Awakening
Chapter 1
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I live in District 12. The Capitol destroyed District 12 in the rebellion. Now the war is over. Some people have returned to District 12 again. But most of the people in District 12 never left. Most of District 12 is dead. I should be dead, too.
Ever since Peeta's return to District 12, I spend my days in that gray world between the living and the dead. His appearance has yanked me from the numb, dreamlike state that characterized my waking hours for the last few months. Now I feel things that are somehow connected to the memories jumbled up in my mind. Guilt. Fear. Rage that comes out of nowhere, like a lightning storm, and fades just as fast. But most of all, sorrow—a grief that colors all my thoughts, and when it's too much, swallows me up. The phone still rings day after day, and I still ignore it. I only used it once to call my mother, a few days ago. She wanted to know how I was doing, like any mother should, and we poured out our sorrow to each other. After that, there was not much else to say, not to her or anyone else really. I don't really think about who might be so persistent about trying to reach me. Sometimes I imagine Cinna is on the other end, wanting to talk about the next outfit he's designing for me, for my "talent." Which only makes me think of his bloodied, unconscious body as Peacekeepers drag him away, and I retreat into a closet somewhere and wrap myself in old cotton quilts until the tightness in my chest goes away.
I'm no longer an immobile, permanent fixture in the kitchen, if that can be considered an improvement. Instead, I wander like a lost soul through my house in Victor's Village. At first I drift between the study, the living room, the kitchen. Every night I wake up somewhere different. It may be shivering on the floor, stretched out on the couch, or slumped in a chair. I don't sleep through the night. My dreams are worse than the emptiness of my waking hours. Eventually I make it upstairs, into a bedroom. I see the dress Prim wore on reaping day, hanging in her closet, and recall the nervousness in her eyes that morning. I curl up on her bed and hear her voice singing softly to me, usually the meadow song or another mountain air. I close my eyes and drift off to sleep and hear her song turn to screams as her world explodes into flames.
I awake with a start. My skin is cold and damp with sweat. Moonlight floods through the window. Without the life of its former occupant, the bedroom seems so cold and forlorn. My longing for Prim is more acute than ever, and I weep as Buttercup mews pitifully beside me. After a while, there are no more tears, only a hollow ache in the middle of my chest. Prim is gone, and if there was ever any doubt, her silent, empty room drives home that reality. Her room, once a place of reassurance and comfort, is now a crypt.
I creep downstairs and end up in the study. The remnants of my former life are laid out on the large cherrywood desk. My father's hunting jacket, my bow and arrow, the spile from the Quarter Quell, Peeta's locket. My fingers dwell on the last, the metal disk slightly cool to the touch. Peeta.
Peeta reminds me that I am still alive. I have not seen him since the day he brought me bread, the day after the primrose bushes. Greasy Sae brings one of his loaves whenever she comes to cook for me. As I break the warm crust between my hands, I think of the hands that created it. I am reminded of how strong and sure they used to be around my shoulders. That was from another time, another life. He sends bread every day. I find myself looking forward to the mild aroma of yeast, the soft crumb that melts on my tongue. Even on days when I am too lost to feel much of anything, the act of breaking bread stirs something inside of me. Memories, sometimes blurred and vague, flit across my mind. The sun drying the salt water on my skin. Warm sand cradling my body. A sense of being content. Cold rain, streaming down my face. A gnawing sense of despair. A dandelion, growing between the train tracks. Blue eyes that hold my gaze, then look away. Other than these moments, I don't allow myself to think about him. I don't wonder if he's recovered from his hijacking. I don't wonder why doesn't come to see me. All I know is that I'd lost him at the lightning tree in the arena. When it comes to Peeta, that's the only thing I'm sure of anymore. I should have stayed with him. I shouldn't have gone off with Johanna Mason. I was the one who lost him. Me. There's no one else to blame for that.
On days when I'm not feeling completely drained, I try to get out of the house. I usually go to our old meeting place, mine and Gale's, outside the fence and sit in the grass. I think of Gale sometimes, but other times I remember when I hunted with my father. It's as if Prim's death and my grief had opened a door to the memories of my father. Dwelling on his loss no longer poses any threat of disrupting my focus, now that there's no one left for me to keep alive. I guess that's how I managed all these years—the ever present need to survive, to stay one step ahead of hunger, became everything for me. Any emotion that distracted me from that objective was a weakness. When you're fighting to stay alive, weakness is not an option.
I bring my bow and quiver, but I don't have the energy to hunt. When the mood takes me, I close my eyes and sing to the mockingjays. I sing whatever tune comes to mind, and usually it's Rue's four note melody, the one she used to signal the end of the workday and District 11, the one we used to let the other know that we were safe. I listen as the birds trill the notes with perfect pitch, each time with the message, Rue is safe, Rue is safe. And if I really think about it, it's true. If she had somehow survived the arena, she would have been caught up in the rebellion and tortured by the Capitol along with the other victors. So yes, Rue, you are safe. Which is more than what some of the rest of us can say about ourselves.
Other times, I wander through the main square. More people are returning to District 12, and there is a quiet bustle as buildings are erected and shops attract customers again. The wreckage from the bombing is being cleared away, and my boots step smartly on newly laid cobblestones. I look for people I recognize. I don't talk to anyone or even approach them, but I commit every face to memory, keeping a running tally of those who survived.
It is a warm, cloudless day when I see him. I am standing on the opposite side of the square, and his back is turned to me, but I can pick him out anywhere. He stands with his head slightly bowed, his blond hair almost white in the sun. At first I'm not sure what it is that has captured his attention. A heap of charred wood and stone, blackened beams protruding at awkward angles like broken bones. With a jolt I realize the only thing it could possibly be. It used to be the Mellark bakery, Peeta's former home. Where he gave me another chance at life. Where his parents and brothers breathed their last. Now their bodies have been laid to rest in the Meadow. Four more names to add to my list of casualties, which seems to persist in being longer than my list of survivors. I am sure I will see their faces in my dreams tonight.
I want to call out, but I have no idea what to say. The only thing that comes to mind is the truth, and that seems brutally inappropriate. Peeta, I know we haven't talked in weeks, and I've been avoiding you, but I want to tell you how sorry I am about your family, because they would still be alive if it weren't for me. Besides, I am not sure that my voice, weakened from disuse, will carry that far. As I struggle to figure out how to approach him, he steps back from the rubble and walks away. I reach out, as if to stop him, but he disappears behind a building, out of sight.
The Capitol took from me everything I cared about, but from Peeta, they took everything and more. His life, his family, his memories. And the only person left who has even the remotest idea of what he had to endure can't find it in herself to face him. I stand there feeling completely worthless.
That night, for the first time since the war ended, I dream about Peeta.
I am running. The air is hot and heavy with moisture. The foliage that parts before my hands is alien, the leaves long and thin and intensely green. I'm back in the clockwork arena.
I hear him somewhere ahead of me. I can't see him, but I hear the slightly uneven tread he's had since his leg was replaced. He's calling out my name. Looking for me.
I am running, but the jungle doesn't seem to end. I don't seem to be getting any closer. I push myself harder, but my legs won't listen to my brain. In fact, faster I try to go, the slower they become. I yell his name, but no sound comes out from my mouth.
After what feels like forever, I arrive at the lightning tree. A net of thin, golden wire has been woven around its trunk. Long loops hang off the branches like cobwebs. Animals of all shapes and sizes perch among the leaves, watching me.
I finally find my voice. "Peeta!" This is where we were supposed to meet. If we both make it to the tree, we would be safe. But he's not here. I don't understand. He was just running a few steps ahead.
"Peeta!" I cry again, my desperation growing. "Peeta, where are you?"
"Katniss!" I hear him reply. He's probably thirty, forty yards away. What is he doing? Why isn't he at the tree?
He calls my name, again and again, getting closer each time. I expect to see him burst into the clearing any moment now, he's that close. But he doesn't, not even when I hear him almost on top of me.
Almost on top of me. I slowly raise my eyes to the source of the sound. I see a single black-crested bird with its head cocked, peering down at me. When it opens its beak, instead of birdsong, I hear it speak my name. With Peeta's voice.
A jabberjay. I feel my blood run cold. More jabberjays flock to the lightning tree, and soon there are so many that the canopy is a mass of the black feathered things. The air is filled with a chorus of Peetas all saying my name. I cover my ears to block out the sound, and I flee.
Somehow I end up on the beach. The sand stretches out for miles on either side of me. I run along the edge of the water and yell for Peeta. I run and run, but the sand never ends, and there is nobody in the arena but me. When my legs cannot carry me anymore, I fall onto the sand, exhausted.
"Congratulations," says a familiar voice behind me.
I am instantly on my feet. It's not the voice I was looking for, and I'm filled with a new dread.
"Congratulations," says President Snow again. His lips are puffy and red, his teeth covered in blood. When he smiles, it's like gazing into an open wound. "Katniss Everdeen, you are the winner of the seventy-fifth Hunger Games."
I don't understand what he's talking about. "Where's Peeta?" I demand.
"You are the winner of the seventy-fifth Hunger Games," he repeats, still smiling.
The winner of the seventy-fifth Hunger Games. The meaning behind his words hits me like a pile of bricks. There can only be one winner in the Hunger Games. My stomach turns into a ball of ice. I grab Snow's shoulders and shake him so violently that his head snaps backwards. "Where's Peeta? What did you do to him?" I scream. "He was supposed to be at the lightning tree! Why wasn't he at the tree?"
Snow raises his hand, and first I think he's going to strike me. But then I see he's holding something between his fingers. A pearl. Its smooth skin glistens softly in the harsh sunlight. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, slowly, possessively. "Is this what you're looking for?" he murmurs. His voice makes me think of a snake gliding on velvet, and I shudder.
I growl and try to snatch the pearl from his hand, but my arms are sluggish and they move like they're underwater. Snow easily grabs my wrists with one hand and immobilizes me. I am helpless.
"You are the only one who survived, Miss Everdeen. Prim would be so proud." His smile grows wider, toothier, redder. "But in the end, I'm the one who really won."
It starts to rain. Thick, red drops of rain. Snow begins to laugh, a low sound that makes my skin crawl. I try to open my mouth, but it fills with the bloody downpour, choking me. Only the pearl remains untouched, white and pure in a sea of red. Then Snow closes his fingers and crushes it in his fist. When he opens his hand again, the pearl is still there, only it's black now, black like coal but darker, more sinister. A crack appears in its flawless surface and it crumbles to dust right in front of my eyes. Red drops fall onto his palm and what's left of the pearl, what's left of Peeta, is washed away. Snow's laugh now fills my ears, my every pore, until I can no longer hear even the sound of rain. Through the blood, I start to scream.
The scream tears through my throat and shatters the stillness of the night. Buttercup, who is usually accustomed to my nightmares, skitters away from my side. My breath comes in ragged gasps. There is a strangled sobbing noise, and I realize it's coming from me. Half blind with tears, I get up on trembling legs and stumble to the front door. I can still hear Snow's laugh. It seems to be coming from the study. I can't stay here. I have to get out.
I go to the only place where I'll know for sure if Peeta is safe. My legs are shaking and barely able to carry my weight but I somehow make it to his house. I grab the doorknob with both hands for leverage and support, but it won't budge no matter how hard I twist and turn. Sapped of strength and will, I slump onto the ledge and lean my head against the door. I know I can't go back to sleep. Every time I try to close my eyes, Snow is laughing with his gaping bloody mouth.
Suddenly the door opens and I am falling. I land painfully on one elbow and all I see are wooden floorboards and two bare feet. Peeta kneels down and peers into my face. "Katniss? Are you okay?"
Asking if I'm okay somehow makes it even worse. I fight back a fresh wave of tears. "Peeta," I manage to choke out.
Then his arms are around me, and I am lifted from the floor. My body rocks gently with every step as he carries me upstairs. He lays me down on the bed and covers me with a blanket because I'm still shaking, although it's not because I'm cold. I cling to his hand so hard that it hurts. He watches me without saying anything, and it takes a while before the shaking stops.
Eventually, Peeta's the one who speaks first. "What's wrong? What happened?"
My voice is thick and hoarse when I answer. "I had to make sure you were safe."
His fingers brush my cheek as they smooth the hair back from my face. "I'm safe, Katniss" he says. "You are, too."
"He got to you first. I was looking for you. I couldn't find you. Oh, Peeta, he got to you first." His fingers freeze, because he knows exactly who I'm talking about. But he doesn't pull away. "I couldn't protect you," I whisper.
In the darkness of the room, I can't see his eyes. I can't tell what he's thinking. And then because I'm so emotionally raw, so exhausted, the next few words come tumbling out before I can stop them. "I'm sorry," I say, because it's how I really feel, even if it will never be enough, will never make up for everything that's happened.
"But you did protect me," he says. I try to protest, but he's stroking my hair again, the way I stroked his when we were hiding in the sewers beneath the Capitol. Only this time, I'm the wounded animal. "Because we protect each other. It's what we do."
His words echo our conversation from that night. Part of me warns that Peeta is only repeating what's been said before, in his ongoing attempt to separate the hijacked memories from reality. Another part of me wants to believe that Dr. Aurelius has fixed him, and that the old Peeta has come back. That everything is the way it used to be, when I could count on him—steady, reliable Peeta—in my most vulnerable moments. The feel of his hand in my hair is so familiar, so soothing, that my doubt and anxiety start to melt away. Sleep begins to overtake me, but I must still be feeling insecure because I reach up and grab his hand. "Don't go," I say. "Stay with me."
His reply, if he says anything at all, is lost as I slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.