I do not have the rights to the Hunger Games or any of the characters, just my own work.
I welcome all reviews and constructive criticism :)
The smell of the hot summer's day drifts across to where I am sitting. My baby brother's head in my lap, I twist the blonde curls round and around my fingers, mesmerised by how the light seems to catch every single golden curl. This sense of calm is something I am accustomed to, having grown up in District 12, where the only real excitement we get is the annual choir song ceremony at school, and even that can be rather dull.
My mother tells me it was not always like this. My mother, Katniss Everdeen, who survived the two Hunger Games and a war against the evil Capitol. At least, that's what they tell me at school.
At seven years old, I once brought it up at home one evening and my mother dropped the bowl of venison soup she was carrying, it cracked, and shards of glass clattered onto the ground. My usually calm and collected father shot me a look that seemed to scream, "Do not utter another single word," and rushed to embrace my mother as she began to shake uncontrollably. Even my four-year-old brother seemed to sense the tension at our small dining table and began to cry in his highchair. Immediately, my mother scooped up little Sunny and held him to her chest, soothing him with gentle words.
I never mentioned it again.
Still, the question of what my parents went through only two decades ago lingers in the back of my mind as I turn my head to gaze at their relaxed faces. Sitting side by side, connected by their joint hands, they rest surrounded by wildflowers of all colours at our spot in the Meadow. My father's gentle blue eyes find mine and his face lights up into one of his usual warm smiles at the sight of my brother and I's resting forms. My mother's hard grey eyes soon follow, but they soften as soon as they find my smiling face.
My father puts his arms around my mother and they both sit there, a picture of calm and utter happiness. A feeling of joy bursts through me at the sight, but also longing for a love as deep and palpable as theirs is.
This feeling of calm is broken, of course, by my younger brother who whines in that adolescent tone he is increasingly using, "When are we going home Dad? There are too many bugs and I'm starving."
I can't help but roll my eyes at hormone-fuelled, twelve-year-old Sunny who's only priorities at the moment are food, friends and sometimes homework, in that order.
"Look, can't you just enjoy the sun while it lasts? And anyways, we ate only half an hour ago," I remind his now frowning face. I lift my face towards the sun and try to absorb as many rays of sunlight as I can before Autumn arrives any day now.
"Come on, Sunny, I'll walk you home and show you the cupcakes I just iced at the bakery," replies my father, ever the peacekeeper.
I think to myself, how ironic it is that my brother was named Sunny, when at the moment he is one of the moodiest people I know. My brother runs ahead of my father, eager to get home and my father limps slightly behind, made slower by his artificial leg. I frown slightly, realising that I have still never been told what caused such a life-changing injury, as my father usually brushes it off with a "just hurt it when I was young and they had to chop it", but I know better.
My mother, still watching me with her observant gaze, asks me, "What's wrong?" at the expression on my face. I quickly compose myself and smile what I think to be a reassuring one,
"Oh nothing, just thinking" and she relaxes instantly.
She comes over and sits beside me, placing my head lightly in her lap and begins to plait my hair into one of her signature braids. People always remark, "Oh, she's just like her mother" and I don't understand it at all.
Sure, we share the straight, chestnut hair that falls down past our shoulders (although my mother's is now tinged with grey streaks), but it is there that the resemblance ends. While she possesses a graceful, yet sharp Hunter's poise, I am more of an open book, my emotions displayed freely in my blue eyes and mostly always ready with a smile. In that way, I guess I am more like my father.
As I look at my mother's long, dark eyelashes, and mysterious eyes, I think to myself "If only I were half as beautiful as my mother!" but am interrupted when she remarks in that steady tone of hers,
"You should try and be kinder to your brother, Poppy", and she's right of course but I reply,
"I know, but he's just so… well annoying!" in an exasperated tone. My mother surprises me by letting out a laugh and after a few moments I join in, both of us giggling like schoolgirls.
After a minute or so, she adopts a more serious expression and calmly says, "Your father and I have some things to discuss with you when we get home."
That sentence alone rings alarm bells in my head, and I rack my mind quickly for something to apologise for. Finding nothing, I return my worried eyes to my mother, who quickly says,
"Oh! Don't worry, you're not in trouble or anything," and I mentally let out a sigh of relief but then confusion takes over,
"So, what's it about?" I ask and my mother replies,
"It's about a certain someone coming to stay with us for a while, but your father will explain better soon."
This obviously sparks my interest, as the only visitors we get are Grandma and Haymitch. It can't be Grandma as she visited only last week, and Haymitch is, well, Haymitch. I manage a nod at my mother, whilst my mind is spinning wondering whether this visit could be to do with my parents' past lives, and if I can finally learn something about their apparently exciting histories.
But of course, I dismiss this thought as only wishful thinking and when my mother suggests that we make our way home, I don't object.