Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. The characters, and many of the themes, belong to the wonderfully talented Suzanne Collins. I simply like to contemplate those characters' lives post-Mockingjay.
Destruction. That's what the air smells of as ladder descends from the hovercraft onto the green in District 12 Victors' Village. I suppose to call it "the green" is a stretch, since the grass is brown. Brown like the leaves that have fallen on the ground. Brown like the empty trees. And brown like the fine layer of ash that covers everything—the windows and siding on the homes, the gravel paths, the fence surrounding the village… everything. If it weren't for the layer of sooty ash in Victors' Village, one could likely never tell that beyond the gates and into the town, everything is destroyed. Destroyed because of me.
I feel my stomach lurch as I think back to the time, many months ago, when I returned to District 12. The destruction was unbearable to witness… where homes had once stood lurked empty, burned out shells. Half decomposed, burned bodies littering the buildings and the pathways. The buildings that once housed small shops, like the bakery and the dry goods store, reduced to ash. The moment my mind travels to the bakery, I feel my stomach lurch again. The bakery, which was once a place to experience rare beauty in the form of finely crafted pastries and beautifully iced cakes, had become a gravesite for Peeta's entire family. Peeta…
I bite the inside of my cheek as my stomach heaves again, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. I focus on my breathing and close my eyes to clear my head, taking in the air so different from that of the Capital, where I have been held prisoner for months. The air smells of other things besides destruction, of course. It smells of the wood smoke. Of evergreen. And it smells of soil. For this, I resolve to be grateful, for it still smells mostly like home.
I am startled when I hear the clearing of a throat. My eyes flash open and land on Haymitch, who stands awkwardly across from me on the ladder, staring at me with what I interpret to be a look of gentle concern.
"You gonna stay on that ladder all day, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks lightly. I realize I must have zoned out and take an all-too-sudden step backwards, tripping over my own feet and falling to my hind end without grace. Embarrassed, I feel the blood rise in my cheeks as my eyes travel to my lap. I realize my hands are trembling with both the cold and anxiety. An exasperated sign escapes my chapped lips. There was once I time when I could run through the woods soundlessly and effortlessly. That time seems as if it were lifetimes ago. Now, I trip over my own feet. I take a deep breath, attempting to steady my hands and begin to whisper under my breath the mantra I know all too well.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. I was in the Hunger Games. I…
"You alright?" Haymitch asks, standing above me looking even more concerned than before. I nod. His hand extends to me, wordlessly offering his aid. I hesitantly meet his large hand with my own, trembling hand, and I am pulled gently to my feet. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin, but this is nothing new. I have become accustomed to this feeling in the months I spent locked in my room at the Training Center in the Capitol. My body, once youthful, strong, and certain, has been replaced with a hollow shell of its former self. My hair, once long and full, now falls at my shoulders. The singed areas were trimmed away by Octavia months ago. No amount of trimming can hide the bald patches on my scalp, though. Some of the patches have started to grow new, soft, downy hair while others remain bald, exposing new, pink skin growth. I suspect some of these areas will never have hair. My skin has also suffered. My once olive complexion has been riddled with puckered scars and pink, unnatural-looking skin grafts. Many of these grafts have begun to look even worse than when they were new, a result of my neglect. The Capitol doctors prescribed salves, creams, lotions, and even pills to aid in the recovery of my skin, but I could count the number of times I have used them on one hand. I spend my hours surviving. I don't concern myself with things as unimportant as my skin. I feel ugly inside, scarred beyond recognition. Why should my outward appearance reflect anything else?
My eyes meet Haymitch's as I hear the hovercraft above us depart, then drift to the homes in Victors' Village. I notice lights in the windows of my home and that of Haymitch. A look of uncertainty must be painted on my features, because Haymitch speaks up.
"A few others were sent before us… Sae and Thom came back last week." I consider this for a moment before nodding. My eyes drift to my boots and stay there for some time.
It is Haymitch who breaks the silence again. "It's late. You best be getting inside before you freeze," he mutters as he ushers me towards the home I once shared with my family. I remember the letter from my mother, clutched in my left hand, given to me by Haymitch on the hovercraft earlier in the evening. I haven't read it yet, but I know she will not be joining me in District 12 any time soon. There are too many ghosts here for her. Too many for me as well, but unlike my mother, I didn't choose my destination. Mine was chosen for me. A ragged breath catches in my chest, but I quickly blink away the tears that threaten to spill over. I will myself to be strong, if only until I am alone.
I sit in a rocker I have pulled before the fire, soaking in the warmth, letter still in hand.
"Well, see you tomorrow," says Haymitch.
"I doubt it," I whisper to myself as he walks out the door, closing it with a click.
I sit before the fire for some time, my body fighting a silent battle between exhaustion and breakdown. To my surprise, exhaustion wins as I feel myself fall under a cloud of deep, dreamless sleep.