I will never get used to the smell of burning flesh.
The smoke furls up towards the grey Autumn sky. I watch as the wind carries it off towards the dense thicket of trees behind the barbwire fence. It leaves the putrid, strangely sweet stench behind. I keep my eyes trained on the tips of the flames, careful not to lower my gaze enough to see the charred remains of the bodies burning on the gravel below. This does nothing to dampen the sound of the sizzling pops and cracks, the odd high-pitched whine of an eyeball melting. No one wants to be on 'burn duty,' but it is a necessary evil now. I don't have the stomach (nor the bedside manner, as my sister Prim will tell you) for living patients, but I can understand why the dead need to burn. Corpses harbour infection, and infection left unchecked creates a whole new evil we have trouble dealing with as it is.
I pull my scarf tighter around the lower half of my face and cross my arms over my chest. Summer turned its back on the world quickly this year. I miss the warmth already. I shiver slightly as I try not to think of the inevitable rain and snow in my future, and what that will do to our hunting prospects. I try to remind myself that we're prepared; that this winter will be easier than the ones we've already survived since everything fell.
'Surviving' – That's what we've been doing. Any of us who are left. Calling it 'living' just cheapens the word.
My eyes drift from the dying fire in front of me to the snarling, violent bodies on the other side of the twenty-foot fence beyond it. I don't know if they would agree with me on that sentiment. Although, whether or not they have the autonomy to agree or disagree with my musings is another matter entirely. I'm fairly certain the only thing we'd agree on is that I'm likely better off dead, anyway.
I uncross my arms and, almost subconsciously, begin to trace the scars on the inside of my right wrist with the pad of my thumb, feeling every indent and every smooth patch of raised, healed skin. The mark isn't new by any means, but even after years it's still hot to the touch, and the cold air on my exposed skin is refreshing.
I focus my attention on one of the smaller things moving beyond the safety of the barbwire. It stands a little further away from the rest of its screeching companions. Its movements are erratic and unnatural, but my instinct tells me it's looking for a way in. I'm too far away from the border the fence provides to make out any clear indicators, but my imagination fills in enough gruesome details for me to realize that our positions could be switched, if the circumstances were different. The creature stands hunched and presses itself against the metal of the fence, but it can't be more than five feet tall. It has the same long, dark wild hair as me, though with the added colours of rusted red and brown, gore matted into it. Its skin stands in sharp, pale contrast to the blood and grime it's covered in, and I wonder briefly if it – she – looked that way in life, too, or if the colour was leached in death.
Without really meaning to, I find myself slowly gravitating closer to the fence. My worn boots kick up ash as I pass the burn pile, still staring down this 'could-have-been' version of myself. The sounds of the flames behind me are replaced with the low growls and shrieks of the twitching monsters in front of me, growing louder and more energized as I get closer. Scanning quickly, I count eight moving corpses. There's no real danger, I know. The fences are patrolled and checked for weaknesses daily, and I haven't been outside without a weapon in years. I've taken care of greater numbers single-handedly without blinking an eye. Still, my feet carry me only close enough for my eyes to define the facial features of my new muse before I stop myself.
Her nose is slimmer than mine. An infected-looking deep gash has sagged her left cheek, but the right side shows a familiar bone structure. My forehead is bigger, and though it's nearly impossible to tell under the blood and grime and dirt, I imagine freckles dotted across her face to match my own. Her bloodless lips are bared in a vicious snarl, and her teeth are brown and gnashing. It's difficult to gage, but I guess she might have been around my age, sixteen or so. I trail my eyes down her body, or what's left of it. Emaciated, with loose skin hanging where curves might have been once. I think grimly that I might not have looked far off from this a few years ago. She's wearing the tattered remains of a sun dress, the colour faded and hardly distinguishable. The fingers of her left hand, filthy and mottled with old bruises, curl around the links in the fence like vice grips. Light from the late afternoon sun gleams off a dulled diamond on her third finger, and my stomach rolls unpleasantly. I glance over to where her right arm should be and I tighten my lips as I take in the ripped ribbons of flesh and sinew that feather away from the festering stump just below her elbow. My fingers press into my scar again, unwillingly imagining how that kind of pain might feel compared to mine.
Surprisingly, what makes me gasp and take a step back are her eyes. The slices of green around the huge black pupils are dull and distant in the watery sunlight, glazed over with the yellowed tinge of the disease she succumbed to. More unsettling though, is the quantified and palpable rage that emanates through this thing and bores into my being. I've seen this look before – any time I've bothered to look in a mirror since the change.
I wonder if there's a chance we might have known each other if things were different. Did she grow up in the Seam? Would I have passed her in the Hob? Was she even from the same district? I've seen others I thought I might have met once or twice, from before. It seems like some of them stay in familiar areas, still tied to long-forgotten habits. I guess it doesn't matter. I'll never know her now, and the only thing she wants to know about me is how hot my blood is.
We stare at each other in silence. The others around us are all making a cacophony of noise – strangled groans, the shuffling of leaden feet, the metallic scraping of bones against fence. I find it odd that my new friend seems to be holding a silent vigil, until she widens her mouth in a silent scream of fury, and I notice the hole gaping from her throat, just under her chin. A shotgun wound from a gun with bad aim, maybe. Her vocal chords were likely eviscerated.
"I hope you aren't hurting," I mumble.
The jury is still out on whether these things feel anything other than the desperate, constant need to inflict maximum pain, but a part of me thinks that a quick death from a bullet might still be preferable to the blinding hatred. Hell, sometimes I think a bullet might still be preferable to what I let myself feel, when the distractions fail to numb it.
My eyes shoot back up to the dead ones I've been in a hopeless staring contest with, and I feel a distant pang of…something. It might be pity, but the more selfish parts of me whisper that it feels more like jealousy.
This girl, whoever she was, worries about nothing now but sating her bloodlust. There's no gnawing anxiety to keep her awake through most nights. No constant feeling of never doing enough. No suffocating fear of failing to protect the ones attached to her. Just cold, hard anger. Nothing else to care about.
She lunges at me, shaking the fence and drawing her fellow corpses over to our direction. The spell breaks, and I turn my head to face our growing audience, breathing through my own anger. I know I should feel grateful. The whole damn world fell down, and through pure luck and circumstance, I stayed standing. Thinking of Prim, and Mother, and Gale, guilt floods my veins and I kick a rock towards the fence. I watch it roll under a gap and land in front of my rotting look-a-like. She flails at me again, her mouth opened wide in another silent howl.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. And I am. I'm terribly sorry and feeling so very guilty that we stand on opposite ends of the fence. A powerless feeling, one that I've grown used to by now, washes over me as I watch this angry, lifeless woman throw herself mechanically at the barrier.
In a last show of mercy, I step purposefully up to the fence and pull out my knife. In one swift movement, the blade slides through a hole in the chain-link to push through her eye, so much like my own, and she stills immediately. She falls towards me, her forehead hitting the fence with a thud, and I pull my knife back, gritting my teeth when it sticks a little on the socket bone.
I close my eyes and breathe in deep until my lungs burn with the frigid air. I wonder vaguely how long I've been out here. Mother will probably send someone to check on me soon. Since she's been back in this reality, she's kept as much of a grip on Prim and I as she can.
As if on cue, I hear footsteps sauntering in my direction. There's no haste to them, and I smirk from beneath my scarf. I know who it is before I turn around.
Gale whistles tunelessly as he approaches, hands shoved in his pockets. He and I know not to sneak up on each other, though we're both more than capable. The tall man approaches me slowly, an easy smile playing on his lips as he watches me wipe my blade off on my pants.
"Hey Catnip," he calls. The childhood nickname he graced me with years ago carries across the field. "I thought Tom and Jonah were on guard duty tonight," he says, surveying the desolate ensemble to my back. His dark eyes linger on the girl slumped in a heap at my feet, viscera still oozing from her eye socket.
"They're on the south side. I had burn duty so I told them I could take care of things over here," I explain, pulling my scarf down. It's only half a lie. I haven't seen the pair yet this evening, but it's an un-spoken rule that you deal with intruders if you see them first. Anyone in the district over the age of sixteen has unofficial guard duty at least once a week. It technically breaks the curfew laws, but the peacekeepers turn a blind eye when they can. As the poorest district in Panem, we have to make do with what we have.
"Ah. Well, wouldn't want to waste a chance to stabilize things, would we?" Gale quips, drawing out the word. My smirk widens a little at the joke.
Stabilize - the favourite word of our newly elected mayor, Adam Undersee. He talked a big game about stabilizing our district during election season, lamenting about making deals with his Capital contacts. He vowed to end the constant hunger and anxiety that clouds the thoughts of everyone here. He made promises that hungry, frightened citizens ate up with vigour, but words don't fill stomachs. Gale has voiced his distaste for district politics for years, but this is the first year I've joined in. There may be less virus casualties since Undersee has been in charge, but there's been no end to the tiny, starving bodies on my mother's kitchen table, nor to the distraught parents who can't keep them fed. If things don't change soon, the hunger epidemic will overtake the current one.
Gale and I do what we can, but it never seems like enough. We risk our lives and the wrath of the peacekeepers to hunt beyond the security fences whenever we're able, though it's strictly forbidden for safety reasons. Whatever we can spare, we trade with other families or sell for more-than-fair prices. Sometimes, when Gale isn't around to talk me out of it, I'll drop food off, free of charge, to the orphanage or to families I know will go without otherwise. Gale tells me not to be stupid, that we can barely keep our own families fed, let alone the rest of the Seam. My answer is almost always the same: if no one had helped me, I'd be dead.
I smile sardonically to myself at the thought that passes through my mind: maybe that would have been for the best. A bitter taste rises from the back of my throat that isn't all to do with the stench in the air. If this is the only kind of life I can expect, I'm not sure why I'm fighting so hard for it.
Gale brings me out of my dark reverie with a rough hip-check as he closes the space between us. He's taller than me, though nearly everyone is. Broad-shouldered and lean, the man beside me is one of my best and only friends. I guess constantly saving each other's skins creates a bond that's hard to ignore.
"Come on, then. Light's gunna quit on us, soon," he says, pulling out his own knife. He strides over to the fence-line and repeats my actions from a few minutes before; deftly slicing through the skulls of the growling corpses and letting them drop. I join him, and in no time the fence line is littered with unmoving cadavers in varying states of decay. We're left in the pressing quiet that only lasts for a few minutes after stabilizing an area.
"Guards probably got it from here," he shrugs, looking across the field behind us. He nods at the smoldering embers of the abandoned burn pile. "Should deal with that too, before we go back."
"I can handle it, if you want to get back home. Rory will eat your share if you're late for dinner," I say. Gale's little brother is all skin and bones, but already has the appetite of a bear at twelve years old. We make jokes about it, but I know Gale worries about how he'll fare when there's even less to provide.
"Nah," Gale argues, "I'll probably just get in shit if I go back without you. Can't have you catching a cold out here by yourself, your mother will kill me." He side-eyes me, smirking at his own joke. I glare back and huff up at him, a few escaped hairs from my braid blowing off my cheek.
"Do what you want. My mother didn't have any idea where I was for years. She can stand to wait a little longer now."
I don't mean for the words to come out so venomous, but they aren't untrue. When my father was killed in combat five years ago, he took a piece of my mother with him. She gave up on my sister and I completely, hiding in bed and refusing to acknowledge that she was still breathing. I was left to pick up the pieces and fend for Prim and myself. I'd be lying if I said I didn't hold that against her, even if she's since woken up again.
Gale doesn't comment, but he makes no move to head home either. He knows where I'm coming from, having lost his own father in the same combat mission as mine. I sigh and turn back to the burn pile, still smoldering and sending up smoke signals.
I start to rub my wrist again, suddenly very aware of the fact that the anniversary of my father's death is coming up soon. Prim wakes up early on that day every year to drag me to his makeshift grave before school. There was no body to bury, but we made a marker in the meadow just before the district limits, 'so we would always remember him' Prim had said. She was so small when he died that I don't see how she could even remember what he looked like, but I could never tell her no.
Unlike my sister, I don't want to remember. I try to forget the date every year. I try to forget the people we lost that day. I try not to think about how it was all my fault that they're gone. I always try, but I can never quite succeed.
Gale looks over at me and silently pulls my fingers away from my arm. The skin around my scar is pink and irritated. He doesn't have to ask what I'm thinking about. We've grown acquainted with each other's demons. He links his arm through mine and walks us closer to the embers.
"Just tell her I wanted to swing by the Hob," Gale says. "It's my last week of freedom. Tell her I wanted to say goodbye to everyone."
I nod, an uneasy feeling settling into my chest at the reminder. Gale turns eighteen next week. That means he'll officially be a soldier in combat, which also means our time together is about to lessen significantly. We've already agreed that I'll continue hunting alone, and providing meat to his family while he's away on missions. The money he'll earn as a soldier will vastly improve their livelihood, but the danger that comes with the position is a heavy price to pay for it. Soldiers who pass their combat training end up on one of three teams: defence, scouting, or transport. None of them has a long life expectancy.
"That reminds me," Gale continues in my silence. "There really are a few girls I need to say goodbye to, if you know what I mean."
I know what he means.
Gale's been using sex as his favourite outlet for a few years now. I've been introduced to a slew of girls who's names I don't bother to keep track of. Most are from the Seam; girls I grew up with but never bothered to befriend. A few of them have been merchant girls, looking to rebel against their parents with a so-called Seam Brat. With his rugged good looks and brooding manner, Gale's never had trouble getting the girl. His wild temper and hard head makes keeping them around more of the problem. I've caught the tail-end of more than a few (one-sided) teary-eyed break-ups. It never seems to bother him much, and it's never long before there's a new replacement. It all seems exhausting to me. Survival has always been my priority. It's left little room for anything else.
I've kept a tight circle of acquaintances since childhood, and an even tighter knot of people I call friends. I keep as low of a social profile as I can, Gale's advice aside. The more people you know, the more people you care about. This new world doesn't allow for a lot of caring, I've learned from personal experience. Caring too much puts survival on the back-burner, and no one can afford to do that yet.
Gale coughs and scrunches his nose as we near what's left of the bodies I'm in charge of disposing of. The flames have nearly died out already, but I grab the pail of water I had set aside anyway. I cover my face with my scarf again as I dump the water over the coals. They sizzle as thick, acrid smoke rises. The smell is intensified, and I'm looking forward to scrubbing it out of my pores in the tub when I get home. I'm wondering whether I've left it too late for the hope of any hot water when Gale coughs again, a little more pointedly.
"Anyone we know this time?" He asks, dancing out of the smoke's way. I shrug.
"Mostly training bodies. The old woman from the flower stand at the Hob. Died of some lung thing last night," I explain, keeping my eyes downcast and my voice void of emotion. The soldiers use any available bodies they can in combat training. A shot of muscle relaxers and removal of the teeth and jaw makes the corpses harmless enough to train new recruits with. But the old woman was practically a relic here. We don't use civilians if we can help it. A simple funeral service was held for her this morning. I didn't go. Death is inevitable, even more so now. Getting choked up over it doesn't change the fact.
Gale nods and sweeps his eyes over the ashes.
"Anyone from the Scout team?" he asks quietly. My gaze snaps up from the ground to glare at my friend.
"No. Why would there be? They're not due back until next week," I demand, watching his face. His cheek twitches, and I know he regrets asking the question out loud.
"Right. You're right. Got the dates mixed up, I guess," he brushes it off, but I narrow my eyes, suddenly suspicious. Gale isn't dumb. He can be reckless, and stubborn, and hot-headed, but you don't get hand-picked for Special Defence training like he did by forgetting the return date of your future teammates. For all of his griping about politics, no one follows military movement like Gale does. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth, but say nothing more on the matter.
"This'll do," I say, gesturing to the dissipating smoke, "Tom will see this. He'll come by before his shift ends and make sure it's all out for good. I'm going to try to get some food before it's cold."
I'm not planning on getting food. I'm planning on heading directly to the command center building to see for myself if they're back. I place the pail back beside the pile of bones and ash and cross my arms against the cold again, turning towards the pathway to our community. I start off, but stop and look over my shoulder when I don't hear Gale's heavy footsteps following me. He's still standing where I left him, staring at me with a decidedly guilty look on his face. I watch him run a rough hand through his sandy hair before blowing out a breath and jogging to catch up to where I am.
I don't say anything when he stops short beside me, just shoot a particularly hard scowl his way. Something's up. We don't keep things from each other.
Gale smiles one of his best charmers, but I know better than to fall for it. I raise an eyebrow, waiting. We both know I might be the only match for his stubborn streak. He shrugs a shoulder and tries to step past me, but I move backwards and block his way.
"Why did you ask about the scouts?" I don't raise my voice, but my tone betrays me with creeping panic.
Gale heaves an exaggerated sigh and scratches the back of his neck. For a moment, his face shows its real age of nearly eighteen instead of the more mature man he's had to be, and my anxiety sinks its claws in a little deeper. He stares down at me, his cheeks reddening slightly under the pressure of my glare. He huffs out another exasperated breath and holds his hands up in surrender.
"Katniss, why do you care?" he stutters, looking anywhere but at me. His sheepish expression would be comical in any other situation.
"Why wouldn't I?" I ask, louder than I want to be. "They're our people, aren't they?"
Gale merely looks to the ground and purses his lips. A few moments of tense silence linger before he asks in a low voice, "Are you sure it's not because he was with them?"
I hesitate, my tongue fumbling over the right words, but I can't hide my expression fast enough. Gale knows the answer.
I do care more about the scouting team because of him. Peeta Mellark.
He's the same age as me, but with a merchant family and a body that has likely never known real hunger until very recently, Peeta dwarfs me in size. He's popular around town, and I've seen the easy way he connects with just about anyone he talks to. I wasn't surprised to hear he'd been chosen as an early recruit to the Scout training program. Minors are rarely ever asked to join the military, and Gale had a lot of things to say about it when he found out. It was through him that I learned Peeta was on his first real scouting mission.
"You barely know anything about him!" Gale cries, his tone indignant, "What do you care if Mellark gets himself torn up?"
He isn't entirely wrong. Mellark and I have barely spoken in years, only a cursory nod in the school hallway or a half-smile in town. The friends he keeps are the same people who would spit insults at me in the school hallways. I don't have any reason to speak to him, nor does he to me, but I can't pretend we haven't caught each other staring more than once. Gale's noticed, and so has Prim, but they don't understand. I'm not sure I really understand it myself. Gale scoffs and often makes remarks about the merchant kid being a snob and how strange it was that his father was friends with the leader of the scout team. Prim giggles when she sees him looking and calls it a crush. I don't think either of them have it right, but I can't explain to them why this boy is at all important to me. How do you explain how a stranger gave you the strength to keep going when nothing else could?
"So he is back, then" I whisper. I mean to say they're back, but there's no question of who I'm interested in the whereabouts of right now. Gale flicks his eyes up to mine, but continues his silent treatment.
"Gale…" I hate the pleading note in my voice. I dig my fingernails into my forearms and try to keep my breath even. There's only two reasons a scouting mission heads home ahead of schedule. They either find enough refugees to deplete their supplies earlier than expected or...
The inquiry as to whether or not I was burning a team member confirms my fear. It's the second reason, and my heart sinks. My stomach gifts me with a wave of nausea and I shoot one last furious look at my best friend before I turn on my heel and sprint towards town. I hear pounding footsteps and I know I'm not running alone.
"Katniss, wait! I'm sorry, okay? They're fine! He's alive!"
I stop dead and immediately, I'm shoved forward again by force of impact when Gale slams into my back. We stumble forward, and I whip around and send a sharp blow to my friend's face before he can get his groundings back. He holds his hand to his jaw, letting out a shout of surprise.
"Katniss, what the hell?" he screams, rubbing his face with his palm.
"What's wrong with you?" I snarl.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms. My breaths come quicker and quicker. I can hear my heart beating erratically in my ears. A red tinge is leaking into the edges of my vision, blurring my surroundings. The scar on my wrist pulses with a burning heat. Fleetingly, I register that I need to calm down, immediately. The lingering side-effects of the infection that couldn't kill me remind me who's still really in control.
I leer up at Gale, and I know he's struggling, too. His teeth are bared in a grimace and he's rubbing his left shoulder, where his own scar hides. His other hand clenches and unclenches, no doubt begging him to let it wrap around my throat.
"Nothing's wrong with me," He manages to bark at me through labored breaths. "I just don't get the appeal."
He takes a step backward on shaky legs, but I make up the distance in two quick steps of my own.
"Why do you care? What does it matter?" I spit at him. I'm vaguely aware that the voice that snags its way out of my throat sounds nothing like my own. We stand nearly chest to chest, and my lips pull back in a snarl as I calculate how much closer I need to get before I can rip his throat out with my teeth.
Gale laughs humourlessly in my face. It comes out more like a cackle. I cock my head to the side, looking for the best angle. Let him laugh. I'll laugh harder when his blood is dripping down my chin.
We react at the same time. I spring forward just has his hands make contact with my shoulders. My teeth snap together, the sound ringing across the field, but they catch only air. Gale's huge hands throw me down to the ground. All the air leaves my lungs and I gasp at the impact when I hit the hardened earth. I can feel the vibrations in the dirt as he stomps towards me. He plants himself over me, a foot on either side of my head. I shoot an arm up to grab at something, anything, but the foot smashes down on my reaching fingers, crushing them on the cold ground under his boot. An unearthly scream tears from my throat as I writhe underneath him. The pain is there, but it's nothing compared to the white hot rage that courses through my body. I want to hurt him. I want to kill him. I want to destroy him.
I throw my head back to tell him as much, when our eyes lock together. Brown on green, both colors nearly hidden entirely by the black of grossly dilated pupils. I get a brief flash of memory, the girl at the fence and her own consuming anger, before my attacker's face disappears from view.
I blink, and strain my head back wildly, waiting for the next blow. Instead, I get a distorted, upside down image of my best friend kneeling against the sky, shaking with suppressed sobs.
I gaze at the scene in confusion for a few moments as I try to control my breathing. My red-filtered vision begins to sharpen as it morphs back into technicolour. The rage is still present, but the longer I lie here, trying to regulate my furious heartbeat, more and more of it is swallowed by the self-loathing that follows every episode like this. I flex my fingers and wince as the real pain finally hits me. Probably not broken, but wielding any weapon in this hand won't be fun for a while.
I'm about to force myself to roll over and check on the shivering man in front of me when he raises his head and takes in a deep lungful of air. I open my mouth to call out to him, but before I can find my voice, he lets out a shout of raucous, booming laughter. I realize his shaking is not due to tears, and my confusion grows.
He scrubs a hand over his face and looks at me, still open-mouthed on my back, and laughs harder. This laugh is his though, not the cold and menacing one from a few minutes ago. I think we might both be clear-headed again.
"What's so funny?" I grumble, rolling onto my side. My back aches from my fall.
"It's just so – so stupid! All of this – All of this for – for what?" Gale wheezes. He's on all fours now, trying without much success to control himself.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, eying him warily. I'm starting to rethink the status of his head.
"What are we even still doing here," he gasps, "when we should both be out there in the wild, taking this out on the right things?"
"Gale, you know why we have to stay here," I tell him slowly. "Our families need us. You know that."
"Yeah, until we snap and kill them," the man in front of me spits. He sits back on his heels, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks.
I groan, too exhausted for this common argument. We go around in circles, planning to run away, deciding to stay instead. Neither of us are ever happy with either plan. Deep down, I know Gale's right. We don't belong here. We're unpredictable and barely in control of ourselves. But I could never leave Prim. She was already abandoned once by her own blood, I could never do it to her again. Though, the darker parts of my mind wander at Gale's words. Would I ever hurt Prim? Could I become so out of control that I do snap and do something even more terrible? I shoot that thought down before it even fully forms, swearing to myself that I would never, ever hurt Prim or anyone else I love. The problem is, for people like Gale and I, you just never know for certain.
Immune – that's what they call people like us. The lucky ones, they say. The mysterious virus that killed over half the population of Panem and turned them into violent, blood-thirsty monsters didn't always do what it was supposed to. In fact, for people like me, it practically did the opposite. Those who are immune don't die from the virus, and we don't come back after, either. What we get instead is the ability to feel the purest form of rage. It's an anger that I didn't realise existed until I was bitten. It takes you over completely, forcing you to do horrible things and gives you thoughts that make your skin crawl. It doesn't ever stop wanting more. I can control it, most of the time, but it never goes away. I can feel the heat in my veins, like my blood is on fire. Far from enjoyable, it's a prickling, lurking hunger that is never sated. There's no cure. There's no end to it. All I can do is survive it.
Gale's soft chuckles die down as we both lay in the grass, listening to our heartbeats returning to a normal pace. Finally, my sluggish mind finds its way back to the cause of our fight.
"I still don't see what that has to do with the scout team," I question, breaking the silence. As my brain starts to un-fog, the catalyst for our double-episode looms back up to the front of my mind. Why does it matter to Gale what Peeta means to me? Gale is practically my brother. Jealousy couldn't be the issue here. Maybe he's still just caught up on the longstanding division between the merchant class and the rest of us in the seam. Maybe this is the virus making him paranoid. I don't know. Thinking about this is giving me a headache already.
Gale throws me a hard look.
"I just don't trust him, Katniss. People like him don't pay attention to people like us without a reason."
I avert my eyes and pick at the grass under my fingers. My hand still throbs from Gale's boot. I don't give him an answer. The only reason I can think of is far-fetched and too complicated to explain.
We lay in silence a little longer, until I remember why Gale followed me out here in the first place. I bolt up into a sitting position, rewarded immediately with a dizzy spell and a pounding in my ears. I bend my aching legs and push myself up, but nearly stumble down again.
"Yeah, your mother's going to kill me, " Gale nods, hoisting himself up to a shaky standing position. His hand slides into his pocket, and I tense automatically, still on edge. Instead of a weapon, he pulls out a brown pouch and with a practiced movement, unties the bag and shakes two white capsules into his palm. He pulls the string of the bag closed and throws it down to me.
"Should take two, it'll help with your hand," he suggests. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way."
"Sorry about your face," I reply. There's a shade of purple blooming over his jaw where my fist first connected. I shake the pills into my hand and dry-swallow them both. I shudder as the bitter things slide down my throat, but I know they're another necessary evil we've been faced with. I wait for the medication to hit my system and soothe my frayed nerves. After a few minutes, I start to feel the cool tingle in my scar tissue that lets me know it's doing what it's supposed to.
Gale limps over and extends his arm down to me. I take it and pull myself up on slightly sturdier feet. We dust ourselves off and he pulls me in for a quick, brisk hug. This is the most we'll dwell over the matter. It isn't the first time we've let our anger win out against each other, and experience tells me it won't be the last.
"Come on," He sighs, "I think even 'last goodbyes' still has its time limits." He throws an arm around my shoulder and starts to lead the way back inside. I smile weakly and let him lead us. We might have just finished trying to kill each other, but I know without a doubt that we'd sooner die for each other first.
I take one last look over my shoulder towards the fence before we head home. A few more corpses have wandered to its edge, banging listlessly against the metal. The jealousy still persists, if I'm being honest with myself, but as I get closer to home, and the people I love, I feel a little more grateful than before.