The Hunger Games is, surprisingly, not mine.
I watched Catching Fire today and this happened in my head when I walked home from the cinema.
It's written in Katniss' and Peeta's daughter's point of view. I called her Hope because I thought it fitting. I imagine she's in her late teenage years and reflects on her childhood.
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Peace is a strange thing. No matter how much time passes, there are still war wounds that won't stop hurting. When there is peace, people feel forced to act as if everything is fine. But it's not.
My father's leg's still gone, my parent's skin is scarred. There are nights when I can hear my mother screaming, other nights I hear my father sobbing. Some mornings Mom is up early and keeps me and my brother away from her and Dad's bedroom. On those days, there's a red mark hanging from the door handle. My father does not leave the room until he calms down from his fit.
I can see the scars left on my parent's souls everyday. Their eyes would zoom out for a second, their minds wandering within dark memories.
My mother would sit outside behind our house for hours, staring at the primroses which grow around a marble boulder. Her eyes scan the names engraved in the white stone, silent tears leaking from her green eyes and no one, not even Dad, can get her to move. No one but her children. Something in her eyes changes whenever my brother and I sit down next to her and take each of her hands into ours. Her eyes would roam over our faces and she would smile sadly. „Don't ever stop savouring each other. You are brother and sister, for eternity. Don't forget that..."
There are moments when my Dad stops whatever he is doing to clasp his hands around something to hold him up during an episode. It happened once when we were preparing dinner.
He was cutting bread and I was setting the table. He still held the knife when he shut his eyes tightly. I knew I should not touch him. But I did. Within seconds I was pressed up against a wall, the knife at my throat and my father pinning me there, unable to move. His dark eyes staring into mine, his free hand pulling on my dark hair that I share with my mother. She entered the room, my brother in tow and her eyes widened in realization. Dad locked eyes with me, and I pleaded him silently to remember me. There was a spark in his eyes and he whispered my name. „Hope..." I watched as his heated glare turned into shocked realization and put my hand on his cheek. „Yes, Dad. Hope," I answered and pulled him into a hug.
With all the lingering pain and haunting memories, one would think that our family is a collection of scarred souls and broken hearts. And we are. Our parent's hearts broke during the Hunger Games, during the war. And my brother's and mine break every time we see them suffering. Still, in all this pain, in all those dark moments, there are days where all is well.
Mum would take us out into the woods and share good memories of her childhood with us. She sings and the mockingjays sing with her until the whole forest is filled with the melody.
Dad would bake something with us, help us frosting cakes or cut out biscuits. He'd tell jokes, we'd throw flour at each other until we're covered in white powder. In the evening, all of us would drink tea or hot chocolate and we stare into the flames, cuddled up on the couch and completely content with our lives.
Peace is a strange thing. No matter how much time passes, there are still war wounds that won't stop hurting. When there is peace, people feel forced to act as if everything is fine. And in our family, it is. Because we have each other and we know how to cherish moments of pure contentment.
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…I have no idea what to think of it. Please tell me whether you liked it or not! And, !very important! if there are immense mistakes, please tell me! I'm not a native speaker and I really want to improve my writing.