I'm watching the television at home when it happens. Waiting, praying that he will live. Then Katniss shoots. It's as if everything is happening in slow motion; I see every single detail. I see the arrow piercing his hand. I hear his scream, sharp and shrill, as he plummets from the Cornucopia into the pack of tribute mutts. I watch in agony as Katniss nocks a second arrow, pulls the bowstring tight… and fires. The screams of the dying tribute are silenced, but I hear a different shrieking very close by, screeching his name over and over. "CATO!"
A pair of arms wraps around me, warm and comforting, and I realise the screaming is my own. I stop making the awful sound, only for it to be replaced by uncontrollable sobbing. Cato is dead. Cato is dead. Cato is dead. It rolls around and around in my head, either unable or unwilling to escape from my lips.
But still, it is true. Cato is dead. The love of my life is dead. Dead.
No, it cannot be true. I refuse to believe it. The anger roils up from my stomach like a furious serpent. Before I can stop myself, an unearthly, animalistic roar blasts from my mouth. Every piece of glass in my house shatters. The windows burst outward into the streets. Our cat's fur jumps to attention, and the poor creature appears to have been struck by lightning.
Mother's hair is acting the same way, and her expression suggests either awe or unparallelled terror.
"I'm so sorry," I squeak nervously, "was that me?"
Mother's face unfreezes, and she smoothes down her hair shakily. Her gaze flits around the room, searching for something to focus on - anything but my face. She decides to stare intently at the now-very-cracked TV screen, which is, at this moment, replaying the tribute deaths in order.
"Zenira," she says, her voice barely a whisper, "if they find out what you are, they'll kill you!"
What am I? What is she talking about? I relay these thoughts out loud, and Mother shakes her head.
"I was hoping your father was wrong," she chokes out, "I should have listened to him.
"You are seen as a danger to society," she continues, her voice taking on a note of fear, "so you must keep your powers a secret. No one must know that you are a Gifted."
This doesn't explain anything, because Gifteds aren't even real. They're just an urban myth, something cooked up by the Capitol to make us fearful. President Snow is a good storyteller, even I have to admit that.
Still, whatever I am, I cannot show it. Something in my gut tells me that my mother is right, and the peacekeepers will kill me if they find out about my power. Right now, I am my own worst enemy.
They bring Cato's coffin to the square, and his weeping family gathers around to tell his body how much of a mistake it was to volunteer like he did. When I see them, hear what they're saying, a small scoff exits my mouth. Mother elbows me sharply and glares, but I ignore her. I feel no regret, no guilt, no sorrow. I feel no joy. I am completely devoid of emotion as I walk up to see Cato's face for the last time. In my mind, I am chiding his family for being so stupid and sentimental. Why tell a dead body what they shouldn't have done while they were alive? What's done is done, it led them to death, and that's the end of it. No point in trying to turn back time.
Then I'm at the coffin, beside Cato's youngest sister Rhea, the one who used to tease me mercilessly about my crush on her brother. As I look down at the lifeless shell, everything that is left of my love, something inside me snaps. The numbness is gone. My heart is shaken by wave after wave of deep, deep sadness. I can't even begin to describe how lost I feel. How heartbroken, staring down at eyes that will never open again. I had hoped for so much, but received nothing but grief and pain.
Without even thinking about it, I bend down until I am just centimeters away from his cold, bloodless lips. I hesitate for a moment, then close the gap and kiss him fully, tears coming to my eyes at the thought that he can't even feel me. Even though I promised myself I wouldn't cry, my eyes brim over and my tears splash onto Cato's face. I press my lips harder against his, wishing they were soft and warm rather than cold and stiff. I touch my hand to his cheek, feeling the roughness of stubble, tracing the jagged valleys where he was cut.
I'm pulling back, feeling numb yet again. I don't notice the wetness of my cheeks. I don't realise I'm still crying hard enough to fill a small swimming pool with my tears. I don't hear anything but the beating of my own heart as I pull Rhea into a tight hug, more to comfort myself than her.
However, there is one thing that does not escape my notice. I hear a sharp intake of breath. Not mine, not Rhea's. Not from anyone else in Cato's family, according to their startled expressions. I turn my attention back to the coffin, just in time to see Cato's eyes fly open, glowing gold for a few moments before fading back to their original colour.
He is alive.
He sits up slowly, in a daze, and I practically fling myself on top of him. He catches me, falls back, and we're both in the coffin together. I start feeling awkward, so I climb out and help him after me.
"And you did that for what reason?" he asks me, laughing. It's as if he was never gone. I wonder if he realises that he has been dead.
Rhea ends up spilling the beans. All of the beans.
"Cato, you were dead, and then…" she starts crying even harder. "And then Z-zenira kissed you and you came back to life!"
Unsurprisingly, Cato looks funny at me. "You kissed me?" he enquires, raising his eyebrows. I feel myself flushing, probably very brightly. Of course that's the part he's worried about. He isn't concerned about the fact that he has been dead, no, but he is wondering about the fact that I kissed him. Wow.
"Um, yeah," I mumble, staring at my feet with growing interest, "since you were dead, I didn't think you'd mind."
He laughs, and not the crazy laugh I'd heard him make when he was daring Katniss to shoot him off the Cornucopia. His normal laugh - a deep, rich laugh that sends shivers up my spine and makes me feel like I am melting into a puddle of Zenira.
"Of course, of course," he chuckles, "and even if I wasn't dead, I wouldn't mind."
How is he not worried about having been dead? It's so confusing.
"Hey, Cato, can I tell you something important?" I ask him, taking care to keep my voice down so that no one else can hear me. The peacekeepers have started moving in on us, and I sense that if we stay, there will be a lot of trouble, maybe even a death.
Fortunately, Cato gets the hint. He starts walking casually away from the crowd, which has gotten much thicker at the sight of a dead tribute who is not dead anymore.
He pulls his jacket hood up so no-one can see who he is from the back, and suddenly we are a normal couple walking away from a tribute's coffin. The only giveaway would be that said coffin is now empty.
Cato asks me if we can look at Clove's body as well, so we meander our way over to the less interesting part of the square, where Cato's fellow tribute lies. Since she has not climbed out of her coffin, the only people gathered there are her family, and also her boyfriend. I feel extremely sorry for him, because the pain I felt before is still fresh in my mind.
"I know what you are…" Cato whispers in my ear, making me jump. "I know what you can do. You brought me back to life, and I know you can bring her back too."
I stare at him in shock. He couldn't seriously be asking me to bring back Clove as well?
"Please," he takes my hand and grips it hard, "for Tristan."
I shake my head in sorrow. I can't do it. Not even for Tristan, grieving the loss of his girlfriend. I just don't feel anything for Clove; we never knew each other, so how could I bring her back to life?
"We weren't even friends," I tell Cato, who is doing puppy-dog eyes at me. "I'm pretty sure it takes a lot of emotion to do something like raising someone from the dead."
Cato forgets Clove for a moment and grins slyly at me, saying, "I wonder what emotion you used to raise me." Then he pokes me under my ribs on both sides, making me yelp.
"Hey, I could have you arrested for molesting me like that!" I hiss at him, but I'm laughing, and so is he, so it isn't serious. "I'll get you back sometime!" I add, wiggling my fingers at him in an 'I'm going to tickle you' motion. Cato dodges me, then starts running across the square at full tilt, with me chasing after him and yelling insults. We sprint through the streets, probably drawing way too much attention to ourselves, and stop at his house. He quickly ushers me inside, then flops down onto a couch, breathing heavily.
"What is it you wanted to tell me?" he pants, "Mustn't be much, because I've already figured out that you're a Mutant. Since I'm not dead and all."
The word he uses cuts into me like a knife, and I feel sick to my stomach. Mutant? That's the word the Capitol uses for Gifteds. To make them seem even more scary.
I draw myself up straighter and glare at Cato. I say, "The Capitol calls us Mutants. The district people call us Gifteds. I do not expect you to categorise me as a monster in your mind, especially considering how I feel about you!"
Oh, no, no, no, no! I've said too much! Even though it was commonly known that I liked him, and he liked me, neither of us got up the courage to tell each other. But now…
You are seventeen years old. I tell myself. And he is eighteen. You can both handle it now.
I take a deep breath. It's now or never. I walk slowly over to the couch Cato is slumped on and sit down gingerly.
"Zenira," Cato says softly, and the way I hear my name coming from his lips makes me feel amazing. "Zenira, I could never think of you as a monster." He turns to me. "So, you did want to tell me something, right?"
My heart is melting, trickling down past my stomach, all the way into my feet. I look up into his eyes, try to swallow, and find my mouth as dry as a stone. When I speak, my voice is raspy and unattractive.
"I was originally," I start, then clear my throat and try again, "I was originally going to tell you about my powers, but since you've already figured it out…" my sentence trails away into thin air. I drop my head down, embarrassed and hoping my face isn't bright red. Cato gently lifts my chin up, forcing me to stare into his beautiful blue eyes. My will turns to custard, and I blurt it out. "I love you, Cato!"
He doesn't look too surprised as he bends down to whisper in my ear, "I know." Then he looks me in the eyes again. "I love you too."
My heart skips a beat. I feel a lump in my throat, and curse my emotions. I can't start crying again. But I do, and Cato pulls me close against him, kissing the top of my head as he holds my face against his chest. My tears soak into his shirt, darkening the red fabric and making it look like he is bleeding. My breath catches at this thought, and I start into a fresh round of sobbing, remembering how he looked in his coffin, so cold, so unreal.
"I know, I know," he croons, rocking me like a child, "I'm here now."
I open my mouth to say "what if I lose you again?" but he puts a finger to my lips. When he kisses me, my heart is beating faster than a mouse. I know I'm even more in love with him than I was before, but right now, there's a niggling feeling that something important is about to happen, and it's keeping me from enjoying the moment. The feeling grows stronger, and I pull back quickly, now fearful for our lives. What if the peacekeepers find us? I have revealed my true self before the whole of Cato's family, and Rhea has a big mouth - she will tell the authorities everything.
"What is it?" Cato asks, his brow creased in worry. "Did I do something wrong?"
I shake my head quickly, putting my finger to my lips. There is a pounding at the door, and his eyes widen. I let out a small squeal, and Cato, catching on quickly, presses his hand over my mouth. He pulls me up from the couch, but my foot becomes trapped under a large loose spring, and his haste causes my ankle to twist painfully. Despite my best efforts to keep quiet, a loud moan escapes my mouth. My foot is hanging at an odd angle, and my ankle feels as though a steamroller is flattening it, over and over. I can't stop myself from keeping up a steady whimpering; the way my toes are pointing distresses me almost as much as the pain. I am going to be sick.
Cato scoops me up and carries me to the stairs. As he prepares to mount them, there is another loud knocking sound, and two voices at the door, calling our names. My mother, and a guy who may or may not be Tristan. I breathe a sigh of relief, but it turns into a shriek of pain as Cato, in turning around, accidentally bumps my foot against the wall. He grimaces at my injury, as if he can scare my ankle back into the right place. This almost makes me laugh - almost. The pain is so bad that I'm seeing stars, and I feel as though I might pass out at any moment.
Cato sets me down on a chair and opens the door a crack. Yes, it is Mother and Tristan. He opens the door wider, ready to welcome them both inside, but Tristan tells us that there isn't much time, that all five of us have to leave as fast as we can and find shelter in another district. My head is spinning, and the words barely register before I fall into unconsciousness. My last thought is, Since when were there five of us?
The first thing I see when I open my eyes is Cato's face looming out of nowhere, seemingly floating, unattached to anything. Then he draws back and yells out, "She's awake!" and I see that, in fact, his neck does exist. I suddenly realise that my ankle isn't painful beyond the brink of consciousness anymore. There is a dull ache and nothing more; when I look down to my foot, I see that it is almost completely healed.
"How long was I out?" I ask Cato in a hoarse whisper, thinking it must've taken weeks for my injury to have healed as well as this.
"Oh, a couple of days," he tells me dismissively, then stands up to greet someone I don't know. At least, I don't think I know her, because it wouldn't be possible for…
"Hey, Zenira," the girl says brightly, sitting down next to me, "I hear that you and my boyfriend share a lot in common."
Boyfriend? Is she talking about Cato? No, she wouldn't be. Cato is obviously mine now, so who is this mysterious boyfriend? Who is this mysterious girl, for that matter, because I'm pretty sure Clove didn't have an identical twin sister, and this can't be Clove herself. The last I saw of her, she was lying dead in a coffin in the square in front of the justice building. Come to think of it, though, Cato was also in the same position a few days ago.
Then Tristan shows up, and she-who-cannot-really-be-Clove stands and embraces him. For the zillionth time in only a few days, I feel utterly confused.
Then, suddenly, my mind clears. Of course! Ever since I was unofficially diagnosed as a danger to society, I had been thinking I was the only one like myself - unique and special. I should have known that would have been wrong.
And here we all are, two Gifteds and three mortals, and we're on the run from our district, the peacekeepers, and the Capitol. My train of thought suddenly halts. I haven't seen my mother since I woke up. I sense that she isn't with us, and I can't feel her within a mile of our camp - wherever our camp is. I try to sit up, but Cato appears at my side and holds me down. He tells me not to get up, and then silences my upcoming complaint with a kiss. We may not be the star-crossed lovers of district 12, damn them, but our romance sure has progressed fast. It's like the sort of guff you read in books, when the two characters fall for each other after meeting up, on average, about twice. It seems so unrealistic, and you feel as though that sort of thing could never happen in real life… and then it suddenly happens to you, and your whole world flips upside down.
Well, it's not exactly like that. We've known each other since we were kids, and I developed a crush on him when I was eight. I'm pretty sure I was only a friend to him for the six years before Rhea (four years old at the time) blabbed to me that he liked me more than that. I was 14 and he was 15, and we were seen together a lot, even sometimes holding hands, so everyone just assumed we were dating. Cato had to tell off (read - beat up) a few teasers at school who were harassing me about him. He cared about me. I cared about him. We were way more than friends, but neither of us wanted to admit it.
It scares me, the realisation that it took as much as his death to make me come out of my shell and tell him I loved him.
But this is no time to be thinking about the past. I don't know where my mother is, and I don't know where we are. I struggle to sit up, pinned under Cato's strong arms.
"Careful, careful," he warns, and since he can't easily keep me lying down, he gently raises me into a sitting position. Even though I know he's trying to conceal it, I hear him let out a small sigh as he feels me relax against him. Giggling, I echo him with a dramatic, dreamy sigh of my own as I drop my head back against his chest and smile lovingly up into his face. He shakes his head, tutting, but softly runs one of his hands through my hair while the other caresses my cheek.
I'm as relaxed as I can be until the all-important thought re-enters my mind and I start to panic. My breathing goes shallow and my heart races.
"What about Mother!" I screech, bolting upright. Then my head starts spinning, my vision is clouded with black, and I pass out again.
Someone is shaking me. I fell asleep at school again and my teacher is mad at me. I open my eyes slowly, thinking I'll find a test paper pressed against my face.
Cato is staring down at me. I am not at school. I am goodness knows where, on the run because I am a Gifted. I do not know where my mother is.
Tristan and Clove (I've decided it is really her) are having a heated argument. I catch only snippets of conversation, but the meaning is clear. Clove is angry at Tristan for bringing her back to life if she just has to run away from her family. Tristan is trying to placate her with the logical explanation that being alive is much better than being dead. Clove is having none of it. She must be insane.
I look back up at Cato. I jerk my head toward the pair of quarrelers and raise an eyebrow. He smirks.
But he is avoiding the question about my mother. He isn't even acknowledging that I asked it. The news about her can't be good.
"That's the second time you've fainted," Cato tells me, his smile peeling away like a sticker to reveal his exasperation. "You need to rest, and next time, please listen when I tell you not to get up."
I laugh nervously. "But what about…" I start, but he grits his teeth and shakes his head.
"This isn't the right time," he soothes, "you aren't ready to handle it yet. Go to sleep."
How can I sleep at a time like this? I need answers, but no-one is giving me anything. Cato seems to think I'm not strong enough to swallow the info about whatever happened to my mother. Even that fact makes me mad enough to stay wide awake…
But Cato is humming to me and stroking my hair. And I am rather tired, despite the fact that I spent most of the past few days unconscious. I feel my eyelids start to go heavy, and one blink later, I am asleep.
I dream that I'm in the arena, at the foot of the Cornucopia. I see Cato standing on top of it, holding Peeta in a headlock. I see Katniss with her arrow drawn back, ready to fire. I know what is going to happen. I try to shout out, warn Cato of the impending danger, but I have lost my voice. And it happens again, with me powerless to stop it.
I wake screaming Cato's name, and find a sword lying on top of me. A sword made of glass.
I lift the thing off my chest and sit up. This is the first time I've had the chance to look around me, at my surroundings. We seem to be camped out in an old, derelict house which must be somewhere on the fringes of District 2. We haven't escaped yet, then - I should have known that they wouldn't have tried to take me past the barrier while I was still unconscious.
As my eyes scan the room, I notice that most of the window frames are devoid of glass. I look at them, at the sword, then back at the windows. I look at the sword again.
"Yeah, that was you," says a voice behind me. Cato. I turn around and stare at him intently, since he doesn't seem all that fazed by my shrieking.
"Had a nightmare?" he asks offhandedly, coming over, picking up the sword, and trying a few experimental swings.
"Damn thing isn't weighted right!" I hear him grumble. He drops the sword. It shatters, the pieces scuttling away to the far corners of the room.
I glare at him, then at the shards of glass on the floor, willing them to come back together. They don't. Then I have an idea; when I first found out about my power, I had made all the glass in my house shatter by yelling. Now, I've woken up from a nightmare, and I've found this sword on top of me. It happened after I was screaming in my sleep.
I must control glass with my voice! It's lucky I'm a good singer, because I don't want to have to screech my head off every time I want to manipulate things.
So I sing a note. It turns out that my prediction was right, because the pieces start quivering. I sing louder, and they start moving slowly, slowly back together. The note goes louder, higher, and the pieces begin to accelerate toward me at breakneck speed. It gives me a fright, and I lose my focus. The shards of glass drop back to the floor. I shake my head a few times to clear it, then try again with a slightly softer note. Once the pieces are in their right places, I whistle quietly, willing them to fuse. The effort takes so much out of me that I collapse on my back, telling myself, "I will not black out, I will not black out," over and over. Somehow I manage to push through the dizziness, rise to my knees, and then stand up. The room tilts sickeningly and threatens to flip over, but I keep my balance. I sing three consecutive notes, and the sword flies into my hand. I lift it up easily - it is perfectly balanced for me.
"Well, that makes no sense," Cato gripes, "how can you lift that thing when it's almost too heavy for me?"
I shrug. The sword really isn't too heavy or too light. The weight placement is just right, so it feels like an extension of my arm.
"Must be because I made it," I venture, and Cato nods, even though the grumpy expression doesn't leave his face.
"How about a friendly duel?" I suggest quickly, before he has the chance to say something aggravating. He brightens at this, but his expression swiftly sours again.
"I don't have my own weapon," he grouches, kicking at a convenient table leg.
Just then, Clove turns up wearing a weird disguise. I know it's her because I can tell by the signals she's giving off.
"Got what we needed," she says quietly, "though it cost me three throwing knives."
From inside her long robes, she produces enough supplies to last us at least two weeks.
"Wow, that little bit for three knives?" Cato sneers sarcastically from behind me. "What a hard trade!"
I turn around and motion for him to cut it out. He snarls at me. I snarl back at him. He shakes his fist at me, so I wave my sword threateningly and then turn my back. I sense him making another face behind me before stomping off in a huff.
Ah, well, he always was known for his mood swings and inexplicable temper tantrums.
"You got what you paid for," Clove remarks, taking off the burka and inspecting her remaining knives, "you're the one who brought him back to life."
I sigh. Both Cato and Clove are exasperating, but they're also both irreplaceable. I can see from what's in front of me that Clove's acting skills are priceless, and we need her to go undercover and get our supplies. And Cato… my handsome, talented, charming, violent, brutal, mentally unstable boyfriend. I couldn't well break up with him after all he's done for me; after all I've done for him. Drag in the rather important fact that we're madly in love (emphasis on 'madly'), and it becomes obvious that I could never leave him, no matter how annoying he is.
Words start drifting down from the very top of the stairs, like children sliding down a banister. I hear Tristan's voice, but whatever he's saying is incomprehensible. Then a male voice I don't recognise replies, "You can still further concentrate your power, so you can work over considerable distances."
They're coming down the stairs now; I keep my senses sharp and hear Tristan whining a little as he says "But even just working from the other side of the room hurts my head."
I hear their footsteps on the first landing and then they stop. The older man chuckles. "Go downstairs and watch," he says in a commanding tone, and Tristan hurriedly obeys. At the corner of the room furthest from the stairs, a large sheet of corrugated iron starts shivering loudly. It lifts off the ground and all the folds flatten out. Then the whole piece of metal becomes like liquid and begins reshaping itself into something else, something that looks disturbingly like the sword I'm holding in my hand, except not made of glass. Obviously.
Once it is completely smooth and free of any imperfections, it flies up the stairs and disappears from sight. A moment later, a middle-aged man comes down the stairs, twirling the sword casually but expertly.
"How's that for long distance?"
Tristan's mouth is hanging open, goldfish style. I smirk at him, then turn toward the other man. He seems familiar, but I can't put my finger on who he might be. I am about to ask him his identity, but it turns out I don't need to, because he comes forward and embraces me. Surprisingly, I don't feel like I want to pull away, like I was expecting. The hug feels warm and comforting, and there is no malice in it. A memory flashes before my eyes - a young man, early twenties, maybe, leaning over me as I squirm and coo in my crib. A young woman beside him, my mother. This scene must be from when I was a baby, but I don't understand how I can recall it so easily, and in such vivid detail.
"Zenira, you've grown so much since I last saw you," the man says proudly, confirming my suspicions. "My little girl is becoming quite the beautiful young woman."
I open my mouth, close it, open it again. I try to say something, but no words come.
"Mom told me you were dead." I manage to croak out after a while. "How is this possible?"
His face falls suddenly.
"So that's how she explained my absence." He says softly, turning away. "She thought my death would be inevitable if I fled, so she told you just that."