there are no stars in the sky

1. paint is like blood splattering the canvas

I push through the leaves of the trees and bushes, not really knowing where I'm going. This place is familiar; but everything seems out of place, a misplaced rock, or an oddly shaped tree. When I finally push out of the leaves, I see them. Katniss and Rue. Katniss is on her knees, Rue's head in her lap as she sings a song, tears streaking down her face. What am I doing here? I think to myself. My eyes journey downward, knowing what I'll find there. Katniss has explained it so many times I can actually picture the scene, despite me not being there. My gaze lands on her stomach. The spear. Embedded into her body, Rue's limbs curled inward. Her eyes slowly closing. Katniss standing up, gathering flowers, placing them in her hair, around her wound. She sinks down onto her knees when she's finished, and that's when I see Cato coming out from behind her. I try to open my mouth to scream and warn her, but no sound escapes me. Cato lifts his sword up. Why won't she turn around? Katniss is always so vigilant, so aware of her surroundings; she notices everything. But Rue is distracting her, and she doesn't see Cato behind her. Surely she would have thought of this, of someone trying to sneak up on her while she mourns Rue's death. She would have remembered that she was in the Games, and that out in the open was no place to be. Or maybe she's just too devoured by grief to notice anything.
Cato's sword, coming down.
And everything goes dark.
I hear a scream, the shuffling of feet as he runs away, toward a hiding place so others won't find him.
The mockingjay's warning call.

*V*

I wake up gasping, tangled in my sheets, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. I look at the clock on my bedside table: 12:01. The nightmares always keep me up. I haven't had a full night's sleep in a long time; but tonight was a good night. Normally I wake up within an hour of falling asleep, so when I get two, it's a good night, three, a great night. I pull my bare legs over the side of the bed, breathing heavily. I stumble up, wandering toward my closet. I tug the door open, fumbling for my white dress shirt that Portia left behind, because she had to leave with Cinna to the Capitol in a hurry- there was some sort of emergency with our costumes.

For the Victory Tour. Three days left.

It's been hard adjusting to my new house in the Victor's Village. It's foreign; different. Different then my home at the bakery. The shock of living somewhere new only adds to my unwillingness to sleep. The only upside is that Katniss and Haymitch are nearby. They're my family now.

I pull the shirt on, rolling up the sleeves, leaving it unbuttoned; no one's going to see me at this hour, and it's more comfy that way. The vivid paint splatters wrinkle up as I move toward the door.
The hallway is dark, shadows sweeping the walls. I start walking to my right, keeping my hand on the wall, so I won't trip, until I get to the stairs, and make my way down to the living room. I creep down each step, being careful to avoid the ones that creak. I don't want to wake up my parents.
The door to the basement is in the kitchen, next to the door leading outside. It's big; bigger than you'd at first think, but no one goes down there. They all know it's my place of solitude, where I go when the outside world becomes too much to handle. I ease the door open, slipping in through just a tiny crack.
I shiver. It's chilly down here. I probably should've put on some pants, instead of coming down here in just a thin dress shirt and my briefs. When I reach the cement floor, the cold makes my bare feet tense, but I like the cold now. Ever since that time in the arena when I had a fever I hate being hot. The cold will help my body heat come down and dry the sweat on my skin.
I walk over to the corner, grab a canvas from the floor, and place it on my easel. It's placed in the corner next to a window near the ceiling, so I can open it and paint whatever's outside. I walk over and reach up, stretching my arms so I can reach the latch that keeps the window locked, and gently push it, watching it spring up. Small snowflakes swirl inside, carryed in by the wind. It must have just started, because the grass is untouched, still withered and brown from the winter's touch.
I'm not painting anything outside tonight; I just need some fresh air. I pick up my brush, spin it in brown paint; and start to coat the canvas.