So, my newest endeavor into the world of fanfiction. Not sure where this is going. I have about a chapter and a half so far, and most of this chapter is the last scene of Catching Fire. Enjoy :)
Until one time, I open my eyes and find someone I cannot block out looking down at me. Someone who will not plead, or explain, or think he can alter my design with entreaties, because he alone really knows how I operate.
"Gale," I whisper.
"Hey, Catnip." He reaches down and pushes a strand of hair out of my eyes. One side of his face has been burned fairly recently. His arm is in a sling, and I can see bandages under his miner's shirt. What has happened to him? How is he even here? Something very bad has happened back home.
It is not so much a question of forgetting Peeta as remembering the others. All it takes is one look at Gale and they come surging into the present, demanding to be acknowledged.
"Prim?" I gasp.
"She's alive. So is your mother. I got them out in time," he says.
"They're not in District Twelve?" I ask.
"After the Games, they sent in planes. Dropped firebombs." He hesitates. "Well, you know what happened to the Hob."
I do know. I saw it go up. That old warehouse embedded with coal dust. The whole district's covered with the stuff. A new kind of horror begins to rise up inside me as I imagine firebombs hitting the Seam.
"They're not in District Twelve?" I repeat. As if saying it will somehow fend off the truth.
"Katniss," Gale says softly.
I recognize that voice. It's the same one he uses to approach wounded animals before he delivers a deathblow. I instinctively raise my hand to block his words but he catches it and holds on tightly.
"Don't," I whisper.
But Gale is not one to keep secrets from me. "Katniss, there is no District Twelve."
I stare at him, unmoving. I knew something like this must have happened, but his confirmation has me paralyzed anyway. Gale looks at me, and in his grey eyes I see exactly what I'm feeling. He remains still for a moment, his hand still holding mine, then gives it a gentle squeeze and leaves without another word.
Part of me wants to call after him, but to say what? That I'm sorry? Instead I call for more painkillers. As the medicine begins to take effect, I drift into a foggy, uneasy sleep.