10.

When I was very young, and still in school, my father would come home from work, covered head to toe in soot and ask me what I wanted most to be.

"Like you." I would say, almost everytime. "Just not dirty."

Then he would laugh- a great funny laugh that would fill up the house before hoisting me on his shoulders and parading into the kitchen, to the surprise of my unsuspecting mother.

"I think Katniss is going to be a great leader someday." He would say casually, imprinting kindness and care onto my young mind.

I don't know why the memory appears to me, now of all things. I am not a leader, nor was I ever; the closest I was to a leader was a figurehead. A symbol of hope for District 13. For all of Panem. But now where am I?

Where am I?

My head is spinning when I wake up. I try to focus on the wide expanse of the sky, glittered with stars that are on display just outside my window.

If I was a leader, I would not be here. I would not have unconsciously catapulted myself into this place, to be scrutinized and run over with violent plans and ruthless endeavors. I realize that I'm shaking. I can't stop it, even as I lay back down, positioning my side so it avoids most of the bony nodes in the mattress. I fold my hands over my eyes and shut it all out- the words uttered over the Elder's meeting- the explanation offered by Lizabeth. Muttations. Revenge. Targets.

Too much.

What can I do? It's not as if I can simply go and try to re-adress the Elders. I imagine a fate similar to Cecilia's. Maybe if I offered proof? But how? I could show them the bunker. Tell them about the Games, how the Capitol was brought down. I try in my mind, to picture what they want- revenge? Or something else, maybe.

A reason to keep living. A way of escape from the Capitol's twisted schemes.

They would have to become mockingjays. Adapt. Rise again. I'm convinced it's the only way to stop them from destroying everything.

I stare back at the stars again and wish, for the millionth time- that Peeta would be here beside me. He's more levelheaded; he's a better speaker than me. I've always been frustrated or awestruck by his incredible way of words. The wish for him stabs me deep- it's a sort of pain I can't take with everything else heaped over me. It is only comparable to my time in District 13, when I knew he was being tortured. I will not relive that again.

My exhaustion paralyzes me into a death like state of sleep. I wake up half a dozen times over the course of what feels like weeks, waking to Lizbeth with food or empty stillness. I gain consciousness for merely a second before I slip back under, held hostage by my nightmares.

These are worse than ever before.

I am covered in blood for the duration of them, cast in front of a large screen, held down by metal bars. I am watching the Games- sections of all 75, with extra additions edited in for the sole purpose of unhinging my sanity.

I see Rue. Then Peeta. They both die- frequently, as if to remind me that no one is safe, not even me. Prim is there, too- and she floats in front of me in a fog-like foam, hair white, transformed almost.

There is an army behind her, of the Clearwater people.

She looks back at them, then runs to me. I can almost feel her hands in mine- feel the warmth of a ray of sun gracing us both.

"Flee." She says, simply, before disappearing into a sea of faces.

I run very fast. I don't stop until I am out of the Bunker, climbing up through the tunnel that leads to a trapdoor beneath the behemoth barn in the middle of the Village. The sole command of my dead sister has sent me into some sort of mental tailspin- and I awake, frantic, scrambling to enter the code into the screen under the floorboards, to pry open the door under the desk, crawling down the shoot, past the display of medicines and several gadgets lying free on Cecilia's desk.

I just start running, for the trees. Once I'm beneath them, I can feel safe again. Or whatever feels closest to safe. I am flying even until my lungs give out- I taste the freshness in the air that can only mean dawn is quickly approaching.

I reach the funeral ledge by morning and watch the sun rise quickly over the mountains. I have a single priority- get as far away from Clearwater as possible. Whatever it takes. Find Peeta. And continue with the plan- our plan, to escape this madness that is so prevalent.

I have to stop every few minutes to reassure myself this is really happening. It is hard to believe, but the reality has not left me this time.

I have escaped. I am free.

I make camp by a stream that turns all the grass around it into a brilliant green color. The water is clear, and I drink with a fiery fervor. I still don't have any tools to hunt, and I silently scold myself for not taking anything on the way out, anything to hunt with. I want my bow, arrows. How quickly I could send those fatal things, swishing through the air at the speed of light.

I'm able to devise a small net with the thick strings of the skirt I'm wearing. I wish I had my old clothing back, complete with a breathable tunic and my boots. The slippers on my feet are no use against the rocky ground, and my feet are blistered and bruised.

I'm just fine until night falls.

I build a fire; it's easy, by just using the heat of a handful of black rocks and some tender harvested from tree bark. I set them together and blow small streams of air until I see smoke. It grows, billowing, until it is the only light I see. I'm far enough away from the Village that I know no one will detect me out here.

No one but Peeta.

I devise a scheme to find him- I will wander northbound, from our source, trying to track him. I doubt he's returned to District 12 without me. That would be out of character. My best guess is that he's wandering too, probably close to this location- living off of what he learned in the Games. A smile peeks across my face at that- the boy with the bread, finally resourceful enough to live out here.

If only he was with me.

I push all the worry from my mind and lay down to rest, soaking in the warmth that recedes from the ground from that day.

It is when the hallucinations return that I fear for my life. This time, the whole forest is engulfed in flames around me, yet I feel no heat from it. On the contrary, I feel chilled, my fingers numb to the touch and a cool breeze on my bare shoulders. It's a terrifying sight, but I wait until it passes and silently fear something worse.

By morning, I have been ambushed six times by imaginary people. Foxface visits me- we have a little chat by the fire, and she gives me some gold advice.

"Shoot high." She says with a wink, and walks off into the forest.

I stay where I am, afraid I might walk off some high place in this delicate state. It would be entertaining if it wasn't so believably terrifying.

Haymitch wanders in around midday- apparently my imagination has a strange sense of humor, because he's in a tuxedo and pours me champagne out of a metal can.

"What are you doing out here?" He asks, nonchalantly.

"Not sure yet." I reply, mimicking his tone.

He pours me some more champagne and I pretend to drink it, but the can falls through my fingers like sand. I bore him quickly, so he leaves.

I am in the clear for several minutes, and decide to move.

There is a high point, overlooking the forest- my idea is to send a sort of smoke signal, that would convince anyone for miles to investigate. Perhaps I could reel in Peeta with such a contraption. If I could find him, maybe he could return my bow to me- I imagine he's as hungry as I am.

Prim keeps me company as I lay on my stomach in the grass. It's a pretty day- I look up at the branches of the trees that seem to protrude like veins on my hand.

"Why are you so quiet all the time?" She says.

I turn to look at her. I am almost thankful for this hallucination- she looks so mercifully pure, her eyes as innocent and kind as the day she died- a kindred look on her face. It's decent closure.

"I don't know, Prim." I offer.

"I think you're scared. Of giving more of yourself away. After the Games-" She tries to finish, obviously searching for words.

I nod to encourage her. "What?"

"After the Games, you just seemed so- cautious. I understand why. But you were so slow to love."

It wasn't hard to believe. When everyone you know dies in the arena, you learn to accept that fate. "Yes, I know."

"Do something for me, will you? From now on, love without restraint."

"Okay."

"Say you will, Katniss."

I pause for a moment. "I will."

"Promise it."

"I promise."

We speak with our eyes, a silent language only sisters know. Then she jumps to her feet, smiles at me, and disappears into the trees, as if her entire mission was to convince me to love.

Without restraint.

Honestly, I don't think I've ever loved without restraint. What sort of love would that be? An all consuming type, bleeding out of you. It sounds horrible.

The Villagers appear to me, just at nightfall. I can feel my hallucinations growing weak because they're appearing more and more fuzzy against the scope of reality. It is more annoying than anything, because I can't get a good grip to start preparing materials for the smoke signal without the two dozen people grimacing at me through my peripheral vision.

The Elders shout strange things at me, but I just keep fiddling with the new nets. Lizabeth has joined the crowd too- but she looks way to chubby. I don't remember the real Lizabeth like that at all. If anything she was thin, with a slight Capitol demure that labeled her blithely different than the rest.

I admire her.

I think about her, at the Village, discovering my absence. Will she call for some sort of retrieval party? Reveal that she was hiding a full grown woman in her spare room? Gain the courage to confront the Elders once and for all? I feel the tiniest stab of guilt for leaving her in a moment of great decision. But it's not my decision to make. And I know they will never do it.

Still, the fear rings like sirens in my ears.

The people crowd in on me, so I continue off deeper into the woods, not the least bit frightened by the commotion. If a real person were to see me, they would hear nothing. This is completely internal, and that is a soothing fact to me.

Better internal than external.

My patience wears thin as the night goes along. How long can I put up with this? I wrap myself in my arms, cradling up against a puny fire, trying to stay warm as the faces of the imaginary villagers glow orange in the light.

I remember that lack of sleep only intensifies the hallucinations, but I cannot sleep tonight. Not like this. I wish Peeta could find me. At this moment, I need him more than ever.

My eyes spill over for no reason at all. I'm just tired. I'm just frustrated.

Mania hits as the moon crawls up to take center stage in the sky. There is blood on my hands. I start running, tripping from what little sleep I was able to acquire the past few nights. The people don't follow, and I shed my clothes on the way- throwing the raggedy skirts to the floor, removing the scarred shirt, shedding the useless slippers- before running into the small stream, dipping my hands in the water, wailing like a lunatic.

It's exactly what I am.

I quiet myself long enough to fixate on the moon.

This will never get better, I think to myself. I can't escape any of it. I will never leave the arena. I will never stop fighting.

It's all inside. And as long as I'm living, I can't make it go away. I can't stop bringing pain to others- forcing dread on their hearts. This realization hits me like a blow upside the head, cooling every surface of my now bare skin.

I will never escape. Ever.

I am knee deep in the water, naked, when I hear a voice. It is soft enough that I can't detect any sort of unconscious fabrication- I know it is real, but still I question it.

Splashes accompany the voice again and Peeta grabs my shoulders and pulls me to him, saying something into my hair that is incomprehensible. I can't hear him- I question if I even understand words anymore. They are useless nothings- devices for only instilling fear. There is no other purpose.

"What are you doing out here?" He asks, drawing back. I cross my arms over my bare chest and turn away.

"Just go."

"No."

"It's useless!" I cry out, frightened at my own tone. So this is how I say hello? I tremble in my skin, but something inside hates him. His hope. His need for space. To start over. Unending optimism. "Just accept the truth."

"Which is-?" Peeta sheds his jacket, holding it out before crossing over the stream to collect something on the bank. I shake my head, hearing the blood pulsing in my ears.

"I don't want to see you. You don't need to try to help me."

"I don't understand."

I fling up my arms in a fury, back to him. "I can't ever be the same. Not after the games. Not after everything that's happened."

"We can make it the same."

"We can't!"

"Katniss, yes we can! We've done it before." He retracts softly, taking a step towards me. I'm shaking my head. I can't let him near me. He won't convince me.

I have to hurt him.

"I don't want you!" I say aloud, but he's not convinced. Nor am I. "I just used you- this- this-"

I'm breaking. My knees fall onto the sharp rocks under the water, but I fight against the pain. He has to know.

"I'll never be able to be what I want to be for you!" I scream, so loud I'm certain any person within four square miles can hear it.

"You always are."

"I don't know what's real anymore!"

Silence. I can hear the bugs in the grass, the water rushing past both of us, traveling down to the valleys below.

"I used to not know what was real." Peeta says slowly.

I shake my head. "No, no."

Love without restraint.

I try feebly, to fight, but he locks me in his arms.

"Someone had to teach me what was real." He continues. "Real or not real?"

"Real." I breathe.

I breathe again. And again. Joyful gulps of air. Light descending into darkness. I grow quiet. I give up.

Peeta removes his jacket and places it on me, before scooping me up and stepping out of the river. It is only now that I realize how much weight I've lost- my hands are like twigs, I can feel the hollows in my face, the ease of his pace as he takes me home. Wherever home is, I no longer care. All I can do is cling to him, ignoring the blush on my cheeks. Because nothing can erase my stark prudishness.

Something flickers inside.

I leave everything behind me, every hopeless doubt. Because I am going home. I am free. For now, I am free. Prim's imaginary words ring in my head.

Love without restraint.