Sitting here in front of the mirror, looking directly into the eyes of the young woman behind it, gives me a sense of discomfort. Don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely thrilled to be getting married, but at the same time there is an out-of-place sort of emotion that is constantly attempting to break through and displace the euphoria that is so alien to me.
The being in the mirror is not me. It cannot be me. I should theoretically be entirely used to looking so unnatural by now. The amount of times my body and face have been tampered with are countless. But even as I stare into those sharp, silver eyes that are so striking against the olive skin, I can't help but feel as though I'm face-to-face with another person entirely; or at least a part of me that I don't fully know. Not yet anyway.
My russet hair has been released from its trademark braid and is now free-flowing in glossy curls to my waist. My face, which when left alone is dark and rigid, has been transformed into a glowing pallete of warm autumn tones; my lips are a subdued pink, my eyes are emboldened with a tasteful gold - I am reminded of Cinna. My stylist. The man who was killed in his efforts to aid the rebel cause. This is my tribute to him. From the girl who was on fire.
My dress is hanging up in the open wardrobe. It's not traditional. I'm not a traditional sort of girl. It was created from one of Cinna's past designs. He never got to make it, so I suggested that it be made into a reality especially for this day.
It's a sensational, fiery orange; the colour of a sunset. Peeta's favourite colour. It flows like a cascading river of embers and has the texture of glistening amber. Peeta will love it, I think to myself. Then again, Peeta would love me in anything. He's utterly remarkable like that. Unconditional love springs to mind. That's also an unfamiliar concept to me. At least it has been for the last nineteen years. My mother was never really the loving type. Caring, yes. Nurturing, I suppose. Well, she did practice medicine. Compassion comes as part of the job I guess. What I mean is, it was never directed at me.
Prim was the same. She had our mother's healing hands. She was kind. Warm. Empathatic. Wouldn't harm a fly, Prim wouldn't. I close my eyes and inhale the mellow air of late summer. I pause for a few moments to locate it. Yes. There it is. The scent of wild primrose. The flower for which my sister was named. Peeta and I planted them outside the house in memory of her.
"You ready yet, sweetheart?"
Haymitch is standing in the doorway. He looks well, or maybe that's just a false impression created by the clean white shirt and the fact that, for the first time in the years that I've known him, he's had a shave. His jacket is flung over his shoulder as he leans against the doorframe, scowling at me. This, I am familiar with.
"Yes, Haymitch. Just give me five more minutes." I reply, getting up from my seat in front of the mirror and crossing over to the dress. I take the cloth in my hands and feel the air-light fabric on my fingers.
"Fine. I'll be outside." Haymitch says. He leaves. I wonder if asking Haymitch to give me away was such a good idea. He was mine and Peeta's mentor in both the Hunger Games we were forced to take part in, but over time he became more than that. He became the closest thing to a father I'd known since my real father was killed in the coal mines. Despite his being insufferable at times, despite the cynicism and the snide remarks and the drinking, Haymitch has been there for me through it all.
I slip on the dress with ease and make my way outside to Haymitch, clutching the bouquet of primroses in my hands. I smile as I see Haymitch waiting by the car with Effie Trinket, mine and Peeta's chaperone during the Games who I once lost my temper with over her obsessive time-keeping. We couldn't let her talents go to waste on a day like this, could we?
Effie sees me and totters up the path toward me in her comically high heels. Her hair - which is always a regular point of interest with Effie - is a surprisingly normal blonde colour, yet is counter-balanced with an overly elaborate hat adorned with ostrich feathers. She extends her arms in a way that I take to mean she'd like to hug me - a gesture I wouldn't normally associate with Effie - but I accept her invitation nonetheless.
"Katniss, you look wonderful," she says in her well-practiced manner of speaking that is common place in citizens of the Capitol. I smile politely.
"Thank you, so do you." I reply meakly. This seems to touch Effie, as her wide eyes suddenly fill with tears and she has to hobble away again to maintain her dignity. Ever the professional, is Effie.
Haymitch walks up to me and lifts my chin up with his finger.
"Listen you," he says, looking me directly in the eyes. "Today is supposed to be the happiest day of your life." He looks at me threateningly, but I know he means no real harm. "Don't screw it up."
Today is the day I marry Peeta Mellark. The boy who confessed his love for me on national television. The boy who lived solely to keep me alive. The boy who never gave up on me, and who I will never repay. Not in a hundred lifetimes. And even if I did live that long, I still wouldn't deserve him. But today I can finally promise him something. Something that I've been holding back from him for too long. Today is the day I promise Peeta the life he's always dreamed of.