Chapter 1. The Foggy Mansion
I enter the realm of the dead in an almost surreal way. At first, I wasn't sure. There was no pain whatsoever when the bomb went off in the pen where they kept the children hostage. There was a blinding blob of light, not unlike a big bubble, and then a burst of rainbow colors. So many colors swirled around me, and for a while I felt like a tiny speck of dust inside a huge kaleidoscope, unable to do anything but let the colors fly around.
"Am I really gone? Or is this all a dream?" I look up to ask my father, the first person I saw when the mist of swirling colors cleared. He's wearing his old mining uniform, not the brand new trousers and white shirt we buried him in. I, on the other hand, am wearing one of the dresses that used to belong to Katniss, a short pink dress with white flowers embroidered along the hem.
"It's real, pumpkin. This is the afterlife. Not much to see, really," he replies, with a twist of his lips.
The afterlife looks like a huge mansion, but someone must have left the windows open because the fog is creeping in steadily. There are endless corridors, with hundreds of doors lining them. We're currently standing on a small sitting room, in a junction between corridors, where there are other people sitting, sipping coffee, reading the papers or chit-chatting on the couches. Residents, according to my father, are souls of dead people that continue to hang around and wait for family members to come so they can all leave this place together. Father calls some of these residents by name, others nod at him when they pass us. He holds my hand tighter and he guides me towards one corridor.
We slowly walk on a long carpeted hallway, not meeting any other resident. I'm a bit disappointed. They told us in school that heaven's supposed to be a beautiful place, not some moldy old mansion full of fog.
"Some old timers say it's supposed to get better when we check out from here and go to the final destination," he explains when he notices me looking around with a disappointed pout, "Maybe heaven's a real garden with butterflies and flowers, just like your homeroom teacher told you. You're not scared, are you, my little darling?"
I shake my head, squeezing my father's hand and looking up to show him I'm not scared. Not now that he's with me again. He's been waiting alone all this time, he tells me, but he doesn't tell who he's waiting for, although he seems sad that it's me who's with him right now. But I can guess he's been waiting all this time for mother to come along. He must be. How surprised he must have been when I showed up first.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"Don't be. You can't help dying, you know," he tries to make light of the situation, like he always does. When something serious crops up in the conversation around the dinner table, he'd crack old miner jokes to lighten the mood. He used to have the same tell-tale twinkle in his eyes whenever he makes up funny stories to make mother laugh. He's so like Katniss in many ways, especially when he smiles. I remember the last moment I saw my sister, Katniss. Her hair in disarray, eyes wide as if to warn me, mouth open in mid-shout. She must have realized before anyone what was about to happen. Sometimes, she has that talent of seeing what others don't, and acting on impulse. Then, a sudden thought hits me so hard I stop walking.
"Katniss isn't… here… is she?" I can't ask the question louder than a whisper, fearing the answer. She can't be here. I don't want her here.
Father closes his eyes before answering, then he looks at me with relief, and what looks like pride, in them. "She's not. She's a tough one, that girl. She's still… fighting on." I beam at him, sharing his relief that she's still alive. If there's something I share with my father, it's the boundless love we have for Katniss. Not once did I feel jealous whenever they'd go out hunting. Katniss is my father's pride and joy, the child who resembles him so closely that he never ever craved to have a son, unlike many of his co-workers in the mine. She's his favorite, just like I am my mother's.
He stops in front of a closed doorway. On the door is a number and the name H. Everdeen. It's my father's room, and I can't help but wonder what's inside. Did he decorate it like our home in the Seam? Is it full of big birch trees like in the woods where he hunted when he was alive? It can't be just another drab room with a bed and a lamp. This is the afterlife, after all. Suddenly, I really want to find out.
He reached inside his pocket for the key. In no time, he's opening the door and I peek in. I gasp. Inside the room is the familiar hospital wing in district 13, but in black and white, just like the old movies my father used to watch on television in between Capitol broadcasts. To one side is my mother, scrubbing her hands in the sink right outside the operating room. Her face looks pale, made more so because of the lack of color. She pauses every few seconds to rub her eyes on her sleeve. She's crying. Someone must have already told her what happened in the Capitol. She probably knows I'm dead, but her hectic hospital schedule won't let her grieve yet.
I step inside the room to get a closer look. My mother's so near, I can almost touch her. I reach out with one hand tentatively, noticing how it looks so out of place amidst the colorless tableaux in front of me. My hand passes through my mother's shoulder, making me gasp. I retract my hand, shocked that I can't touch anything in this black and white world. Mother doesn't seem to notice, as she continues to scrub harder at her hands, her brows knitted in concentration, tears gone. She takes a deep breath as she shakes the water off, letting the humid air from the hospital's ventilation dry her hands and arms. The next moment, she's entering the operating room, putting her cap on before door closes behind her.
"Still a looker, isn't she," said my father from behind me, a smile evident in his voice. I turn to hug my father around the waist, sobbing on his chest. In the black and white version of district 13 hospital, my father and I are the only ones that still have color on our bodies. If only I can touch her, to make her feel better. Frustrated, I clench my hands and pound at my father's chest. He holds me for a long time until I stop sobbing. This is the only disadvantage of being dead, I think sadly, I can't touch anyone in the living world even if I can still see them.
"You can touch her if you really want to," he says gently, softly stroking my hair. He must have guessed why I acted the way I did.
I look up in surprise, not believing that it's still possible to have any sort of power in the world of the living. Father whistles sharply, like calling someone from afar. Suddenly, a tiny ball of blue light appears before me, dancing out of the way as I try to touch it, but still hovering above my head like a halo. Father whistles again, and another one appears, zigzagging in front of us. I muffle a shriek, jumping back, as the second ball comes too close to my feet.
"Whispers. We call them whispers. Each room has three of these. You can use them to touch anything in the real world, just the way you would normally. Once you use up all three, you need to leave this place and move on," he says. One blue light moves tantalizingly near his hands, as if asking him to demonstrate what he's explaining to me, but my father sharply shakes his head and tucks his hands under his arms resolutely. I try to grab it with both hands but it flies away out of reach, only to fly back to circle my father's head. I stifle a giggle as my father puffs at the ball of light several times, trying to blow it away.
"I've already used one a long time ago and I plan to use the others only when it really matters," he explains sheepishly, motioning for me to go out of the room. The door, just like us, looks too brown amidst the colorless surroundings. We go back to the dim corridor of the mansion, shutting the door behind us.
"Let me guess," I say teasingly, "you used one to kiss Mum on the lips while she's sleeping."
Father laughs out loud, blushing a bit. "And what do you know about kissing, young lady?" he teases back. He sighs, putting one arm around my shoulders as he guides me to the room right next to his. The doorway reads P. Everdeen, my room. My father's eyes have that faraway look to them as he remembers the first time he used one of his precious whispers to touch something in the living world. "It was the spring after my death. When Katniss tried hunting on her own for the first time," he recalls, "After shooting three arrows unsuccessfully at a slow moving badger, she said 'father help me', and I lifted her elbow to the proper angle right before she released the arrow. I don't think she noticed."
Just then, the door across mine opened and a man stumbled out, his hands tied together with a length of rope. "I heard voices, Horace. That's not Katniss, is it?" the man asks, panicked. The name on his door is F. Odair and I immediately remember him as one of Katniss' allies in the Games. Finnick, from District 4.
"Odair. For a married man, you ask about my daughter a lot," father snorts suspiciously, looking at the man from head to foot. "And untie your hands, for goodness' sake. Don't you have any self-control?"
"I'm sorry, Horace, the little buggers inside won't let me be. Annie's so beautiful right now, and her body is changing so fast. I'd have used all those damned whispers yesterday if I didn't tie my hands," Finnick deftly slips out of the knots, "And, for the record, I didn't have anything going with Katniss, although she seems to harbor an intense crush on me for some reason," he grins, as if knowing what exactly could rile up my father. Father always made sure no boy got too close to Katniss. He was always glowering at her male classmates for no reason whenever he can get off shift early enough to pick us up from school. I noticed, but Katniss didn't.
Finnick's face drops when he sees me. "Hi, Finnick," I say, trying not to blush. Finnick Odair is just too handsome, for an older man. No wonder everyone wanted to be with him in the Capitol. "What the—" Finnick stares at me, his expression unbelieving. Then, he shakes his head trying to remember something.
"If you're here, that means—" he leans against the wall, a horrified look dawning on his face. "So that's why Katniss has been that way…"
"Have you seen her? Where is she? Was she hurt by the blast? Is she OK?" My questions are endless, but Finnick doesn't answer and just looks at me sadly. I can't stand it. I want to know right now what's happening to my sister. I want to at least check if she's alright. "I want to see her now!" I demand, turning to my father. Father also has the same sad expression as Finnick, but my father's expression is more sorrowful than sad.
"Your key is in your pocket. Remember to control yourself out there, or you'll use up all your whispers," he says quietly, standing aside to let me enter my room. "She's in district 12, recuperating."
I turn the lock, enter the room, and see only pitch black nothingness there. I close my eyes and think of the Seam, the town square, the woods. "District 12" I command to the room. I open my eyes and find myself on the grassy slope near the Meadow, looking at the place where I grew up.