This is a very short one-shot about Mr. Everdeen and Mrs. Everdeen when they were younger and his feelings towards her. It's quite morphed but you know, these things happen...
The way she laughs. The way she smiles. The way the autumn breeze ruffles her blonde hair. They're all transfixing, they're all mesmerising. Yet the breeze and the twinkle in her playful blue eyes is the reason why I can't be with her. The blonde hair, the blue eyes, they all scream one thing. Danger! Danger! I can't be with her because of that, I can't see her because of that; I can't know her because of that; because of the colour of our hair, our skin and our eyes. The deep olive skin to the pale whipped wintry cream; the dark jet black hair to the light and fluffy golden crest; the deep hazel brown eyes to the dancing blue, they all shout the same thing. Danger! Danger!
The scream, a ripped voice echoing past the district. The scream, the low and mournful screech of true despair. The scream, of terror and flown hope. The scream. My scream. Danger! Danger! The voice claws at my neck, ripping apart my heart yet the voice cannot be heard, only by me. If she heard it maybe she would do something, anything. But no, that will never happen. The pain is mine to bear and mine alone, but the scream should not be. The feeling of total despair that ripples through my body every time I see her like the calm and tranquil sea in district four, only it becomes rough and violent into a crazy storm and I feel my stomach toss inside me.
Every night I promise myself the same thing: I will tell her how I feel in the morning. Yet the morning never comes. I am stuck in a rut; get up, wash, eat breakfast, do to work in the mines. Yes, I just started. My hair usually charcoal black has deepened with the real thing, ripping me, shredding me even further from her. She is a healer, she mends people. It is the kind of thing such a feeling and loving individual should be. Yet she should not be an individual.
And then there's him. The baker's son, soon to be the baker. He likes her, they're destined to be married, everyone knows apart from them. Or her at least. Each sunrise and sunset as the sun climbs the fiery steps into the sky and slinks back down, melting away, so does my heart. Every morning it arises, sure of what to do, but every time it fizzles back into my chest, unsure of what to do. But now I know. Now I have realised. Now I sing.
It's nothing special, just the way I have always done things. I always sung a lot; it's meant to express true happiness but I very much doubt it expresses that with me. With me it expresses hope of true happiness but the rejections, burns and scars on the way. But the words don't say that, the words aren't the ones to carry the message. No; the thing that carries the message is the tune. The harmonious melody echoes around the forest, but the echo is living. The echo is the creatures there, the mockingjays, instead of taking up in flight at the sound taking up in song. They pick up the song, every word, every note, but somehow the words are dulled slightly. Hidden back and tucked behind their feathery wings like the morning worm they ease out of the moist dew ridden ground.
But the song lives on. And the words are carried forward, projected into the future and almost echo around the district the way they do. Almost flung, but they land as gently as before and play as well as before in the mockingjays' beaks rather than my mouth not quite as practised with the art of the song. And the song continues; warbling, chirping, a wondrous meshed tapestry of noises and notes, melodies and harmonies, to make the song; the song that I sing. The song that every girl in the district cries out at the sound of; but not her so it is not enough; it is not enough.
I now feel something disrupting though; the cool autumnal breeze still charges wildly through my pitch black hair, the soft patchwork blanket of leaves still remains crisp under barefoot. But something's wrong. It's the tune; it cannot escape the scream; the scream that only I can hear, the scream that only I will hear. It will rip my world apart and alongside it my love. The scream is my world though; the scream is my heart though. It is my heart screaming. Screaming out loud for love, for passion and for her; for her to become Mrs. Everdeen. So I embrace the scream. I embrace the cold, harsh strike it has and the jolt it sends through my body, the gnawing it does at my spine; I embrace it all because all the while there is a message there, a warning loud and clear about her, about the healer girl, about her. The warning is there and it strikes me at the core, the warning is there and it strikes just about everywhere else. The warning is clear: Danger! Danger!
What a shame I have never been one for listening to warnings.