"Dystopia"
A/N: Will re-publish this imminently, due to what I am sure are huge 'use of past/presnt tense' errors. Enjoy! ...or rather, in the case of this story..not. It is rather depressing.
Sometimes I try to imagine my life before the Games, waking up cold and looking over to see Prim curled up against mother, or Prim cradling Buttercup, or Prim nestled against me. Getting up just as the sun peers over the ashen hills, its light filtering through the trees behind the electrified fence, creating dappled shadows against the grey wood and stone of the Seam. Game bag draped over my shoulder, I would trek across the meadow, towards the woods and under the stiff wire of the fence. Meet Gale, who would address me as "Catnip", and I would smile, tentatively, but that in itself was a rare occurrence.
Now, I stare out absently across the barren graveyard of District 12; aching for Gale's touch, or a glimpse of his face, or to hear him say "Catnip" and for me to smile. Expecting Prim to rush to my side as I approach our house, hands empty of the food I used to bring to her, knowing- as my eyes scan her emaciated, tiny frame, that I was helping her to live. After all, wasn't that why I volunteered for her, to ensure out of everyone (even myself) that she lived, that she survived?
But Prim doesn't emerge, doesn't shout my name, doesn't rush to greet me.
All I see now are ghosts.
Our house, our old house…. (only my house now), is a desiccated shell amidst a sea of dust. Its bare beams blackened and charred, crumbling from exposure; the door hanging uselessly off its hinges.
A warm breeze bustles in from behind me, tugging on the braid at my back, and a swirl of ash churns in front of me; the individual flakes spin in mid-air, dancing joylessly in this place of grief and sorrow. I stare at an uncovered patch of ground, having caught the slightest glimpse of colour out of my peripherals. There, still carrying a speck of cinder, sagging from lack of sunlight, is a primrose. I collapse onto my knees, holding back the tears that so desperately want to be shed. My chest heaves as grief wracks my body. My throat cracks, and tightens.
I kneel there for hours, consumed by anguish, unable to move. The breeze from earlier has become an icy wind, tearing at my clothes, biting my hands and cheeks, attacking my bloodshot eyes. The gentle swirl of ash has become a tempest, the colourless powder swarming over the ground, then exploding in the air as it discovers another loose pocket that adds to its swelling mass. Limbs stiff and useless by my side, I crane my neck to watch a silhouette, feature-less in the frantic haze, approach my dejected form shivering and wet from the cold.
The stench of alcohol is sharp, cutting through the surrounding blizzard easily- he reeks of it. "Had enough yet, sweetheart?" he slurs, gripping my shoulder and heaving me to my feet. I lean in to him, somehow grateful for his presence, for him being here when no one else was. "C'mon" he says as he drags my unresisting body towards the Victors Village, and into my ("new") house.
In the end, I knew Haymitch and I would be the only ones left. It was always going to be us two….wasn't he the one who was trying to keep me alive from the very start? Not Peet – I stop myself from thinking his name, but too late, I've already seen his death, seen the flare of light, the silence- my face turning towards him in horror, his name torn from my lips, as his body is engulfed in flame. Re-imagine the intense eruption of heat on my exposed flesh, the sensation as I'm thrown backwards, the nearest buildings being blown apart. He died in the same explosion that killed Prim, he had rushed to save her, whilst I stood prone, simply watching…
Haymitch thrusts a glass into my hand, and I clasp it to my chest unconsciously. My eyes are hollow, unseeing, as the memories I've tried so hard to suppress re-emerge. The memories I've tried so hard to forget. The Games, and their horrors cannot compare to the nightmarish scenes that obscure my vision. Nothing compared to seeing Gale and Peeta and Finnick and …and Prim being killed. Over and over again, a viscous cycle, with no escape.
In my detachment, I don't hear Haymitch stagger to the television in the corner and switch it on. (There's a brief stutter of static, before the picture appears. But I don't see this… I barely hear it.) No, I'm seeing Finnick's fearful eyes as his leg is devoured by one of those lizard mutts, before his grip falters and he is dragged into the darkness , Prim's un-tucked blouse, her "duck tail", and knowing that- even though I've tried so, so hard to keep her alive- she will die. Gale, so confident (smiling… boasting), before he is caught off guard, a hovercraft appearing above him- everything moving in slow motion now- his body twisting, crumpling – torso riddled by bullets, I see it all. That frozen second- that timeless moment as his feet leave the floor- suspended in my mind. That grotesque image which refuses to be forgotten.
"Katniss…Katniss-", Haymitch shoves my shoulder forcefully, points at the television. His expression softens slightly, "-it's on."
My eyes flick to the picture, and my chest constricts, my stomach plummets, my fingers clench into fists and tremble.
I struggle to swallow the bile which has risen up my throat as he takes to the stage, his manner relaxed, his full lips stretched taut into a smile…..I can almost smell the blood and roses.
"And so we honour our first biyearly Hunger Games, as a reminder of the Dark Days and the recent inconvenient 'uprising'-" (Because, I suddenly realise, that was all it was to the Capitol…an inconvenience,) there's a smattering of laughter from the audience "-that the Capitol, and it's power can never be challenged." Rapturous applause.
At the end of the day, we hadn't changed a thing. The rebellion had failed. The mockingjay, the symbol of hope and change, abandoned- its flames extinguished- surrounded by the fallen.