Hey all, just wanted to let you know that I revised this a bit from the original, tried to clear a couple things up a little bit. Still tried to leave it a little vague, as that was my original intent, but it seemed like people were confused, so I made a couple edits. If you're reading this for the first time after 6-23-18, it does not apply to you. Happy reading!
"It's hard, for her."
His steel grey eyes never leave her figure, tracing her path across the hall as she speaks softly to her sister. Her dark hair is tied back in a braid, and her face is calmer than I've seen it around other people.
"What is?"
It takes a moment for him to answer, and another for it to fully sink in.
"Trusting."
He leaves me, then, following his dark haired partner across the cafeteria. She smiles when he reaches her, and pecks him on the lips, before they sit down together to eat their meal.
His words haunt me at night.
I lay in bed and stare at the dismally blank, sterile looking ceiling, just visible through the haze of darkness, forever present without the too bright, harsh white light.
Thinking about them makes the pit in my stomach grow, adding to the knot of confusing emotions already lurking there.
Hate.
Relief.
Confusion.
Sorrow.
Pain.
Most of them I can not put a name to.
All I know is that I wish I could have been there. For her. For all of them.
I wish I could change it all. Turn back time and change what happened that day.
Instead I roll over, trying to ignore the weight of my grief, crushing me into the hard mattress.
"She trusts you."
It's not an accusation. It's a statement. I think I just want reassurance that she can still feel. That I haven't destroyed her humanity. Even though some part of me knows it's not my fault. He nods, needing no clarification on who I'm talking about. We're quiet for several minutes before he speaks again.
"It took a year for her to let me touch her."
My heart aches, and my eyes drop to the ground. His voice is gruff, and quiet. His eyes don't leave the mess of wires before him, as he attempts to rewire an old bomb.
"It took two for her to touch me."
She doesn't approach me. I see her every so often, usually with him. It makes me glad that she has someone she trusts so deeply, even if it will never be me again.
But how could it? In her eyes, I abandoned her as a little girl to take up my role as caretaker; to provide food, sing away the nightmares, pay the bills, cook the meals, handle the leaks in the roof and the cracks in the walls, the seemingly permanent lack of firewood, and the never ending hunger.
I blame myself, for that. For all of it. She was only twelve. What kind of man leaves his little daughter to care for her sister and mother in his absence?
On some level I know it's not my fault. How could I have changed it? It's not like we had other options. It was go to the mines thirteen hours a day, six days a week, and barely get food to feed them, or be whipped, hung, or shot.
Still, how can a parent not blame themselves for their children's suffering?
It's only natural, to want to be there for them. To protect them.
No one wants to see their child hurting, especially when it feels like you could have, should have, done something differently.
"Thank you."
I'm startled to find her standing next to me one day, right at my shoulder, as though she appeared out of thin air.
Her gratitude bewilders me, and it must show in my face. Her gaze goes to where mine was, moments earlier, watching the blonde girl- no, young woman- in the cafeteria.
"She's alive because of you. I'm alive because of you."
This confuses me more.
"What do you mean?"
Her eyes find mine again, the same grey reflected back at me, her long dark braid resting over her shoulder.
"You taught me to hunt. To break the rules. To find edible plants, and water, and fish. They would have starved, if you didn't teach me those skills."
My heart tugs, and I don't know what to say. What do you say to that? 'Your welcome'? I feel no swell of pride for the fact that I kept her alive. That was my job.
I only wish I could have done it better.
"I mean it. I'm living because of you. Not just surviving."
I don't know what to say, so I listen quietly.
"You told me, once, when I was little, that the point of love, is not to survive, but to live."
I had forgotten I told her that. She had been eight, at the time, and her mother and I had fought about her going out in the wood. Both of us were hurt and angry, and didn't speak to each other before I left. In the forest, little Katniss had asked me why we were married, and what the point of love was if it just got in the way.
"It took me nine years to figure out what you meant by that."
Her eyes move from her sister to the tall young man on the other side of the hall, and a different light appears in her face as she watches him. I study him, too.
Gale Hawthorne.
He's tall, with dark hair and steel grey eyes. I knew his father. He and I worked on the same crew in the mines. He looks remarkably like his old man, but he's got his mother's eyes. He's entertaining his youngest siblings, a jovial grin on his face. I can't quite tell if it's real or not.
A small smile appears on Katniss' face as she gazes at him, and, as though he feels her eyes on him, he looks up, grinning at her. This grin is different from the one he put on for his siblings. It's easy and real, almost teasing.
"He helps me live. Taught me how to be happy."
I watch in silence as she walks away, moving confidently toward him. His eyes stay locked on hers, and he smiles, wrapping his arm around her waist as she reaches him, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair. She turns in his embrace, lets him fold her into his chest, leans back against his tall form.
Content to let him be her protector, her partner.
I turn away, feeling a surge of warmth filling my chest.
I might not have been there for her, but she knows I did what I could. In some ways that makes me indescribably happy.
In others, it hurts all the more.
But I suppose that's what it's like, through a father's eyes.
Hope you enjoyed! I'd love to hear your thoughts and opinions on this!