It's dark.
I can hear the buzzing of an electric light coming somewhere from my left. The constant drip of distant water makes me flinch each time it hits the stone floor. I'm in my chambers, and the curtains are all drawn.
I'm acutely aware of the sound of voices down the hall, muffled by the thick stone walls. Rough, authoritive. Planning. None of them the voice that I so long to hear.
I place my hands delicately on my temples, trying to block the flow of blood from entering my throbbing veins. Another crippling headache, another day of trying to shut out the constant stress, fear, and crushing loss that are now my everyday. Thoughts come to me randomly, and in short bursts. Sometimes they are about the forest and the home that now doesn't exist, while the majority of them are filled with flashes of light that I connect with my last moments in the Quell-that last day with Peeta... I expel these dreams quickly from my inflamed mind, making room for the harmless thoughts that come to me. The linens are scratchy. The room is cold. These thoughts cannot make the aching worse-though they cannot heal it. Recently, I've found myself wishing that the Capitol doctors had left my ear deaf, so that at least the one side of my body would be immune to the sounds that I wish I didn't have to hear.
Always there is constant reassuring. There are attempts at comfort that only sound like empty promises to my ears. I can almost hear the hollow echo of the words as they reach my eardrums- We'll find him, Katniss. He is safe Katniss. Don't worry, Katniss.
But I know the truth. I know the Capitol has no mercy nor pity to give for the star crossed lovers turned rebels of District 12. If Peeta isn't already dead, he will be. Though as the weeks turned to months and I still had yet to see substantial evidence of Peeta's existence-had yet to see his blue eyes or hear his hypnotic voice that could turn a country on itself- my already deteriorating hope that he would return turned to dust, and then stone. I have failed my last mission, the only thing that kept me going during the Quell. Keep Peeta alive. And I couldn't even do that.
At first, there was only anger. Blind rage. Accusations were the only things that came out of my mouth for the first few weeks after the Quell and my rescue. Although I hardly consider it a rescue now. I wasn't the one who needed rescuing. Whatever insults and bitter words you could say to the ones who had just risked their lives to save you, whatever harsh curses you could lay upon the shoulders of those who you loved- I spoke them- I screamed and spit them those first few weeks that I lost Peeta. They flew from my mouth like the arrows I have since stopped using. Passion is one of the first things to escape the cracks of a broken heart.
Words were not a comfort. Not even the squeeze of a hand or soothing caress from Gale calmed me. Sedatives became my closest friends and sleep syrup became like water. Drugged sleep brought me no escape, only terrifying nightmares that held me there while they pulled from my mind the last images of the Quell, burned there forever. My voice, screaming out as light flashed all around me. From above, faces smiled down upon me as I was lifted into the air and away from Peeta. I would awaken, screaming, just after the voices told me to relax, and assured me that I was safe now. Later, I would open my eyes to my mother, soothing me, whispering. Telling me to relax. Telling me I was safe now.
Eventually, I realized that my anger could not help in finding Peeta. This only elevated my frustration that no one was on their feet looking for him. Too dangerous, they said. We had to remain incognito for the time being. We had to remain under the ground in thick stone tunnels beneath a civilization we were lead to believe no longer existed- and we had to plan. This probably should have stirred me into action; given me a new initiative to fight and assist and do everything I could for the cause. This, and I knew it very well, would heighten my chances of discovering Peeta or what remained of him. Of course I knew this. But instead, I stopped. Everything. Talking, eating. Thinking. I shut myself in my corridors, giving myself over to the horrible physical and mental pain that the stress of losing Peeta has caused me. I've never felt so vulnerable and weak in all my life. Not even in the games, when I was injured and actually had daily risk of being killed. Now, I am the most helpless that I have ever been. And I hate it.
This has been a considerably long burst of thought, and I soon wish to forget it. I focus my entire mind on the steady drip of water, and let the sound of my pounding blood lull me into an unconscious place between the nightmares of life and of sleep. There is a knock on the door. I roll onto my side and face the massive stone wall. Everything here is stone. All the better to keep out the noise, I think. There's a pause, followed by a second knock. I open my eyes and breathe in and out slowly before answering.
"Come in."
It's my mother. She looks exhausted. But who isn't these days? We are inciting a rebellion, after all. Everything we thought we knew about our world, well, that's all out the window now. It's been a lot to take in. As of late, my mother has been overwhelmed with work. Not only is she primary healer for our growing operation, she also has to spend her limited time in taking care of Prim-and who am I kidding?- myself as well. If not for the occasional meal I take and the fact that I can go to the bathroom myself, I almost fit under the category of vegetable. Troubled by this spastic thought, I absentmindedly run my hand over my side, and feel my ribs poking out above my gaunt hipbones. Hm. And I had thought my appetite was improving.
I look up at her, painfully, afraid to strain my eyes and bring on another onset of throbbing.
"Another headache?" she says. I nod my head. My mother is so used to my headaches by now she probably carries pain reliever in her back pocket.
"I thought so. Brought you some medicine." She reaches into her back pocket. Yep. I was right.
She holds out her hand and I take the small vial of clear liquid. The acrid stuff burns all the way down, but it's very familiar to me now. I thank her. She seats herself gingerly on my bedside. We sit there in silence for a few moments, and I close my eyes slowly and wait for the medicine to lessen the pounding in my ears. But she doesn't get up and leave as she normally does after delivering my medicine. This can only mean she has something to say, and I have a feeling I won't like whatever it is.
"Katniss." She begins softly. I know what's coming.
"Mom, don't."
She sighs and shifts her weight to her hip. I open my eyes, and it occurs to me suddenly how thin she has become. I'm troubled by this, and I think of Prim. Prim. When was the last time I saw my sister? It startles me that I can't remember. "Honey, I know you don't want to hear this right now. But you have get up. You have to accept things the way that they are right now." What does she mean by this? Accept that we are hundreds of feet beneath the Earth, where the threat of the enraged Capitol hangs over us every day? For some reason I don't believe this is what my mother means. She means Peeta. I need to accept that he's gone.
"I can't"- I start. But my voice quivers and cuts me off.
"It's not going to make anything better by shutting yourself in. You are here all day. I only see you at meals, and even then, all you do is stare at the wall. You pick at your food- you don't speak. I'm concerned for you. Prim, Gale..." She trails off as she sees my reaction to Gale's name. "All I'm saying is they worry. I worry. Things are changing, Katniss, for all of us. Remember the role you play in this. Think of…"
She goes on, but I don't hear her words. I'm thinking about how strange this is. How odd for her to be the one comforting me, telling me I have to get up, telling me I've got responsibilities- when I spent numerous years of my life telling her almost the same things. After my father died, she recoiled into depression, and now I am just like her, and the thought makes me sick. I've become my mother, made useless by the loss of someone I loved. And I know now. I know that I loved Peeta. I know that without him I don't know what do or how to function. I know all this, yet I don't know if I was ever-am still-in love with Peeta Mellark. Cared for him yes, would die for him certainly. How strange that those should require being in love. But I don't know anymore. And why should I care? Peeta is long gone, dead by President Snows own hands, I assume. I must be losing my sanity. But if there is only one thing that I am absolutely certain of at this moment, this ordeal has made me weak. And in these times, with us leading a massive rebellion, the second in the history of Panem, we can't afford to be weak. Especially not me. I'm the Mockingjay. The symbol of the rebellion and everything that it stands for. Which I now realize- my thoughts forced to align because of my mothers words-includes Peeta. He was a part of this rebellion. He pulled out those berries with me. He stood before an all powerful Capitol and gave food to the families they destroyed. He gave people hope. And now that Peeta is not with me, it's all on my shoulders. And I can't lie here and sulk about it any longer. I have to complete what Peeta started.
My mother is still talking, but I don't need to hear anything else she could possibly say. My sudden resolve is strong, and I myself am surprised by its intensity. My head still pounds, but my mind is now clear, like the water beneath a frozen river. Also like ice, I feel like something inside me-probably my resistance to face life-has melted. Only one word escapes my thawing lips.
"Okay."
She stops whatever she was saying and looks at me incredulously. "Okay what, sweetie?"
I stand up abruptly and her blue eyes widen. I have to steady myself and wait for my eyes to focus before I can answer her.
"I mean, okay. I understand now." I have no idea what else to say or how to form my sudden epiphany into spoken words. But somehow, I know my mother will see the meaning behind my clipped reply and save me from whatever vague explanation I can muster. To my relief, she does seem to understand. Her eyebrows lower, her face turns into a sad half-smile as she looks up at me. Her eyes seem to have solidified into ice as well, just like my mind. Suddenly I realize the irony in this analogy. The girl who was on fire is now the girl who has turned to ice. This thought pleases yet saddens me, because it only arouses thoughts of Peeta and me, brilliant in our costumes of flame on that first day… I will this thought to vanish, and to my surprise, it does.
"I'm proud of you, honey." She stands up tentatively to embrace me. At first I flinch-this is the most human contact I've had in weeks. I nod into her shoulder, fighting back the urge to cry. I've got to be strong again, for the people and for Peeta. What good am I to anyone if I'm not? No good for my mother, no good for Prim, no good for Gale who has been deeply affected by my devastation of late. I must honor the memories of Rue and of Thresh, of Foxface and Clove and Glimmer and even Cato, who-though he tried to kill me in the arena- was ultimately corrupted and killed by the Capitol and their terrible Games. Every single person in this country has been affected; starved, terrorized or beaten by the Capitol. I will no longer lie idly by and let this happen when I am in a position to help these people. It's not about me anymore or my grief. It's about their lives, their children. They deserve a future, even though I will never have mine.
She leads me to the door, down the labyrinth of stone corridors; up the multitude of winding stairs; until we reach a massive wooden door. It smells familiar. Pine. I take a deep, steady breath-the first in months- and inhale the smell of the life that lies beyond. I haven't been outside this door since they first brought me to this place. The doors are opened before us. I take a wobbly step forward and open my eyes wide; blinded by the sun of District 13.