The idea for this one came from a reviewer, JAStheSPAZZrocks. At first, I was dubious, because Prim had never been presented as being in conflict with her mother, and she had always seemed so sweet, almost too perfect.
But her mother is not the only parental figure in Prim's life, and sometimes the quietest souls have the most to say.
This could be considered a bit out of character, but since I'm staying entirely in her head, it's possible that she thought something like this, too. I think that sometimes, people get really angry at others, especially those they love, for doing something for them, even (or especially) when it was well intentioned. This is my take on that.
Besides, everybody wants to scream sometimes.
Once again, I do not own anything that was in the original books. I love reviews, and I welcome ideas for future character focuses, though I can't guarantee that I will use them.
I'm not as weak as she thinks.
I'm not as weak as any of them think.
And yet she, she is so much weaker than any of us can see.
I can see it in her eyes as she twirls in that ridiculous dress, jewels glimmering in the harsh lights of the stage, just a hint of hesitation, of sorrow. Of weakness.
My mother sits beside me, stiff. She's still here, though, which is something of an accomplishment for her. I know how badly she wants to escape to the bedroom, to collapse under the blankets and sleep herself into oblivion. She won't. She'll honor Katniss' last wish.
People always honor the dead.
Mother won't look at me, either. It's too painful. Her youngest daughter snatched from the jaws of death, only to have her oldest daughter walk willingly towards the beast. I can't look at her, either. Neither of them would admit it, but they share a great deal. I look at my mother, and see Katniss' cheekbones, her lithe body. Her steel. And I can't bear to see it when I won't see her again.
She made a sacrifice for me, a sacrifice of life. Sacrifice of the highest kind.
The memory still makes my blood boil.
Who is she to interfere with fate? Who is she to spite the Capitol? Who is she to go off and die?
Something churns deep in the pit of my stomach. Hunger, and anger. Hunger, for though Gale brings by game frequently, one hunter is simply not as prosperous as two. Besides, I haven't felt like eating in a week. The hunger is familiar. The anger is not.
I don't know exactly why I am angry with my sister. I should be sad, horrified. I am. But I'm angry, too.
Who is she to prefer death, when I don't have that option? Who is she to commit suicide, for that is what she did?
I'm not optimistic enough to pretend that I'll see my sister again. Only enough to pretend that someday, I won't wake up to hear my own screams echoing in my head, the ghost of Gale's arms locked around my waist, too tight, too hostile. More hostile in my dreams than they were in reality.
And who is he to conspire against me with her? He, who knows what she is to me? He, who has been the brother I've longed for?
It's as much as I can manage to smile at him when he brings me game, now. Traitor.
Katniss doesn't understand that there are worse things than death. She doesn't understand the torture of watching a sister die. Or perhaps she does, and that is why she did it.
Selfish. She consigned herself to a quick death, yet I will be haunted for the rest of my days. Our fates should have been reversed. They would have been, in a just world, in a world where one girl did not think that she could thwart fate.
It is she who needs the protection, not I. The foolish always do.
Mother gasps, and the sound tears my thoughts away from Katniss. She does not deserve such censure, after all. She is a national hero for her compassion, for saving a tiny girl from death.
And I love her, too much. It is only my love that could ever make my anger so overwhelming. One can only be truly angry at somebody that they truly love.
Slowly, as if awaking from a dream, I look at my mother. She is gazing, open mouthed, at the television screen. The tears that shine in her eyes speak of triumph.
"Peeta," she says. "Oh, Prim, he'll get her home. He loves her—did you hear?"
He could have been my brother, once. Does she not remember how his father loved her?
Like father, like son.
But Katniss did promise she'd come home to me. She promised that she'd try. Katniss never breaks a promise.
But she promised that nothing would hurt me, once.
She lied.
I stand. "Bed," I whisper.
I can't bear to think of the twirling girl on the television. I can't bear to think of the real Katniss, who's ghost wanders the woods and the house before Katniss is even dead. I can't bear to think of tomorrow.
Tomorrow, the games begin.
Tomorrow, my sister dies.