaped me into something brilliant and enchanting, from an uninteresting dead slug to a winner of highest caliber. Poor, lovely, bold Cinna, whose wonderful design for my wedding dress ended up being his last design at all. I close my eyes for a moment, fighting not to let the memories that the color brings with it overwhelm me. When I open them again, I see Peeta looking at me, concern showing in his blue eyes. I take a shaky breath, and then force a smile. "Do you think this one is okay? For the occasion, I mean. Or is it too festive?" I reach into the pile and pulls out a random piece of clothing.
"I don't think your father's hunting jacket will be well received at a wedding. Sorry, Honey."
My cheeks grow hot, and I toss aside the jacket and dig into the dress mountain again. From the corner of my eyes I see him picking up the jacket from the floor and neatly fold it. I don't care about it getting wrinkled, but I like how he so clearly treats it with respect. Like it is an almost sacred thing, this memory of my father.
Getting enough of this stupid dress-hunt, I sit down on the only space available on the bed, on the pillow at the end, and repeat "I can't do this"
He leans down in front of me and takes both my hands in his. "It's Gale's wedding, Katniss." he says, running his thump soothingly over my knuckles.
"I know. I just.. There will be so many, and I.."
"You don't think you are ready to face them again"
I nod, because that is exactly what I am. Not ready. For all those people who I have not seen in 6 months, who I've been hiding from, who will ask me questions and expect fulfilling answers which I won't be able to give. They will expect something of me.
The districts have just begun piercing their remains of a life back together, and the new government has finally been established, with a representative from every one of the thirteen districts to guarantee that no district will gain too much power over the others. We don't want another Capitol, after all. The individual districts have been opened up to the outside world. People travel across the borders, forming trading agreements and friendships, because now there are no fences and peacekeepers and threats to stop them. Panem has been freed from the oppressive claws of the dictatorial government residing in the former capital city, and is taking slow, but sure steps towards becoming a new country.
I can't wear red, that much I know. I don't want to remind the other guests that I used to be on fire. That if the world will be aflame once again, I can be the one they can turn to when looking for a person to direct those flames.
Peeta kisses the back of my hand, returning me to reality. "We can stay at home, if you want to." he says, "If you are not comfortable with this, we won't go". The worry in his face makes me smile, if only just a little, and I shake my head. "No, it's okay. We'll go. Pick a color for me."
I don't know why I keep all those infernal dresses, really. They were sent to me as a 'thank you' from District 1, where they made accessories and finery, after the uprising, and I do not have the heart to give them away or throw them out. Besides, they are pretty. I think back to before the quarter quell, where my fake trademark interest was to design and create my own clothing, and give a little snort, which, thankfully, Peeta doesn't hear. "Yellow. It looks great with your complexion" He announces with a high-pitched, twisted voice, and I can't help laughing, because it sounds silly when he tries to imitate Octavia, one of the women from my old prep team during the Games. I wonder if she is still alive.
Together we clear the bed of anything that is not yellow, which leaves back only two gowns. Peeta raises them in front of him by the hangers. "So, which one?"
I study them intensely. The one to the left is a sleeveless, floor-length dress made in fine, light and silky material. It has a thin line of glistening red stones woven across the middle of the upper body, giving the dress its shape.
The other reaches only to a little below my knees, and I imagine that, when I walk, it will sway around my legs in a flowing dance of dandelion yellow cascades. The straps are relatively wide, and the fabric is gathered at the waist with a simple, rose shaped pin. A red rose. I feel like retching at the mere sight of it. Peeta notices my distaste. "You like this one the best?"
He point to the one with the rose, and I nod reluctantly. If not for that awful rose, I would put it on already. "The District 1 people didn't know about the rose.." he says mildly. "I have an idea" he strides out the room and returns a few moments later with a small piece of purple silk. He takes of the rose and tosses it in the wastepaper basket by his drawing desk, then asks me to put on the dress. It fits perfectly, and when he once again gathers the fabric at the middle, forms a bow with the ribbon and pins it to hold the lengths of dress together, he puts words to my trail of thoughts: "You look stunning."
I do. And not in red, which would painfully remind me of Cinna's sacrifice, but in a soft yellow. I change the dress for a normal pair of trousers and a shirt, and then place it carefully among my other pieces of clothing in my bag. Then, before I have the time to become too nervous by the prospect of what we are about to do, I ask him: "Are you ready to go?"
Peeta nods at me. We pick up our luggage, turn off the lights, lock the front door of our small house, and then head for the train station.