Chapter 4 - Still Stuck In That Time

{Katniss}

It's dark. It's dark and it's cold, freezing cold, and all I want to do is lie down and die on top of that Cornucopia. But I can't.

"Make it count," Peeta says, and I watch myself untie the strip of damp cloth I tore from my clothes – jacket or shirt, I can't remember – and pull out the arrow.

My hands won't stop shaking. I aim at Cato, who shifts weakly on the ground, and for a moment I see Rue trapped in that net, clutching at Marvel's spear lodged in her stomach. I let the arrow fly, and I look away as it hits its mark.

The scene changes, and now I'm kneeling at the manhole, watching the bald chalk-skinned muttations swarm into view, ripping and snarling as they thrash about in the water. Dimly, I feel my lips move, forming words that I don't want to say.

"Nightlock. Nightlock. Nightlock."

Finnick's scream echoes in the air, ringing in my ears as I scramble away from the blast.

"Katniss!"

Then I'm shoving my way through the crowd as the silvery parachutes descend from the sky like fallen angels cast down. The black smoke twists and rears back, making jagged grey shapes in the air, and everyone is screaming as the parachutes explode, but for some reason no one runs.

I open my mouth to scream too, but no sound comes out.

She gets out onto the sidewalk and starts tending to the children, and I realise too late that one of them is holding a parachute in her arms. I catch sight of her blond braid swinging from side to side, and the back of her blouse has come untucked.

And just like in all the other dreams, the rest of the parachutes go off.

I jerk up in my bed, and it's like someone popped a cork out of a champagne bottle. Because now, I can scream. And I can't stop.

{Willow}

I wake up to Mum's screaming. Not bothering to put on my slippers, I open my door as quietly as possible and peer around the corner into the bedroom.

My mum is curled up in a ball, sobbing her eyes out, and Dad is kneeling on the floor beside the bed, trying to calm her down.

"Katniss," my dad whispers, "Katniss, it's okay, it was just a dream–"

"I saw them," Mum cries, half-burying her head in the covers. "I watched them die, Prim and Finnick and Cato and–" Whatever she says next dissolves into a flurry of tears.

"If you don't feel like it, I can go by myself," offers Dad, unsure.

Finally, Mum sits up and wipes her eyes on the edge of the blanket. "No. It's okay. I'm fine." She breathes out shakily. "We'll both go. Besides," she adds, forcing a grin, "you know how Haymitch is when I'm not there. He'll probably sneak off to the market to buy ten extra bottles of booze without me watching."

Dad sits back and clamps a hand over his heart dramatically. "Oh, the pain! You don't think I can watch our mentor for one day?"

"I don't think he can watch himself," Mum giggles. "Now move over, I'm going to wash."

That's my cue to run, so I sneak back to my room and crawl back into bed.

One week left till school starts. Three days since Dad caught me watching the programme about the mockingjay on the TV. I wonder what all that was about.

Someone opens my door. It's Dad. I think back to Mum, crying in her bed, and a pang of worry goes through me.

"We're going to the market today," says Dad casually, as if he hadn't just spent fifteen minutes trying to soothe his hysterical wife. "We'll be meeting Uncle Haymitch at his house first, so chop chop. The day awaits us, my dear."

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At the market, it's a sea of noise. Mum has a tight grip on my hand; Dad is hoisting Rye on his shoulders, and Uncle Haymitch trails behind us, grumbling about how he's old enough to behave himself as we weave our way through the throng of people.

Mum stops at the vegetable store and begins picking them out, carrots and pumpkins and the like. Dad said that cooking isn't Mum's strong suit, but she always tries her best. When I asked him what her strong suit was then, he just smiled and turned back to the morning's batch of cookies.

She lets go of my hand for a moment, and it's immediately snatched up by Dad, who somehow has one hand free now - the other hand is still supporting Rye, who's sitting remarkably still for once.

"Stay close," Dad says, or rather yells, because that's the only way I can hear him over the buzzing of the marketgoers. "Don't get lost, okay?"

I nod. It's not like I want to get lost, anyway. I stay close to Mum, twining a hand into her jacket as she haggles with the vendor.

"You look like that girl."

I turn and see a boy about my age, with grey eyes and short black hair almost just like mine. We could easily be cousins, if you don't look too closely. "What girl?"

Part of me waits for the boy to say it's the girl on the television, the girl in the mockingjay dress, but the boy simply cocks his head and says:

"The girl in the picture my dad carries."

My eyes widen, and I open my mouth to ask a question, but before it forms in my head, my mum finishes her work at the stall and turns to me, beaming with triumph. "I've got the stuff," she says. "Let's go find your father-"

She stops short, eyes fixed on something, someone, standing in the crowd. The someone stares back at her, shock written on his face.

"Dad," the boy says, running over to the man, who looks down suddenly, as if waking from a dream of the past.

"There you are, Aspen," he says, a smile playing on his mouth, so thin I can't tell if he's faking it. "Let's head back, okay?"

Aspen nods at his father, and they fade back into the crowd.

I look up at Mum with a fair amount of wariness. Her face is white, as if she's seen a ghost.

Maybe she has.

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Please do leave a review, this newt needs encouragement and a reminder that people are counting on her to finish this O-O