a/n: this story is a long time coming, and a much different take (I think) to the story of the girl on fire and the boy with the bread. at any rate, I hope you enjoy book one of my new series: Pink Rabbits
The world is coming up from the black to float on the soothing waves of the blue hour. It's not uncommon for me to be up at this point. Here, our little world is quiet and has something like peace. I do my best to hold onto what I can get. My hip is digging into the kitchen table, and my body is itching to move outside, to smell the air as it is supposed to be, fresh and light, as light as it could be. The hand on my bare ankle, occasionally and thankfully scratching a bug bite now and again, is keeping me from moving without words. I want to hunt. I want to move. I want to head to my safe haven.
I want to tell her to go back to bed.
Even though my mother is long past her circling days, she still has risen before me or Aster, smoothing out the worn material of our dresses as best she could without an iron. Every now and again as she checks the undersides of my feet for any new blisters, I see her wince as if nursing an invisible wound. This month was better, the last two had been a mess of nightmares and finding her outside at all hours of the night.
She doesn't speak to me of her dreams. It's because she sees things, understands events long before they happen. Passed down from the women in her family, the age old second sight that they always know but never speak of. Dreams are not meant to be told. Though I tell to her of mine when the silence lingers. Silence where it ought not to be makes my skin itch. Dreams and not-silence. The closest thing we will ever come to understanding one another. Something like love.
I glance at the small picture frame hanging on the wall. An olive skinned man smiles, his long black hair braided in two plaits over his shoulders has his hands entwined with a heavily pregnant, pale woman, also smiling, though her eyes look a bit sad. There's a strength and fierce love in the way the couple hands are clasped together, as if nothing could keep them apart.
Until a spark in the wrong place blew my father into pieces.
"You must have loved him a lot," I think. Except I don't; the words are said aloud in the quiet of the dining room.
My mother says nothing when she looks at the photo, merely bites her lip and squares her shoulders a bit more. There's a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach at her actions. We don't talk, not really. Since the accident, she's closed off a part of herself not only to me, but to the whole world. What was she like before? And before, before? A happy, blushing bride? An adventurous girl? Maybe (I think this part almost half ashamed) a bit like me?
"We need to fix your shoes," she mutters. I hiss when she applies something to a sensitive spot under my left big toe. It burns.
"What's wrong with my boots? They're perfectly-ow!" I almost kick her, but the grip on my ankle is surprisingly strong, despite how thin my mother is. Of the meals we manage to get on the table these days, more than half of her portions go to Aster or myself. I frown at the memories that come forth in flashes: me,soaked from the rain outside holding a blanket and wrapped buns, begging her to eat, to look at me, to do something. My mother, not moving, paralyzed, biting her pillow while silent sobs wracked her body. My little sister, wide eyed and thin, watching the scene.
"They don't have enough support. And with the terrain, you'll be bound to have more than bruises moving after a bird or a buck. I-hold on." She stands up to her full height. Her blonde hair, always long and loose, falls over her shoulders and just past her waist. I watch as she moves to a cupboard and rummages through an assortment of bandages and gauze. It's the medicine cabinet. The only thing in the house that I am forbidden to touch unless there is an emergency.
It happened only once, when I was thirteen years old.
"Here we are!" She pulls out some cloth and an old sewing kit from who knows how long ago, sits down on a chair and begins to line the inside of my boots. It's nice, even though the bath water she had infused with herbs and a small bit of oil is starting to cool. I can't help but marvel at her concentration. She looks...not so much pretty, but less tired and beaten down. Needle in, needle out. It's comforting.
Soon my shoes are (as much as I wish not to admit) feel more comfortable than they have in months. I shrug on my father's old hunting jacket before climbing the small loft where the three of us share a bed and look at my still dreaming sister. Today is her age group for the Rites, and it took a bit of my mother's sleep syrup to keep her calm enough to fall asleep. We'd been practicing for months, and she knows every step inside and out . Bending forward, I kiss Aster's forehead softly, careful not to wake her.
"I'll be back soon, little dove," I whisper, and climb down as quietly as I can.
As I reach the last rung of the ladder, I catch sight of my mother. She extends one hand to me in invitation and like a reflex I take it. With practiced, almost hypnotic ease, we move in time to some unheard rhythm. This is not the dance of tonight, or any variation of the past three days. I move underneath her arm for our backs to meet, before her foot crosses over my own as she turns again, bringing me flush to her chest.
My heartbeat flutters.
"Will you be alright?" I breathe.
She turns me again, bringing her hand to my waist. "Yes. Will you come to circle? The moon will be high."
I shrug. I ought to. At least for tonight of all nights. Every full moon is a gathering, a tradition passed down from generation to generation. As far as I know, it has only happened in 12, and it is exclusively for women. Each family has their own customs. Ours is mixed with the burning of herbs and candles, with recitation of poems by an ancient king. It's written in pages of an old notebook belonging to my great grandmother and her mother, and I can only assume all mothers before that.
I'm but a stranger to those family ghosts. Strangers saying strange words of a man who lived long ago.
"I may. Haven't decided yet."
She nods, understanding. "Head east this time, they're doing repairs on your normal spot." I turn left, right, and then rest her hands atop hers. She inhales, and mutters something in that language of hers I cannot completely understand. I swear there's a jolt of electricity that passes through me when she presses her thumbs into the center of my palms.
Despite the wall frozen between us, there are moments of light that seem to make its way though. Our dance of morning had all but ceased for over two years, with her choking sadness and my fuming anger. Our grief. I pause, gazing at her face inquisitively. It's shifted into something solemn, her gaze a bit distant.
"Are you okay?"
She lets go of my hands as if I handed her red hot coals to hold. Smiles, though the sight is strained. Nervous. "They're doing repairs in your usual spot. Head east this time. I packed some cheese and the leftover cinnamon bread your friend brought by. The one from the bakery."
No, I think. You've been waking up from nightmares for the past week, not sleeping for two days, trying to muffle your sobs with your pillow. I see you, walking outside in the middle of the night, nothing but bare feet and a nightgown.
"Penelope." I adjust my jacket sleeve. "And she's not my friend."
"No matter," And at the last moment, for the first time in as long as I can remember, she pulls me close and presses a long kiss to my forehead.
I don't know what to do. I stare at her, or at least, try to really look at her. That bit of lightning creeps and circles at the base of my spine.
"You've a prophecy," I murmur.
My mother sighs. "I have dreamt, yes."
"Of the Rite? Of Aster?" I ask. And of me? What has your second sight seen of me?
Without a word, she hands me the wicker basket and a few extra arrow heads wrapped in a handkerchief. Aster's mean old cat jumps into her arms, both of their keen eyes watching me leave and vanish into the early morning
Usually, the roads would be crawling with coal miners at our place of District 12, nicknamed the Seam. They'd be heading out into the deep dark of the mines. But thanks to the Rites, shop shutters are closed. The black, dusty streets are empty, even of peacekeepers. The Rites aren't until late tonight. Better for everyone to gain something like sleep for these three days of "celebration". If they can.
Our house, more like a ramshackle cabin, is at the edge of the Seam. I've only got to pass a few gates to reach the Pasture. Separating the grassy field from my beloved woods is a giant chain-link, electrified fence that runs all around the perimeter with barbed wire loops. Technically, it's supposed to be for our "safety" and electrified twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. A deterrent to the predators who lurk outside in the woods- wild dogs, mountain lions, bears. Thankfully, we only get two to three hours of electricity in the evenings, so it's typically safe to touch. However, I always take a moment to listen to the low hum that means the fence is live. Nothing at this moment. I take my mother's advice and move east, scrambling underneath a three foot stretch that has been loose for years.
Inside the woods, there are creatures that roam freely, venomous snakes, rabid animals. One wrong step or movement and there was nothing stopping someone from getting bitten and then lost. But one could find food- my father taught me that. And there were herbs in case of injury- mother was to thank for that.
Foxes are always good finders, he'd told me, only a month before the accident. You were named after your great grandmother. Always was able to find a way, no matter what.
I couldn't find his body after the explosion. Blown completely to bits. Years later, I still wake up screaming for him to run. The only person left asides from my sister is my mother. She stopped sleeping once he died, and almost stopped eating as well. Stopped doing much of anything except stay in bed all day. But was always there to hold me when the nightmares came. A sad, silent, sentinel. Saying nothing as her eldest daughter sobbed into her neck. Rubbed the knuckles of Aster with her wide blue eyes and broken heart.
A month passed, and my mother should have been looking for a job, but she stayed in that bed for days. And days became weeks. So I took Aster to school, and then went out to sell and hunt and sell what I managed to catch. Which wasn't much.
Something closed off in me too after that. My emotions seemed to almost freeze over, save for stubbornness and times of anger. I couldn't afford attachments, not anymore. Not with the world we live in. Like my mother, the world seemed to simply grow cold.
I'm not sure what to think about her. Pity? Maybe. Forgiveness? I haven't quite figured that out yet.
Even though poaching is one of the greatest offences, most people would do it if they actually had weapons. But they don't have my arrows. I have dim memories of my parents. My father, carving out the smooth curve of wood. My mother, tightening the bow string with strong fingers and testing its draw. Hiding them underneath the floorboards. Anyone caught creating weapons would have immediately executed on the grounds of inciting public rebellion.
Now I hide mine well inside the woods in waterproof covers. Pushing the boundaries but not enough. Just close enough to run back to District 12. Starving to death in safety. As soon as I think the thoughts, I glance over my could never know who was listening, be it outside or inside.
As I make my way down a small hill, leaning against a tree trunk is one of the few people I can be myself: Isaac Hawthorne. My face relaxing, I quicken my pace though the somewhat rocky terrain to our spot, a ledge of rock overlooking the greater valley of the Pasture. Thankfully, a thick bush hides us from prying eyes or ears.
"Hey, Ina" he grins.
My real name is Inola, but when we first met, I had said the word so quietly that he didn't hear me right. So the nickname just happened to stick.
I roll my eyes at his antics and fish into my wicker basket. "Look what I shot." I hold up the slightly warm piece of cinnamon bread and Isaac laughs in disbelief. It's real, honest, bakery bread, not the flat, tasteless things we get for rations. I take it between my hands, tear it apart down the middle, and hold it up to my nose to inhale its sweet scent. It makes both our mouths flood with saliva.
Isaac takes a bite from his half and groans. "Ugh, so good. What did it cost you?"
"Nothing."
"You're joking."
I take a bite and hand him a bit of cheese. "The baker's daughter brought it. Don't know when."
He frowns as though trying to remember. "Pearl?"
"Penelope," I say, rolling my eyes. "Penelope Mellark."
His expression brightens a bit, raising his hand to the sky. "Well many thanks to the baker's daughter. We're one step closer to barely starving! Suddenly his voice pitches upwards to a heavy Capitol trill, "Happy Hunger Games!" He's mimicking Oretes Ambrosia, the upbeat, near manic man who arrives once a year to read some awful droning speech one the greatest of Panem and our valiant sacrifice once the dances are done.
" May you dance away the days of darkness-" Isaac tosses a blackberry towards me, high in the air.
I catch the berry in my mouth, grinning as the sweet tang bursts on my tongue. "-and bring forth a new light!" I finish with equal fervor. We have to mock today (technically the past three days) or else feel scared stiff by it. It doesn't matter if no one makes a mistake, if no one trips or stumbles, someone will be picked. The earth requires blood, after all. Someone will be picked. They always are.
One mistake, and that's it.
Isaac puts the aged cheddar onto the bread and hands another piece to me. We eat in silence. The blue hour is slowly fading, giving way to another cold winter day with endless sky. Everything would be perfect if this was an actual safe haven, if the mountains were more our home and less our prison of merriment for the Capitol. Roaming for hours, with no fear of cameras or microphones or electrical fences, looking for game and finding it.
"We could do it, you know," Isaac says softly. His breaths fog the air.
I chew some bread and swallow. "Do what?"
"Leave. Run off. Go live in the woods. You and I could make it, at least." He plucks a tuft of frozen grass with his fingers.
I don't know what to say.
"If we didn't have so many kids," he adds quickly.
The kids. They aren't our kids, but they might as well be. Issac with two brothers and a sister, not to mention his mother currently pregnant with another baby. Me with Aster. Might as well bring out mothers along, because we would have to. How could we live without them, and they without us? Who would feed the hungry mouths when we were out hunting? Even now in 12, there are plenty of nights no amount of swapping shoe laces and ribbons and clothes is enough to bring food onto the table. We still go to bed with stomachs empty and growling.
"I'm never having kids," I say. It seems like the type of vow I have to make.
"I might. If I didn't live here."
"But you do live here," I say, a bit irritated.
"Forget it," he snaps, and gets to his feet, looking off into the distance.
I frown. Issac wouldn't have any problem with finding a wife here, some young pretty thing. Why this "we" talk about children? Didn't he see where we were, where we lived? If he wants kids, he'd have to find them from someone else. Even so, there's a churning in my stomach that's not from the bread. Losing him...losing a good hunting partner is hard to find.
I rise to my feet and ruffle his hair, which he hates, but it's enough to get a laugh out of both of us.
"What do you want to do? Hunt, fish or gather?"
Isaac pauses, considering. "Fish. The creek isn't as frozen from last week. We can break through any ice that's left." He tugs at a lock of my dark hair. "Something good for tonight."
Tonight. It is meant to be a celebration. And many people do, or try to, out of relief that their daughters are spared. The men, the ones with sons, celebrate the most. Why shouldn't they? They've no poison between their legs. But at least two families will close their windows, draw their curtains, and the world will try to ignore their weeping.
By late afternoon, we swing by the Hob and trade six of the fish for more bread, and the other two for salt and herbs. Thanks to the surprisingly full breakfast, we turn down offerings of soup from Su Rigby, who is the only person who can be counted on for wild dog. It's not hunted on purpose, but if you manage to take down one or two after an attack, well, meat is meat.
After the Hob, we head to the back of the mayor's house to sell half of the strawberries, knowing he and his daughter have a certain fondness for the fruit. Marianne opens the door. She's one year above me. Her drab school outfit has been replaced with the white dress and embroidered flowers of tonight, as well as a garland of flowers woven into her blonde hair with a pink ribbon. Saint John's Wort.
"Pretty dress," Issac says. The sarcasm is palpable. If there's anything I hate him for, it's moments like these.
Marianne gives him a pointed look, and then ignores him, turning to me. "Well, if I'm off to that place, I want to look nice don't I?"
"You won't be going to the Capitol. You've already done your dance," he says coolly. His eyes land on the circular pin that is on her dress. It's a curious thing. A golden pin with a bird wreathed in flame. "Beside, you barely have any entries. I had six when I was just twelve years old."
"Quit it, Issac. It's not her fault." I snap. Not like his entries are any good. The country wants young, fresh females to spill blood in their arenas. Letting him put in his name so many times was a supposed kindness than anything else; all it did was put off his two sisters joining the dance by at least two years. In exchange, they get less rations. Most would rather risk the dance of death than the slow caress of starvation. It was one of the reasons we worked so well as hunting partners, mutually beneficial. Until the next snow moon.
"No," he is still looking at her, disgust evident. "That's just the way it is."
Marianne's face is completely emotionless. She takes the berries from me and puts the money in my hand. "Blessings, Inola." The juice of the strawberries stains both our fingers. I pretend not to see her flinch ever so slightly.
"You, too," I say, and the door closes.
I accompany Isaac home to check in with his siblings. They all crowd around me as I cut blackberries into small, but equal pieces. His mother smiles at me softly, asking about my family. She's barely showing, but once she takes off her apron, I can see the swelling of her stomach more clearly.
"Does it hurt?" I ask.
"Like falling in a patch of thorns," she winks, and pops a blackberry into her mouth. One of the boys hugs her legs and hides his face in her skirts. His sister pokes her mother's stomach curiously. "But it's worth it."
Is it really? I can't help but think.
The moon is close to rising by the time I leave. Mrs. Hawthorne gives me some leftover stew in a container, along with some vegetables. It's kind of her. Too kind.
At home, I find my mother and my sister slowly getting ready to go. The house smells of sage and lavender. It makes my shoulders relax just a little. Once the moon is out, we all have to move out into the square. A tub of hot water waits for me. I strip out of my hunting clothes and step in. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Aster practicing her step for the dance. The youngest and other's declared "it" are to go on the final night. She's nervous, and I can't blame her. I've already made it through the second night, now I am forced to watch my love, my sister, do the same around the fire and underneath the moon.
I try not to think about it.
When I get out of the tub, my mother had smoothed out my white dress and garland as neatly as she can. Violets with one of her old black ribbons.
"Are you sure?" I ask. I'm still getting used to getting things from her. I was so angry for so long. Her things from the past are so precious to her.
"Of course. Let's braid up your hair. Just this once," she says. She towel dries it, and hums some song about the snow and the 's a bit wistful. I'm about to ask who the song is about before Aster pokes her head out from the door, watching my mother's nimble fingers braid my long dark hair. As much as I try to distance myself from my mother, we wear our hair the same, long and loose. Not tonight. Never tonight.
"You look beautiful," Aster whispers.
I spread out my arms and she rushes into them, burying her face in my stomach. "It'll be okay. I promise."
She's still worried about me. Somehow. Even more than herself. I adjust and smooth her garland, graced with bellflowers. It forces the both of us to stay calm. "Gather your nesting flowers, little dove."
Aster smiles and gives a small, but confident "coo".
"Coo, yourself. Let's eat." I press a kiss to the top of her head, and playfully push her to the table while my mother secures the last few pins in place.
Dinner is a quiet affair, as usual, my mother being the most silent. She's locked inside of her head again, despite mine and Aster's attempts to bring her into what little conversation there is. The small clock on the wall chimes, and the three of us stiffen.
My mother's gaze is focused solely on the flickering candle. "It's time."