Summary: "How do you make the truth less— real?" [Exploring the aftermath of where Katniss is a spectator of the 74th Hunger Games, and Prim is a dead tribute.] P/K

Survivalism

It was sent as soon as the Games were over, in one of the rolling trains. I saw it in the distance, spewing black smoke and exhaust from the very coal District 12 mines. Now I stand at the station at the edge of the district, listening as the whirring and chugging slows to a stop. It all echoes in my ears, anyway. Loud and almost suffocating, almost like the celebration earlier.

I'm waiting. It's here.

A wooden box, smooth and varnished so it'd shine as brightly as she used to. I try not to stare as it's gently carried out— from the cargo section of all places, I notice bitterly— but her name's right there, expertly engraved into the wood.

PRIMROSE EVERDEEN
DISTRICT 12

And it hits me, not as hard as the first time, but just as painfully. In that box, that coffin— because I might as well call it what it is— is Prim. And I don't know what state she's in in there. I don't know if her eyes are closed or wide open. If the blood's been cleaned right off. If she's in the very same clothes she wore when— it happened. If she's in one piece, or if she's in pieces like I think I am.

I stumble back and retch into the dirt.

I feel a hand tug my hair from my face. Gale stands behind me. I know he wants to say something, to curse the Capitol and rant and rave just as he does every year— just as he did the moment he got over the shock of Prim dying in Peeta Mellark's arms— but he keeps quiet. I'm glad. I don't think I would have been able to stomach it without losing myself. If I haven't lost myself yet. But what does that matter? Prim is gone.

Now what else do I live for?

"I'm sorry," I force out. I don't know who I'm addressing, but I hope I'm heard.

I couldn't protect Prim, not when it mattered most. And each morning, clutching at the side of the bed where she used to sleep, I know I'll never forget it. The bed is cold, everything is cold. And empty. At home, the traces of her hesitantly remain, but everywhere else seems to have forgotten her already.

I hate it.

I hate that the coal dust swept away her footsteps, that time shot forward while she lies still in that box. Dead. Unmoving.

"She's gone," I force out. My throat's constricted, like my breath and my words are all there, stuck. I can't breathe, and my heart's pumping blood in my ears. Is this heartbreak? Is this even a fraction of what Prim felt when the train brought her to the Capitol?

"Katniss!" Gale sounds frustrated. I think he's called my name a few times, only to have them fall on deaf ears. That wouldn't be the first time this happened.

I attempt standing straight, but my shoulders are weighed with exhaustion. Gale stands by me idly, looking unsure what to do with his hands. He ends up grabbing my right hand, pulling me under his own arm. I think it's supposed to be comforting, but it isn't working, really. I feel worse.

What right do I have for comfort?

"She's gone, Gale," I tell him again. "Prim's gone."

I don't know what good saying the truth aloud will bring. It doesn't hurt any less.

It doesn't make the truth less real.

Review, please.