Disclaimer: I do use some direct quotes. Those, the characters, and this world belong to Suzanne Collins, not me (sadly).

Remember

I don't know what I'm expecting when they bring Katniss into my room.

Or cell.

I prefer to think of it as the latter.

Thirteen's doctors have been trying to explain things to me. Talk. Talk. Talk. But they don't get it. They don't know where I've been or what I've seen. They're as ignorant and stupid as the soothing words they whisper. Nothing they've said matches up with the things that inhabit my nightmares. I may not be completely stable, but I'm aware enough to know guards when I see them. I know I'm on constant watch. My arms are never free of the restraints and there's always a tube to knock me out if necessary. I don't blame them. I wouldn't trust me either.

As she steps through the door, I tense. They've been telling me she's not a mutt, she's safe, she won't hurt me, but I can't let go of the image of her shooting down my family and friends.

I remember Katniss. I remember her well. A tall, intimidating figure - strikingly beautiful - her cruel eyes dark and shadowy, flickering with flames. So at first, I think there's been a mistake. The girl standing in front of me looks nothing like that. She's underfed, her ashen skin drawn tightly over her cheekbones that aren't nearly as imposing as I remember. Her neck is shaded with angry purple bruises. The eyes that meet mine aren't cruel or cold. They look almost... dead - hopeless, as if everything she loves has been destroyed. Instead of standing in her own power, she hunches down, shielding her body. From me, I realize.

"Hey," she says quietly.

"Hey." I'm still wary, trying to take in this Katniss who isn't at all what I remember.

"Haymitch said you wanted to talk to me."

I blink. "Look at you, for starters." For some reason, I just can't fit the name Katniss, which in my mind has inspired so much fear and anger, to this broken face. I find my eyes roaming over it, taking in every foreign detail. At last, I come to terms with the fact that this must be the girl, however washed out, that I've requested to see.

"You're not very big, are you? Or particularly pretty?" I keep expecting her to change - to suddenly morph into an unearthly being ready to lash out at me.

"Well, you've looked better," she says. For a moment, something glows in her eyes and I recoil, but it subsides before I can figure out what it is.

I laugh now, sick of this whole business. Sick of people trying to tell me what I should think. They weren't there! They didn't have needles plunged into their veins, nor were they tortured with unspeakable images. Things you can't unsee. Suddenly, I don't care what this meek, wasted-away girl thinks of me. So I just say it. "And not even remotely nice. To say that to me after all I've been through."

"Yeah. We've all been through a lot." Katniss's voice doesn't hold an ounce of compassion. She doesn't care that I've spent the last few weeks in hell. Oh, that's right. No one does. "And you're the one who was known for being nice. Not me."

I watch as she seems to be fighting something, some deep rooted anger. She takes a deep breath, as if to compose herself, and then shakes her head. "Look I don't feel so well. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow."

No. I have to tell her something now. Not tomorrow. I remembered something about her. About us.

"Katniss," I call out. "I remember about the bread."

This announcement stops her progression towards the door, but she doesn't turn around.

"They showed you the tape of me talking about it?" she asks. This time, her voice is quieter, gentler.

"No," I struggle to piece together what she's said. Anytime the rebels aired a tape with Katniss talking about anything, they altered it, apparently, before showing it me. At least, that's what everyone's been telling me. I'm not sure what to believe anymore. "Is there a tape of you talking about it? Why didn't the Capitol use it against me?"

She turns now. "I made it the day you were rescued. So what do you remember?"

What do I remember? I try to piece the fragments into a coherent sentence. "You. In the rain." I say, lost in thought. "Digging in our trash bins. Burning the bread."

I burned that bread on purpose, I remember now. I wanted so desperately to give her something to eat. But why? "My mother hitting me. Taking the bread out for the pig but then giving it to you instead."

Katniss is saying something now, but I don't hear it. I'm still back in time, reliving the day I'd forgotten. Trying to puzzle out this boy who took a beating to give someone else food. A boy who's dead. Long dead inside me.

"We were outside at the end of the day," I continue. "I tried to catch your eye. You looked away. And then…" I can see it now. A little yellow flower. "For some reason, I think you picked a dandelion."

It might be my recent injuries, but I can almost feel the blow my mother gave me for burning that bread. Her words, calling me clumsy and stupid. I took that clobbering for this weak, angry, unpleasant girl standing in front of me?

"I must have love you a lot," I say sullenly.

"You did."

I don't care that she seems to be near tears. Those don't answer the questions and further strengthen my self-contempt. Why, out of all the girls, did I choose this one? This mutt? "And did you love me?"

She goes on about everyone saying that they used me to break her, but I don't believe her. Too many things don't line up. So I tell her about the tapes. In the first Games, how it looked like she tried to kill me with those tracker jackers. But then… then she spends much of the time kissing me. Lots of kisses and caresses. That's what I don't understand about that boy. Why he put up with her antics for so many years, like a lost little puppy.

"Did you like kissing me?" I ask at the end of it all.

"Sometimes."

I can see how uncomfortable the question makes her feel. I don't care.

"You know people are watching us now," she says.

I'm not stupid. "I know," I tell her as another name comes to mind. "What about Gale?"

That fire ignites in her eyes again - not quite the same as I remember, but still dangerous. "He's not a bad kisser either."

"And it was okay with both of us? You kissing the other?" I don't remember. I think I was jealous of Gale, wasn't I? The way he and Katniss seemed to be inseparable. Even now, I can see a murky image of the way she talked about him, how sometimes she whispered his name in her sleep.

"No," she confirms. "It wasn't okay with either of you. But I wasn't asking your permission."

Of course she wasn't. So now I think I understand a bit who Katniss is. A girl with her own agenda. Angry. Unfeeling. She doesn't care who she hurts as long as she gets what she needs out of them.

I laugh, wondering how I ever could have felt anything but resentment towards her. That boy? I'm glad he's dead. He was just as weak as her. "Well, you're a piece of work, aren't you?"

Katniss doesn't reply. She just turns on her heel and leaves the room, the door locking behind her. This isn't the Katniss that I remember… or think I remember. Oh well. It's clear that whatever we had - if we had anything - is broken now.

And I don't think I care.

A/N- Thank you so much for reading! I had this as a draft and finished it on a whim. As always, reviews are treasured and appreciated!

~SomethingGold