I stare out the window watching the colors flash by.
How Prim would love the tranquil animals that graze the soft pastures with ease. How she'd love to relax in the open air and play with Buttercup, to stroke the miserable cat's fur in the sunlight. My vision begins to blur when I realize I'm crying and frustrated I avert my eyes from the scenery. After a few minutes, my heartbeat begins to throb in my throat and I have to press my head between my knees to subside my shaking and even my breaths.
It takes all that's in me to not think about Peeta. He hovers my thoughts constantly, like he's the air I breath except he's gone and has left me to choke, struggling for his touch and gasping for him to come back.
I'm hyperventilating now, striking the attention of an anxious attendant who I quickly waver off with a halfhearted wave.
Breath, I command myself, my fingers pushing stray strands of my hair behind my ears. My chest is rising and falling in staggered motions when I notice him slumped in front of me.
The last time I saw Haymitch, he was in Thirteen, skin yellowed and hollowed eyes. He looks healthier now, his cheeks more profound and his eyes a deeper shade of grey.
I wipe away my tears, ashamed for him to witness how vulnerable I am. But Haymitch and I are not ones for secrets.
He extends his arms quietly and I fold myself into them.
Haymitch is patient. He let's me sob against his chest as he awkwardly pats my back. There are no words for the pain that anguishes me and no one could ever relate. Except for Haymitch.
"You don't deserve this," Haymitch says gently, breaking my tears.
I look up at him bewildered. I did deserve my grief though. I had started the rebellion. I had become the Mockingjay. I had pulled out those berries. It was my fault Prim was dead and Peeta was hijacked. That Peeta might never be the same again. That he might never come back.
Before I can protest his words, he silences me with a flick of his hand. "Don't fight me here sweetheart. The result, it wasn't your fault. You can't alter the future only change the present. You can't expect to control the ripple effect of the outcome so stop blaming yourself for the ashes." My nose shrivels at this but he continues. "It's a metaphor sweetheart," he explains pointedly. "Be proud of the sparks you've set ablaze."
His words silence my voice and I am taken aback.
Has he offended or complimented me?
Possibly he meant to comfort me and to coax me into believing my leadership in the rebellion should be appreciated. And yet, I don't believe he'd take me so shallow.
I fumble with questions in my mouth yet I can't push down a reoccurring thought. I collapse against the back of my seat, letting my body sink into the soft cushion. It mimics the way I feel. Spineless.
Haymitch watches me guarded as if the slightest movement could deteriorate my fragile state. His cautions are useless though; you can't break something's that's already broken.