A/N: I am trying to get more involved on FanFiction, so when you review I will pay back the kindness by taking a look at some of your stories and review as well. I am always scouring the site for a good read, and should probably start with all of you. I am sorry for not doing so sooner. As usual, thank you for your interest in this fic. Here is another lengthy chapter filled with angst.
Chapter 12
Good Things?
"I enjoy life when things are happening. I don't care if it's good things or bad things. That means you're alive." - Joan Rivers
KATNISS' P.O.V
Why am I here?
This question is the first thing that comes to my mind when I find myself standing in front of the rickety door that leads to my home in the Seam. I can no longer squeeze under the crawl space near the fence and Prim usually cheeks in on Lady on her way home from school. I don't remember deciding to come here.
I push on the door and it noisily squeaks, swinging open like a poorly kept cupboard. My eyes rest on Prim, seated on a broken wooden stool near the kitchen table sobbing uncontrollably into her raw, red hands.
"Prim?" I cry out in confusion. "Prim! What's wrong, Prim!?" my maternal instincts kick in and I rush over to my sister, ignoring the disarray of the walls and the wreckage littering the dusty floor of the front room. My feet trip over something long and malleable that causes me to stumble into the unsteady circular table that used to balance all of our meals. I peer behind me to see what got in my way and freeze. It's not what, but whom—my mother.
She lies on the ground, her blue eyes vacantly staring at the dilapidated ceiling and her hands gripping a bushel of katniss tubers. I don't understand. Was she in the woods searching for food? Why would she be out there when we can afford to buy what we need now? I kneel beside my mother and scoop her left hand into mine. It's icily cold and feels like a weighted rock within my palm.
"Mama," I whisper, shaking her shoulder. Her body rocks like a board of wood, but her eyes never flinch. "Prim," my voice is bordering on hysteria, "Prim, what happened?"
My sister continues to weep large, salty droplets into her open palms. "He...did it," she stutters."
He? The only 'He' I can think of that would be malicious enough to harm my mother is President Snow. I rock back on my heels and my bottom collides with the ground, but I don't even feel the pressure. All I feel is numb...so numb.
Is the Capitol coming after my family? Could President Snow really have killed my mother? Is this because of Gale? What will happen to Prim?
The panic explodes from my stomach and takes control of my limbs, causing them to shake painfully.
I feel sick. I can't get enough air to feed my lungs and my hands won't stop shaking. I can't breathe...I can't breathe. I weakly place my head between my legs, but it doesn't stop the pressure from squeezing every last bit of life-saving air from the cavities of my lungs.
"He's coming! He's coming!" I hear Prim scream, and despite my nausea I whip my head around to stare at my sister who is looking towards our bedroom.
My eyes rest on a man bracing himself menacingly against the two wooden posts of the door frame, glaring at me with sooty, haunted eyes. His leg juts out from the knee in an awkward angle and his left arm dangles from his shoulder like a ball on a string. Black dust cloaks him like a second skin, digging into every crease in his face.
This man isn't President Snow.
It is the mangled body of my father who hurls himself at me and wraps his grubby hands around my neck.
Prim's piercing scream is almost as loud as the ringing in my ears. Tears tumble down my cheeks as I look into my father's dead eyes as he causes what little air I managed to suck into my body puff out in sickening gasps. My dead father is killing me, is the only thought I have before blackness wraps around my body and pulls me into unconsciousness.
The hands disappear from my neck and I jolt awake, opening my mouth like a cat-fish inhaling bounteous mouthfuls of air. My eyes dart around me. I am still wrapped in darkness, but it is the darkness of dawn not of unconsciousness. My hands grip the soft fabric covers, sleek with sweat and still shaking from the nightmare.
"Too real..." I breathe. I could feel his hands around my neck, pressing on my jugular, causing my pulse to slam against the base of my throat. I don't understand these nightmares I am having about my father.
I kick off the blankets from my sticky body and scamper over to the window, pushing on the glass so the cool air can creep into my room and erase the terror sweat from my skin. Perched on the sill, I stare out over the Victor's Village. Outside everything is so quiet, so peaceful, completely contrary to how I feel.
I notice a figure walking along the further side of the path at a slow, steady pace, passing my Haymitch's house and heading into town. His hair shines like honey under the faint rays of sunshine that gradually peek through the grey haze. It's earlier than I expected, probably about five in the morning. I suppose Peeta's off to make sure the poor of District 12 have full bellies if they can't have full dreams.
I stretch the curtain around me to shield the outline of my body as I bring my face closer to the window to observe him. His eyes stare at his feet, which aimlessly kick at imaginary pebbles scattered across the pathway. His walks with his shoulders hunched over, causing his chest to cave in like he's trying to protect himself from something. From me? I think, and bite my tongue as I feel the guilt slam against my chest. He doesn't look my way, doesn't glance at my house.
Nothing at all.
"Good," I tell myself. That means he's beginning to move on, to get over me, if there was ever really anything to get over. I grimace at how evenly my words are dripping with self-deprecation, but I can't deny them. Now more than ever, as I watch him trek towards the bakery, I believe Haymitch's disparaging statement: I don't deserve him.
Eventually, he'll meet a nice girl, and she'll take his mind off of the Games for a while and when everything is over he can come back to District 12 and be with her. Marry her even, if that is what he wants. He can make beautiful blond babies with bouncy gold curls and chubby legs hobbling around their elegantly decorated Victor's house. "It's the best thing for both of us," I whisper aloud. But my voice lacks conviction, and my declaration isn't enough to put a halt to the anxiety that annoyingly pricks at my lower abdomen.
I let go of the curtain and back away from the window, settling on the cushy surface of a plush mattress and disorderly blankets. I know I won't go back to sleep, so instead I wait for morning.
...
I watch Peeta intently as his hands loop the cord, tying a dangling noose for a rabbit snare. His nose scrunches in concentration and his fingers work swiftly. I'm surprised he got the hang of it so fast. It's only the second lesson we've had with Gale teaching us how to ensnare critters of the forest, and he's already practicing more intermediate traps.
Haymitch jabs me in the ribs with the point of his elbow, "You gonna' tell me what I did wrong here, sweetheart? Or keep daydreaming about the boy?" His voice is clear and mocking, and I expect his goal is to try to alert the other two stationed a few feet ahead of us. I clench my teeth in aggression as I whirl my head to glare at him.
"That's not what I was doing," I hiss. I bring my eyes back to the snare that sits between myself and Haymitch and begin to undo the clumsy knots he's made.
He is absolutely hopeless when it comes to setting traps and I always get stuck trying to figure out his loopy, twisted, knotted mess while he sits back and pretends like he is listening to my explanation of where he went wrong. Being partnered with Haymitch is a lot more frustrating and tedious than I initially expected, but I would rather be crouched over a bundle of cord and wire with him than with Peeta.
Especially since it seems like I am the only one that still finds this arrangement extremely awkward.
After the first few minutes of training last Sunday, the tension between Gale and Peeta seemed to disappear. Peeta acted like nothing happened and Gale was weary of bringing it up. Learning how to catch food in the woods proved of greater importance than petty relationship drama, and the two were able to work almost like allies. For the most part Haymitch bit his tongue, and would only utter irksome things to me.
But I couldn't stop myself from feeling uncomfortably perturbed by the situation. I couldn't even pretend like it didn't bother me. Nothing is 'normal' about this arrangement for me. Having Gale and Peeta within the same space makes me incredibly anxious. I find myself holding my breath more times than I can count throughout the day and barely say anything unless I'm spoken to.
Not to mention things between Peeta and me are incredibly rocky. We are back to how we were when we first got off of the train. He talks to me in an extremely civil way and when we sit down to discuss strategies or Victors, Haymitch is always nestled between us like a barrier.
I continue to notice the differences between Peeta and Gale, especially when they are crouching beside each other fiddling with the same length of rope.
Gale is like a rock: strong, sturdy, unmoving. When he's made up his mind, it's very hard to change it. His strength shows in the hard contours of his physique to the angular lines of his face and down to the very depths of his soul. Everything he does he does with a purpose; whether it's to feed his family, fight for his District, or win someone's heart. He's so sure of himself...sure of who he is...sure of what he can do.
I harbour the same fiery sense of duty to protect the one's I love, and the same feisty stubbornness that he does, but not the same assurance.
When I look at Peeta I see a merchant boy with pretty blond locks and dazzling azure eyes that sparkle when the light hits them. If it wasn't for the 74th Hunger Games, would I have noticed him? I tell myself I wouldn't have, but I know it's a lie. Even before the Games I would think of him. I could see his face every time I bartered with his father for a loaf of bread in exchange for a squirrel, or when I'd spot the fluffy spurs of dandelions floating listlessly in the breeze. I wouldn't ever forget the way the boy with the bread saved me from starvation.
If Gale's a rock then Peeta...Peeta's like the most comfortable blanket I have ever known. He cloaks you in kindness that knows no bounds. He molds to you, wrapping himself around your body to cradle you in times of need and take on your burdens as if they are his own. There's a quiet strength to him. He's cotton and steel woven together in an intricate and overlapping pattern.
Peeta lacks the confidence that Gale has and Gale lacks the sensibility that Peeta has.
And I lack both.
I am neither confident nor sensible. Or selfless. Perhaps it was no coincidence that I ended up a Victor. Every important decision I have ever made in my life has been selfishly geared towards self-preservation; except when it comes to Prim. At least the relationship I have with my sister is one thing I am proud of.
I huff and rock back on my heels, sitting on the grass with my legs splayed out in front of me. I no longer have any interest in the tangled cord in front of me. Gale looks over at me and smirks. "Thought you were better than that at snares, Catnip," he teases.
I snort derisively, "This is Haymitch's mess, not mine."
Gale briefly glances in Haymitch's direction, but quickly returns his gaze back towards me. He rarely has anything to say to the gruff man beside me and chooses to ignore him more often than not. I have a feeling the only reason Haymitch holds his tongue is because of Peeta. Time spent bickering is—well—time spent; unwisely, I might add. Gale walks over to me and kneels down, sliding a loose tendril of my hair away from my forehead and tucking it behind my ear. Haymitch gets up from where he squats beside me instantly. "I'm gonna' give the boy some pointers," he jests heading towards Peeta. I wish he didn't leave.
I fill my hands with the cord and focus on untying the knots once more, giving my hands something to do as he kneels in front of me. "I've seen your snares Katniss, and they aren't any better than the one you're holding in your hand now," he comments, watching my fingers pick at the gathers.
I scoff half-heartedly and roll my eyes at the mischievous smirk that overtakes his facial features. "Who died and made you the all-knowing snare king?"
"Always had that title Everdeen, you just refused to take note of it." He snatches the rope from my fingers and starts to swiftly untangle it.
"Well I can still out-shoot you," I boast. I know that I could never match Gale's skill for snares. That's something that is uniquely innate to him. But I know I have a better shot than him. I've had a bow in my hand from as young as four years old, playfully plucking at the string while I followed my father's heels.
"Nah," Gale disagrees. "I just let you shoot more when we go hunting because I'd rather not lose any of my arrows."
"Shut it, Hawthorne," I scold and he chuckles leaning towards me to brush his lips against my cheek. I instinctively place my hand out to stop him. "Not here," I whisper, glancing towards Peeta and Haymitch a few feet in front of us talking in hushed voices.
He sighs in exasperation, but doesn't push it. Instead he plops down on the grass and focuses his attention on the cord in his hands. I stare at my feet, watching the way the weeds climb up the sides of my brown boots.
"You okay, Katniss?" Gale says without looking over at me. "You haven't said very much. You seem distracted."
"There's a lot to distract me," I shrug.
"Do you want to talk about it?" His voice is soft and he reaches out a hand to stroke the outside of my forearm.
"It's all things I've mentioned before," I respond dismissively.
"Like," Gale presses, looking at me expectantly.
I don't want to tell him I feel extremely uncomfortable with him joining our training sessions. Revealing the truth to him doesn't seem as if it would solve anything. I search my brain for an excuse that would be convincing enough to stop him from prying.
"It's just..." I start, nervously raking my fingers through the grass. "Tying snares, it makes everything so real. I always knew why we were training, but the Games are still a ways away so I could try to make it seem like they were something that was part of another life. But actually having to sit here and think about gathering food in the arena, it's a bit of a wake-up call."
"At least now you'll be better prepared," Gale encourages, resting his left hand atop of my right. I forcefully dig my fingers deeper into the grass, cringing at the feel of dirt getting stuck under my nail beds. I focus solely on the way that the soil irritates the soft flesh under my nail instead of the uncomfortable prickle that jets up my spine as Gale massages the back of my hand with his fingertips.
"I know what will get you in a better mood," his voice is suddenly a lot chipper and he squeezes my hand eagerly.
I take in a nervous breath. I've never been good at reading the opposite sex and have no clue what he is about to suggest. But something in the pit of my stomach seems a little put off by it. "What?" I ask hesitantly.
My eyes quickly dart towards Peeta wondering if he might have overheard any of the conversation between myself and Gale. He still has his back towards us and shoves our chuckling mentor in the shoulder, causing the disheveled man to wobble unsteadily on the balls of his feet. I ache to know what could be so funny. I want to laugh like that. I wonder how Haymitch could summon such gleeful chortles from the pit of his stomach, when mine feels like a sunken hole that could never produce anything but a slight snigger.
"I have something to show you," Gale says, pulling my attention back towards him.
"Something to show me?" I repeat, turning my head to stare at him.
"Remember those herbs I brought your mother? I promised to show you where I got them. He leans towards me and presses his lips against my ear. "I'll come get you around 10:30," he whispers, and then pushes himself to his feet before I can object.
...
"This is crazy!" I fiercely whisper between clenched teeth as I follow Gale's hunched form as he zigzags between houses and leads us down a dank alley between the grocer's and the sweets shop.
"I told you I would take you to the place where I collected the herbs," he answers in a tone loud enough so I can hear him over his soft footfalls.
"Why did you have to show me so late at night?"
"It's only 11, Katniss," he grabs my hand a little tighter and I fight against the urge to make my fingers go stiff in his grasp. It's been nearly two weeks and I am still not used to touches like this; intertwined fingers that go beyond the boundaries of friendship and suggest that we are something more—lovers.
Though a curfew has not officially been placed on District 12, it's been commonly understood that it isn't wise being outside after 10:00pm, for the latest. Those without a very sound reason for walking around late at night are often found with bruised cheeks and crippling limps the next day. But even worse than that is the trouble that may ensue if Gale and I happen upon a Peacekeeper together.
"People might think—" I start to say, but go mute when Gale stops abruptly and crouches down behind two barrels positioned beside Cray's living quarters. I follow suit, peaking above his left shoulder to see what has put a halt to our scurrying.
A few feet in front of us I spot two white uniforms, the owner's of them I am unsure of but they look young and definitely not from District 12. They stop in front of the old Head Peacekeeper's household, mumbling a word or two and sharing a chuckle. Then they walk on with their batons scraping a crooked line within the dusty trail that leads back towards the Town Square.
Gale waits until they are completely out of earshot before he turns to me. His eyebrows lift inquisitively. "People might think what, Katniss?"
My eyes drift to the beaten brown barrels ahead of us, probably housing a large amount of ale. Something Cray is known for keeping readily within reach. He's probably depleted his stash significantly since being "relieved" of his duties. "They might think we're not cousins..."
Gale scoffs, "Do you honestly think they believe that now? Especially the people of the Seam?"
"It doesn't matter what the people of the Seam think!" I tell him hotly, yet my eyes still remain on the barrels, tracing the path of the metal ring around the wood. "It only matters what they see. And us sneaking around at night like this...how do you think that looks?"
"How does it look, Katniss?" His hand gently brushes against my chin and he tilts my head so I can't hide my expression from him. I'm thankful that the dim lighting is able to shield the splotches of red that I'm sure are blotting my cheeks, but it does nothing to shield the way my teeth nervously chew at my bottom lip.
"...suspicious..." I mutter. "And suspicion leads to rumours, which could eventually reach Capitol ears and land you, your family and my family in serious trouble."
He sighs and rests his hand on my shoulder. "I chose to do this at night because we have to go by the slag heap," he answers and my jaw drops in response.
"By the slag heap!?" My heart starts to slam against my ribcage. What does he mean? The air sticks in my lungs.
I'm here, wandering the streets under the watchful eye of the moon, on my way to the slag heap with a boy, and not just any boy; in fact some would say Gale stopped being a boy the moment his father died in the mines. The slag heap is notorious for nefarious behaviour; I know that and I am damn sure that Gale knows that. There are two reasons people go there: 1) to do unsavory deeds and 2) be the topic of discussion for doing unsavory deeds.
A glint appears in his eye and I see the corners of his mouth jerk as he stifles a laugh. "Relax Catnip," he tweaks my nose between his thumb and forefinger, "I said by the slap heap not to the slag heap. We have to pass near it. I didn't want people to see us heading in that direction and getting the wrong idea."
I take a deep breath and feel an enormous pressure being lifted from my chest.
"But if you want to try some of those things you might have heard about, just let me know," Gale winks. I nearly topple over and my face burns. Once again my heart slams against my chest, beating out a chorus of refusals: No, no, no, no, NO!
I can hardly wrap my mind around hand-holding and pressed lips, to think about curious fingers, exploring strokes and sensual caresses is enough to give me a heart tremor. Intimacy scares me more than any mutt that President Snow could create.
He tugs on my arm to get me moving and I follow closely behind him with heavy feet. The closer we get to the slag heap the more uncomfortable I feel and the more thunderous my feet seem to slap against the ground. "Katniss!" Gale hisses at me as my right foot noisily skids across the dirt. "Are you trying to alert every Peacekeeper out on patrol?"
"I'm sorry, I thought I saw a mouse," I lie.
"Years spent out in the woods and you're scared of mice?" Gale mocks.
"Not scared, just alarmed."
When we reach the slag heap my heels unintentionally dig into the soil bringing me to a halt.
The heap is no ordinary hillock of waste matter; in fact it's quite expansive. District 12 has been a mining community for quite some time and as such the pile of sooty rock, rubble and mining waste has grown to significant proportions and is densely packed. It's become like a large mountain of heavy dirt, molded to create secretive hideouts to do dirty deeds. There are tunnels supported by planks of wood that turn the heap into somewhat of a maze.
I've only ever gazed upon it from afar and caught whispers of the going-ons while passing by groups of chatty, hormone-raging teenage boys in school. I shudder at the thought of hearing my name mentioned in one of the explicitly detailed tellings of one of those boys.
"Katniss," Gale pulls my arm, but I do not budge. "We are passing behind it. Don't worry, no one will see us."
He jerks me again and my feet start to move. I keep my head down, staring at his boots as we run further and further to the right to lose ourselves in a tangle of thinly limbed trees. We circle around the heap at a distance that keeps us far enough away that the surrounding bushes hide us, but we are close enough to make out a few of the compromising dugouts.
My eyes catch on something glinting towards my left side and I tilt my head ever-so-slightly to look over at the heap. My jaw stiffens as I notice a girl—a merchant girl—with long, golden tresses being led by a tall boy with sandy hair towards a blackened cavern. I hear her giggle and recognize the voice instantly. Amariss Lowland, the grocer's daughter.
"She goes there a lot, supposedly," Gale whispers, noticing my gaze.
I shrug my shoulders and push him forward, eager to get this trip over with.
A few moments later we come to a large, grey boulder decorated with tufts of green moss a few feet away from the buzzing electric fence. Gale bolts towards the rock like a jack-rabbit, jumping on top of it and climbing his way to the top. He reaches an eager hand out for me to join him. I hesitate, glancing around us before accepting his outstretched hand.
The trees are sparse and the bushes are low, but they offer enough concealment that no one can see us. I extend my hand towards Gale and find a wedge in the thick stone, wide enough to fit my foot in, to hoist myself up. Once we are both safely situated at the top of the boulder, Gale plops down on the mossy carpet that covers the top and stares towards the forest shrouded by the night and locked off by the fence. "What do you see?" He asks.
I crouch down and follow his eyes looking towards the woods and a pain pricks at my chest. I see a fantasy land with beautiful oak and evergreen trees and cedar logs large enough to lie on. Freedom; freedom kept out of reach by the incessant buzzing of chain links.
My eyes glance at the bottom of the fence where there is a mended hole by welded steel, and rest on a tangle of plants; green, leafy bushels with herbs protruding from every which way, shaking off the burdens of winter and slowly emerging with fresh buds. There's mint and sage, chamomile, chicory, and "...is that..." my mouth opens in disbelief as I lean in closer to peer at the plant to my right sprinkled with small white bulbs that hang off the thin stems in cozy clumps. "Blueberries?"
Gale grins and reaches over to give my knee an encouraging squeeze. "You got it," he beams.
"How?" I marvel, keeping my eyes focused on the white bells that will eventually turn into tiny blue beads.
"I don't know," he laughs in awe. "I guess someone planted some nearby and by chance they were able to creep through the wires and survive outside of the fence."
I tear my gaze away from the miracle bush and stare at Gale in wonder, "how did you find these?"
"Chance mostly," Gale shrugs. "I was walking along the fence, seeing if maybe there was an area the Peacekeepers left untouched so I could get back into the woods and I saw it. It's a bit of a surprise, huh?"
"A bit!?" I guffaw.
A source of food, medicine and a tangible connection to the woods thrives below our feet. I'm filled with so much elation I feel tears starting to prick at the corners of my eyes.
"Life can still exist even within harsh circumstances," Gale whispers, gently caressing the back of my hand with his fingers. "Good things can still exist," he continues and his expression grows tender.
I swallow a lump of anxiety that's formed in my throat. He leans over and brushes his nose against the base of my jaw. My back goes rigid and my hands go very still. His lips rest upon my neck, hovering only for a second before they press against my skin, light and feathery like the wings of a butterfly. His finger curls around the tip of my braid, as he presses his supple lips flesh against the curve of my neck.
I shudder, not from arousal or from the cool night air that strokes my skin, but from this unusual prickle of anxiety that harasses the bottom of my stomach. It's the same feeling that plagued me earlier today, when I thought about what life could be like for Peeta Mellark. But this time it spreads, travelling through my veins and nesting within the cavities of my body like a poison, making me feel ill.
Without thinking my hand presses against Gale's chest and I gently ease him away. He tenses, but he doesn't resist against the pressure of my palm. "I think we should go," I whisper, allowing my eyes to look at where my hand rests, but not at his face. "It's getting late."
He doesn't reply. I feel his chest heave under my touch and I let my hand fall clumsily to my side before I slide down from the mossy rock and land with a soft thud on the ground. I don't hear anything else and turn to look over my shoulder. Gale still sits on the rock with his eyes locked on the densely speckled night sky.
Everything about tonight is like a scene from a coveted romance novel. Anyone else in my place would've clung to the shirt-tail of the euphoria that hung in the air and get swept away by it. If I was any other girl, I would lose myself in the warmth of his kiss and let him show me how special life is, even within the walls of District 12. The two of us together—we are one of those "good things." That is what I am meant to believe. That is what I want to believe.
But the feeling that lurks in my stomach and lurches towards my torso won't let me.
"Are you going to the festival next week?" Gale says, indifferently.
His question catches me off-guard and I smack my lips in hesitation, trying to think of an answer. I suppose I am grateful for the distraction that Gale has willingly offered. It doesn't quite remove the awkwardness that's between us after I rejected his advances, but it does make it bearable.
I haven't thought about the upcoming Spring festival that occurs near the end of March whatsoever. I used to take Prim to it when we were younger. We would go around to the various booths trying our hand at makeshift carnival games to try to win paper petals that we could then construct into colourful flowers at the end of our stay. Our flowers always lacked the same vitality as the ones constructed by the merchant children. Probably because the games cost money, and we never had much to spend.
Mostly, we would just go there to take part in something cheerful. It didn't matter if our flower was ten petals shy of being in full bloom. Our parents rejoiced at our efforts either way. It was the carefree feeling we got. Festivals in 12 have a way of doing that to you. Making you forget that you live in a District that sucks you dry, and shoves you into the lion's den while you're weak and defenseless. For one day we weren't Seam brats, we were just kids.
The Spring Festival is something else to add to the list of things I avoided once my dad passed. "I haven't really thought about it," I admit.
"Posy wants me to take her. We've never really gone before, you can imagine why," Gale shrugs. "But she's been begging me, and if you'd like to come with us well..." he rubs his hand through his hair and pauses at the base of his neck. "I'd like it if you came with us."
I nibble on my bottom lip. Going to the festival with Gale, would that be wise? We would be with Posy to elude suspicion. I could always bring Prim along with me. I shrug my shoulders and nod.
"Sure," I tell him and then he finally makes his way down from the rock.
...
Once inside my house I lean against the back of the door and feel the weight of tonight's meeting with Gale squeezing my chest. I absentmindedly touch the spot where Gale's mouth caressed my skin. I should have leaned into him. I breathe out of my nose in frustration and bang my fist against the door. I thought things were going to get easier from here, not more difficult and downright confusing.
The clink of a teacup startles me from my tantrum and I direct my gaze towards the kitchen. Seated at the table watching me with curiosity is my mother. She sits in the dark, with only the moonlight from the window illuminating the right side of her face. I remember the image of her lifeless body on the floor in our home in the Seam and I can't stop my feet when they start bolting towards her. Before I know it I am on my knees, my head in her lap with my face buried in the folds of her dress. I cling to her like I did when I was a little girl.
"Katniss?" she speaks finally, in a peacefully somber voice, as if I woke her from a dream. And then she starts to hum.
A/N: Nothing like a talk from mama to help you deal with the troubles in your life. Hope you enjoyed :)
