My mother moves without a sound, slowly gliding over to the couch, where she collapses and stares at the fireplace.
She looks like a statue.
I go over and slowly lift the logs from the hearth, and place them upon the ashes. I build a small log cabin, and fill it with strips of paper torn from the newspapers that cover our doorstep each morning. The newspapers full of news of the game and the tributes that I don't want to hear.
I light the small match and toss it into the fireplace, where the spark catches, and the small space is immediately engulfed in flames.
I stare into the fire, the flames twisting intricately, forming shapes so delicate, beautiful even, and yet powerful, terrifying. They fly through the air, shooting sparks that threaten to bite at my skin and burn me. The crackle of the blaze fills my ears, and the comforting smell of burning wood fills my nose, giving me a sense of home.
Back in our house at the Seam, there was always a fire burning.
Mom would use it to boil up plants and extracts, making different healing ointments and balms, and each day from school Katniss and I would sit in front of it, watching the flames dance in front of our faces.
I remember once when we were young, and Katniss dared to stick her fingers into the flames. She judged that if she put them far enough away from the wood she wouldn't get burnt, her fingers could just dance with the flames for a moment. And in a way, it worked. The flames licked at her fingers, and Katniss smiled and held her hand in for just a second too long. She winced and withdrew it quickly, holding it to her chest. She refused to admit that she was in pain, and simply ignored it, telling me to do the same, erasing my worries for my sister's fingers.
That night she couldn't pick up her fork to eat, and my mother had to wrap her hands up with ointment for a week before her fingers felt normal once more.
She was always too strong to admit the pain, always too brave to ignore the situations.
But she was never afraid of the flames.
She was my age then, and I can't help but feel a strong sense of nostalgia.
Life has changed so much for us both.
We are no longer covered in a thin layer of coal dust at all times. The bread at the table comes from the bakery, not the coarse tesserae-grain lumps our mother used to feed us. There is no need for tesserae, and the money we have is so much that we can't possibly use it all; and more keeps coming. I now own my own clothes, ones that did not once sit on Katniss' frame. Mine fit me well, and there is no longer a ducktail coming out the back of my shirts.
My mother is no longer scraping together money.
Our meat no longer comes from the woods outside.
My friends now look at me with a mix of pity and disgust.
I remember how they promptly stopped speaking to me after Katniss was reaped. They didn't know how to treat me then, much less when she actually won the games.
It's nothing personal.
But the Everdeen's have become elite members of District 12.
We're worse than townies.
We're practically the Capitol's lapdogs.
The sunsets outside, and my mother and I sit in that same position, her on the couch and I in front of the flames, watching them dance in front of the bricks. Our house goes dark and I am startled when I hear her getting up.
I turn around and she is lighting candles, boiling water, and preparing tea.
Moving.
It's definitely an improvement.
I stand up myself, and my joints creak as I slowly limp towards the kitchen.
I didn't realize I hadn't moved in so long.
My feet are asleep, and I step carefully, tentatively, as I cross into the kitchen and go to stand by my mother.
She prepares the tea bags, and I reach over for an apple and begin to slice it.
Her hands shake as she evenly distributes one teaspoon of leaves into each of the tiny mesh packets, tying it tightly at the top. The leaves spill, and I place my hand over hers.
Her fidgeting fingers quiet and we both keep our eyes glued to the counter.
"Hey baby." She says softly.
I smile to myself and continue to cut the apple, and she continues to make the tea, slowly spooning honey into each large mug, and pouring the water in slowly.
We continue to work in silence until the tea has been steeped and we pick up our mugs.
Mine is burning hot to the touch, but the sharp contrast to my cold fingers gives me a silent thrill and I sip away.
And so we stand in the kitchen of our empty house, sipping tea in silence.
I lower my mug.
"You know," I start, quietly. "We're actually kind of lucky."
My mother sighs and looks down at my face. "How?"
"We could've lost Peeta today." I offer. "It's a small victory, but a victory nonetheless."
My mother gives a tight-lipped smile, and I know something's wrong. Her eyes look distant.
"What's wrong Mom?"
"It's just that I…" She pauses, taking a deep breath. "I didn't realize how much we all cared about him. I didn't realize how much I cared about him. I felt so broken when he first fell and I… I was so afraid for him. Not for Katniss, but for him. And then when I saw Katniss' reaction, well I guess I'd never realized just how much she cares for him. How she actually-"
"Loves him." I finish.
My mother nods at me sadly. "It's just going to make these games so much harder, you know? I'm no longer rooting for just my daughter to come home. And it's so unlikely that they'll allow both of them to win again. I'm so confused now. No matter how it ends, I'm going to be losing someone. I haven't felt this hopeless in a long, long time sweetheart."
I pause. "You know, he made me a promise."
"What kind of promise Prim?"
"He promised he'd bring her home. No matter what."
My mother's eyes get misty, and she drops her gaze to the countertop. She reaches her hands out to steady herself, and I place my hand on her shoulder.
"He likes to make a lot of promises, doesn't he?" Her voice cracks as she whispers.
"Mom. He means it. He's not afraid to die, no if it means Katniss is going to live."
"Prim, I can't ask anyone else to die for my daughter."
"You let Katniss volunteer in my place."
My mother smiles at me sadly. "I had no say Primrose, you know that. Katniss would have volunteered for you no matter what."
"But she would have died for me."
"And I would have been broken, just as I would have been when if died… Just as I was when your father died." She says the last part bluntly, and I recognize the honesty in her words.
I shudder at the memories. We could not have survived if that had happened.
"These games are just too painful." She finishes, and we stand in silence, sipping our tea.
We finish, and the clatter of the dishes resonates through the house as we clean up the dishes and set them out to dry overnight.
We walk up the stairs in silence, and my mother turns to go into her bedroom and I reach for her hand.
"He'll bring her back Mom. He promised me." I whisper.
But it's more of a question than a statement.
"She won't be the same Prim." She says sadly, her voice faltering. "Not without him to help her recover, to be by her side."
And with that, she slips off into her bedroom and closes the door.
I stand in the hallway, silenced by the truth in my mother's words.
I realize that Katniss' won't be coming back.
This will not be the end.
The sister that I grew up with, who put her fingers in the flames, is not there anymore.
Now she has become the girl on fire, and the flames that surround her won't go away in a week with care.
All that I've known is burned away, and I will be left with the charred remains of the sister who loves me and will put her life in danger to save mine.
Will I still know her?