Prim

She's dead. Dead. The girl who, in life, reassembled me so much. The girl who Katniss cared for, her only true ally. Dead. I look up from my sitting position and immediately find pain in my legs. I've been here for too long. The broken- down, ancient television cuts to Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith. What fun they must be having, back in the Capitol, a place of clandestine murder and torture. Don't they ever ponder on the apparent fact that they are, in all ways, criminals? How can they not feel guilt as they joyfully, jovially and joyously watch yet another death? Another life ended at their blood-stained, murderous hands.

I feel damp, and sweat clings to my arms and legs. There's water on my face. It silently drips onto the wooden, archaic floor, not before sliding down to rest on my cracked, trembling lips. It's salty. I rub frantically at my skin with tiny, bare hands – desperate to show no sign of weakness. It's hopeless, I'm not Katniss. Katniss. My sister. Katniss, the girl who, in a despairing attempt to prevent me from massacre, saved me. Put her own life at risk. The girl who I made promise to come back. To survive. My blouse hangs oddly in my skirt, forming a shape similar to a duck's tail. I close my eyes, and it all comes back.

I can't look, I can't look. I look. There she is, through the mass of sixteen year-olds. She's looking at me. Mouthing words, I think she's saying, "It'll be alright" "It'll be alright." I swallow hard, my head swivels towards Haymitch, standing there, drunk. It'll be alright. It's time. Effie Trinket says as she always does, "Ladies first!" and crosses to a glass ball with the girls' names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. I hear the crowd draw in a collective breath, and I'm feeling terribly nauseous, and let myself drop to the ground, huddling with my arms enveloped tightly around my knee. I press my hands so tightly around my ears, so tightly, that I can barely hear the distant, excited voice shout my name. My name. But Katniss promised me! She promised me I'll be alright! It'll all be alright! I stand up, shivering uncontrollably. This is my death sentence, the end of my life.

That is, until I hear the voice. The voice of home, the voice that not so long ago, reassured me I would be safe. The voice that shouts, "I volunteer."

Now, that was a commotion. That was a juicy piece of gossip to give to the Capitol. Except it wasn't. District 12 hasn't had a volunteer for as long as I can remember. Mostly because the prospect of participating in such games is horrifying. But a volunteer who offers themselves for another? Who's ever heard of such a thing? No one. That may be able to explain the look of surprise on Effie's face. Or her superior expression as she proclaims, "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we?" She laughs. Everyone stares. No one joins in. Even Haymitch has gone abnormally silent. That's when I realise my district cares. My district loves. District 12 stands united, a bond connecting everyone, every single life in it. Maybe that's why she called his name. Peeta.

The boy with the bread. The boy claiming his love. It seems an act, a way to gain more sponsors. More brain-washed, counterfeit aliens. But something tells me no. No. The boy with the bread has feelings for the girl with the arrows. Does she like him? Not in my opinion. But when has my opinion counted? Only to Katniss do I matter. But someone else has been looking after me, feeding me, helping me survive. Not mother. The baker. Did Katniss ask him? Beg him? Plead? No, it doesn't seem likely. Did he promise her? Maybe. All I know is that whenever I'm alone, him towering above me, the fresh, warm loaf in my arms, he crouches to reach my length, searches deeply in my eyes, I hear his voice, a soft whisper in my memory. "I will always love you." My father.

Why choose Peeta, though? Why call his name? Didn't he abandon her? Didn't he join the pack of wild animals, of hungry dogs? But then again, didn't he save Katniss from the ruthless Career tributes. My head is so full of questions, anticipating answers that even I know are probable never to come. I suddenly feel longing, like never before. I want my family back. They can't tear us apart, they can't! I won't let them! I won't let them! Hatred replaces longing, as anger swells up inside me. I won't let them. But that's the point. I have to let them, the feelings of a 12-year-old are never listened in this place, in this country, in this continent, in this world. My thoughts linger on the boy with the bread. Will he have cured his leg? I doubt it. The gash the district 2 tribute left was enormous. I helplessly try recollecting knowledge on any plants or herbs which might ease the pain, but nothing comes to mind. The last time he was featured on screens, Peeta was grunting in pain, caking himself and rolling in mud. He must be mad. Who wouldn't, in an artificial planet like the Capitol? I remember wishing desperately he too could come home. I remember giving up on him, too, an enormous sense of guilt in the pit of my stomach as I prayed for Katniss' safety, her survival. I had given up on him. That was before the rule change. The baker's creased face, often glinting with tears, however smiling, swims before me. Without even knowing it, I'm absentmindedly whispering aloud. "Katniss, find him. Find Peeta."

The distinctive floorboard creek can be heard eerily throughout the house. Still, there's no one to appreciate it other than me. Mother's out. At least that's what she told me. Me, myself and I. Gone are the days when my father filled the house with his astonishing voice, a voice so melodic that even the birds stopped to listen. Gone are the days when my mother smiled down at me, as she carefully caressed my hair with her gentle touch. Gone are the days when my sister would be always at my side, etching a small grin on my face with her practical jokes. Gone.

I keep telling myself, though, willing myself to know that they will come again. Of course, my father's voice will never fill my heart with emotion again, but I'm not letting Katniss go either, I will never let her go. She will come back. She can survive, she's great with bow and arrows, she got an eleven in training. But there still remains the fact that her fellow tributes now must be thirsty for killing. This is what the Capitol has done to them, turned them into a pawn to use, to attract, to kill. The victor must carry guilt for the whole of their life, and I don't want that person to be Katniss. But I do. Because that is the only way for her to come back to me, once more.

For her to come back again. To sing the songs my father sang. To bring back music. Music. Rue. Rue, who whenever was asked what her most favourite thing was, replied, "Music." The words to the lullaby float back to me, but I don't want to remember. The words that, not so long ago, although it seems like another life, reassured me, now haunt me. The words the very same person sang me to sleep with, to promise another beautiful day, as my eyes drifted shut, to open again to another horrible, yet hopeful day, she sang to a girl who knew she was dying, promising eternal sleep, as the life drained from her, as her eyes drifted shut, never to open to another day, full of the slightest drop of hope. Never to open again. I try to picture Rue, but my brain isn't functioning properly, and there's a hole where I believe my heart is. In the distance, there is a scream, and I know instantly someone else has died, closed their eyes, left this unjust world of despair. At least they're safe and sound, I think quietly, to myself. "Safe and sound."

Just like Rue. No longer able to resist the urge, the words are out of my mouth, speaking for themselves. Slowly humming, a trembling voice I hardly recognise as mine sings, heard by no one, yet not giving up.

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet ,and tomorrow brings them true.

My voice has reduced to a whisper, and it feels like I'm the one who's dying. Dying inside, of loneliness.

Here is the place where I love you.

Its only when the last phrase lingers in the air , that I snap back to myself. And it's only then, when I realise fully how much I love her. My sister, Katniss. How much I ache for her arrival home, how much I need her by my side. It's only then, in this broken down place, where there is no one to hear my cry for help but the mockingjays, that I speak in a loud, clear and confident voice. "Come back Katniss. Come back for mother. Come back for father. Come back for Rue."

"Come back for me."