Katniss POV, set in the gap between Prim's death and Snow's execution.
Sleep isn't going to find me tonight. I'm hidden far away.
There's a sharp, wild fire in my mind, burning in a bright, harsh way that leaves my head throbbing intensely. The corridor has a peculiar shape to it, or is that just me? My hands brush against the fancy wallpaper of the mansion walls. I play the list through my head.
My name is Katniss Everdeen.
I am 17 years old.
My home is District 12.
There is no District 12.
Prim is-
A sudden scream erupts nearby, jolting me from my peaceful recount into a world of terror. It takes well over a minute to realise that the scream is coming from me in the first place. I can't stop. My throat sends waves of pain in protest, my voice having not been used in several days. Probably more. I head footsteps behind me, and take off in a sprint, wanting to be left alone. But the fire in my mind is getting brighter by the second. I close my eyes to try and block it out, but it only gets brighter. I can't see properly when I open them. It's like I've been staring at the sun for too long. I crash into a statue of some man with a sword and it turns out to be pretty realistic. The sword slices its way through my clothing and into my arm, ruining whatever capitol clothing I'm in and turning my arm into a fountain of red. I pull away from the sword lodged into my arm, wincing involuntarily at the pain.
"Oh sweetheart, let's get you cleaned up." Haymitch's voice behind me makes me jump and a shriek tries to escape. My throat is worn out from all the screaming. So am I. I fall down against the wall, staining the capitol wallpaper with my blood. I get the feeling Snow's ghost will love this area. Splattered with the blood that he's been craving to draw from the girl that has ruined everything he's done. Haymitch lifts me from the ground, carrying me somewhere unknown. I watch the pattern on the ceiling as he walks, seeming half dead, and feeling entirely. I catch a glimpse of the outside world, the capitol, still illuminated by light at this deathly late hour. I wonder how the capitol people must be taking this all. The girl on fire, the mockingjay, now a rumour of a dried out ghost wandering the corridors of the mansion belonging to the person who she is to execute in a matter of days. Will they agree with the rebels? Of course not. Snow's system is all they've ever known, and they're at the sugar-coated end of it all. They probably share his beliefs.
I feel like I'm choking. My mother sits on my left, stitching the cut on my arm, stopping every few minutes to mop up the blood from the unsealed part of the cut. Haymitch sits on my right. He stares out of the window the same as I do. His seam eyes show the same dull, empty look.
"They really fucked with our minds , didn't they?" He says after a while. I don't respond, noting my mother's eye roll at his choice of language from the corner of my eye. She tries to focus on my stitches, perfecting each one with careful skill. I want to tell her that by taking longer, I'm loosing more blood, but I know why she's doing it. A flicker of similarity runs through me. She's stopping the thoughts of grief. Prim is gone. Prim, the most innocent of us all, is the one that has to pay the price for all of our stupid mistakes and wild plans. Glancing over at Haymitch, I can understand exactly why he dropped into alcoholism after his games. Grief is as destructive as the weapons that cause it.
It's an hour later. My arm is wrapped in a tidy, white bandage. I run my fingers down it just because it feels soft. Serenity overtakes me, engulfing me like a warm blanket.
Sleep isn't going to find me tonight.
But somewhere, the bright fire burning through my mind fades down, leaving behind only the glowing, radiant embers.