TWENTY-ONE
Prim is problematic. The memory of losing her is still razor sharp. We've talked in circles about my little sister, but the sound of her name leaves me reaching for a needle. How did anyone expect me to sleep, or read, or cook after everything that happened to us? The mundane back and forth of life rubbed me raw. Prim died. She died. Drugs are a warm blanket. The edge of life sanded smooth and easy. I could remember her life and not feel the bite of her death.
I tried to find the meaning in it. Maybe the trees are still obscuring the forest. It could all make sense one day. Lines will snap and I'll see the message hiding in the mess. The pessimist inside thinks this will always be a black mark, a dark spot that no amount of time or antiseptic will every make clean.
She used to bring home the most bedraggled, hopeless creatures. All skin, bones, and fight. My sister was a healer. She would have been a doctor.
"I think the best way I can honor her life is to let her memory heal me, not destroy me."
I never imagined me without her. I was a sister. That was my purpose, my definition. In time, I know there will be more to me and possibly a little less. I won't be the girl she knew. I'll be alive. I'll be intact. Some days, I'll even thrive. She would like that. I've decided this is the one last thing I'll do for her. I'll be okay. Come hell or high fucking water. I'll be okay.
He just nods as if he knew I'd get there all along, "I like the sound of that Katniss."