"Katniss," calls Prim, "come help me reach these bandages."
I do not.
"Katniss? Katniss, c'mere, I can't reach."
I will not.
"Kaaaaatniss! Let's not play games. I need you."
I cannot.
Prim spins around to face me, hands on her hips. Her golden locks catch in the sunlight from my kitchen window, but not the dangerous gold of fire, only the elusive gold of the dead; her face, scrunched with a pout, is unblemished of burns.
"Are you going to make me get a chair?" she asks. "You know Mom doesn't like it when I stand on chairs."
I bite my lips together. Taste my own blood. Refuse to hack it upon the floor, or to blink the bright lights of pain away from my eyes. Refuse to give into my weakness.
"Well, okay," says Prim, "but if Mom gets mad at me, it's your fault, y'hear?"
When I continue to stand as mute as the doorframe I lean upon, she grasps a chair from the dining table, drags it over to the cabinets, and stands atop it. The chair wobbles, but Prim is perfectly balanced. And as she dismounts, her pout dissolves into a grin, laughter bubbling from her mouth like a font. Like anything but fire.
"Oh, I see why you wouldn't help me," she says through her gaiety. "You wanted me to see that I could do it for myself. Well, why didn't you just say so? Next time you're trying to be the teacher-big-sister, just tell me!"
Her laughter continues, filling the room, overflowing it, until it shatters the windows and dissolves my hallucination and brings me to my knees, crying, rocking, alone.
A/N: Reviews are love.