Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. I do not own the characters. I do not even own some of the dialogue. All of this belongs to Suzanne Collins and her brilliant mind.
As English is not my first language, please forgive my grammar and spelling mistakes. I am trying, nay struggling, very hard to get it right.
Reviews are highly appreciated. Constructive criticism always elates me.
Read and enjoy!
ℓ erhea
The unofficial town drunk, sole surviving victor of District 12, my unknowingly third time mentor, is currently splayed on his torso, his blonde head resting in a pool of yellowish vomit.
Peeta is on my right side, his mouth set in a hard line, eyebrows furrowed in thought.
"She is right, you know. He is supposed to get one of us home."
I tilt my head to the right, looking at the broken man that found solace in a bottle of alcohol.
"Do you think he is alright?" he asks, moments later.
Instantaneously, the answer comes from the man himself, in the form of a deep and noisy rumble that made the yellowish pool underneath him vibrate.
"Is he… Is he actually snoring?" I ask half amused, half exasperated. The rumble only gets louder.
Peeta shakes his head, barely holding his laughter in.
I look around the room, trying to find something that could help me wake up my old mentor, when I see it. It's perfect. I gleefully take the flower pot from the previously vacated table, remove the flowers from it, and drop its contents on Haymitch.
He jumps straight up, body tense, muscles stretched in alarm, a crazed look in his eyes. In the flash of a second his hand goes to his boots and then he swings a knife at us, slashing through the air.
"Huh?" he splutters.
Eloquent as always. A purely Haymitch reaction.
"You… You…." He continues pointing his knife at me while glaring.
I cross my hands on my chest, arching an eyebrow.
"Yes, me…" I reply, my tone dry and unimpressed.
He wobbles on his feet, reaching with his free hand for the wall.
"You little shit! How dare you!" he spits, droplets of stale water getting into his eyes and mouth.
I glare, an insult on the tip of my lips, when Peeta intervenes, hands raised, in an attempt to stop the situation from getting out of hand.
"Let's just calm down and get you to your room. Clean you up a little bit."
Haymitch shakes his head, mumbles something under his breath, before sheathing his knife back into his boots. He takes several deep breaths, releases the wall and starts to slowly walk towards his own room.
I share a glance with Peeta.
"He will be just fine." I state matter-of-factly, noticing his worried eyes.
"We should go to sleep." He suggests.
I feel the warmth speeding up my neck, my ears and finally settling in my cheeks. I cannot help but think of the nights spent in his embrace during the Victory Tour.
"Yeah" I lamely reply, eyes glued to the floor. I practically have to will my body to move towards my room.
Later, dressed in satin pajamas, I sit on the bad, eyes closed, unable to fall asleep. Time passes slowly, as my mind wonders, remembering the past and the costly price all of us paid to get here.
After having been saved from the Quarter Quell, I was taken to District 13. I woke up in a hospital room screaming for Peeta. Haymitch's familiar voice answered, informing me that he was captured by the Capitol. Oh, how I hated him for not keeping his promise, for not honoring our agreement. I remember ripping out the tubes from my hands and lunging at him, trying to claw his eyes out. The copperish smell of blood that filled my nostrils did not manage to satiate the thirst for the blood I craved to be spilt. I vaguely remember finding out about the bombing of our district and how relived I felt, in my selfishness, that Prim was here, alive, in 13. I remember meeting Coin and begging her on my knees to save Peeta and how her harsh refusal killed all hope I had left. I felt broken, lost. But nothing, nothing, compared to the moment I saw them kill my boy with bread, a month later, during national mandatory television hours.
Ironic how we do not realize how much we love someone until that person is gone from our lives. Peeta's death made me finally sort out my feelings and realize that it had always been him. Peeta and me? We were as easy as breathing; he was my dandelion in the spring.
His death hit me hard. I do not remember much from the first couple years after collapsing in front of the TV. They told me I tried to take my life several times before I became catatonic with grief. They told me the revolution started dying the moment Peeta Mellark was lost to Katniss Everdeen.
They came in day by day, for the first several months. Some, more than others, but in the end they all stopped. I've seen the tapes. I've seen myself standing on the hospital bed, morphling and nutrients pumped through an IV, hands restrained, tied to the bed. I've seen my eyes empty, staring into nothingness, not even realizing they were there. I was, for all intent and purpose, dead.
I've seen him, Gale, my supposedly best friend; give up after only two weeks. At the time the screens revealed the ugly truth; I could not help but think that Peeta would have never left me. Not willingly. Not without a fight.
"I was never your choice, was I? Goodbye Catnip."
My mother was next. She talked to me for several months, barring her soul, trying to justify her actions, telling me stories of my father, asking for forgiveness I was unable to grant. When the last flicker of hope died in the doctor's eyes, when it became too much to bear for her fragile mind, she kissed my forehead and left, never to come back. I might have looked like my father on the outside, but I was my mother's daughter after all.
"I'm so sorry Katniss but I can't… I can't watch you fade away… I…"
Haymitch visited only once. He never said a word, but watched me from a corner, eyes full of sorrow, body racked with sobs, while taking long gulps from his flask. He put a bullet through his brains that evening.
Finnick, Johanna and Beetee never entered my room. Not even once. They always watched from the outside. All three of them at the beginning. Then two. And in the end only one remained.
"It wasn't all for show, was it?"
"Wake up brainless! Fight it off, for Chris's sake!"
"It's our fault…"
"We were not good enough…"
"Forgive us brainless, we did not know…"
"All is lost."
Prim was always there. Strong and kind. Washing my hair, holding my hand, singing me the lullabies I used to sing to her in her infancy. She never lost hope, she never stopped believing in me, until the day she died.
"Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes
And when again they open, the sun will rise.
Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, A moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away.
Here it's safe, here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you. "
It took several years for me to be able to get a grip of myself and reality, while wearing the 'mental disordered' bracelet and going through daily therapy. It took the fall of District 11 and the destruction of District 13, and the death of my sister for me to feel anything apart of desolation and sadness, and grief.
The day I discovered anger, was the day Beetee and Coin saved me from the destruction of the last rebel facility. I was enraged that they did not let me die. I tried to strangle Coin with my bare hands. She grabbed my wrists, looked straight in my eyes and in a very Haymitch tone she told me "Sweetheart, that's what I was waiting for".
With anger came determination, and a deep thirst for revenge.
Only a handful of rebels survived, and then, we started to train to fight another day.
Two years later the Mockingjay Operation was conceived, and we begun to plan the change of the world.
Light starts to fill into the compartment, and I hear the unmistakable voice of Effie Trinket telling me to prepare myself for a new day.
"Up, up, up! It's a going to be a big, big, big day!"
I snort. Same old effervescent Effie. Thank God some things never change.
I put my mother's blue dress back on and I unbraid my hair, letting it flow in curls down my back.
As I enter the dining car, I see Effie passing by with a hot of steaming coffee in her hands. My mouth waters at the sight of the black and bitter drink I favor. Coffee was an addiction I picked up while planning with Coin.
I take a seat next to Peeta, ignoring the glass with hot chocolate and going straight for the cup with coffee steaming on the table. Haymitch doesn't drink coffee. At all.
I hum to myself while I take a sip of the black drink my mother adores, and ignore Haymitch's risen eyebrows. I avoid a rich breakfast, going for the bowl filled to brim with ripped fruits.
"You have your drink of choice and now I have mine." I scathingly say, while taking another sip and closing my eyes in content.
He smirks, while raising his glass in mock approval.
"You are supposed to give us advice," I nonchalantly tell him.
"Here's one. Stay alive." And then he bursts out laughing.
I glance at Peeta and notice the resignation in his blue eyes. He suddenly jerks his hand, grabs Haymitch's glass and throws it on the floor. I see the older man tense, raising his hand, and before I can even understand what I am about to do, I grab his hand, twist it and slam it on the table, while I dig a knife with my other between his fingers.
Utter shock. Not even Effie Trinket dares to speak a word. Part of me is amused of finally succeeding to silence the hyper woman.
"So I have a pair of fighters this year!" he exclaims, more lively than ever before.
"What can you do?" he asks Peeta.
"Nothing" he replies, shrugging. "I can bake and frost".
"Peeta is strong." I say, while taking another sip of my still warm black coffee. "He can lift a heavy sack of flour with ease. Also, he came second after his older brother in last year's wrestling competition".
"And that is supposed to help me how? I cannot wrestle the other tributes to death!"
"Do not underestimate yourself. You have a chance", I insisted.
"Katniss is good with a bow. My father always trades for her squirrels. She shoots them straight through the eye."
Suddenly, Haymitch interferes, clearing his throat and putting a stop to what became a praising contest.
"All right. What's going on between you two? Is there something you want to tell me?" he inquires, while looking at us, in turns.
This is the longest combination of words I have heard from him since the reaping, and they are spot on.
"Uhh… I… No! I mean… We…. I…." Peeta babbles, at a loss of words.
"Peeta and I are friends" I step in, taking pity of his embarrassment.
He startles, turns towards me and his blue eyes bore into mine, searching, looking for something. He must have found it, because he smiles, and this is the first sincere, full, wide, beaming smile I've seen him give since the reaping. It makes my stomach flutter and I cannot help but return the gesture in kind.
"If that's what you kids call it nowadays." Our mentor snorts in retort, while trying but failing to hide his own amusement.
"Stay away from my drink and I will remain sober enough to help you. Do we have a deal?"
We nod, relieved to finally reach an understanding.
"And here's an advice for you. Do what your stylists say." Haymitch grumbles while taking another sip of something that oddly looks like water.
The train suddenly slows down, and I see Peeta going to the window, waving to the Capitol citizens. I hear them shouting, pointing at the training, excited to early spot a tribute. My stomach recoils. These artificial beings, with bizarre hair and painted faces, that do not know what life truly means outside their gilded golden cage, are eager to see us dead. They are hardly human anymore.
"Who knows? One of the might be rich."
I hid my smile behind the coffee cup.
We are here, in the Capitol, the place where all roads end.
Suddenly my smile grows so big that it practically hurts.
Cinna.