It has been so long. It feels like an eternity since Prim died. I lay in bed, my world wrapped in pain, I no longer have the will to get up. I drift off between reality and pain that I no longer know what's real and what's not. Sometimes I see Prim, tucking in her blouse for her first day of middle school, and another wave of pain reminds me Prim is gone. Gone somewhere where I couldn't reach her, couldn't protect her. Gone, taking with her a chunk of my heart. This is what my mom must have felt like when dad died. When I was a child, I use to judge her, how could she be so weak? How could she let her own children starve and just stare into space? I now know why. I no longer care about anything. It's as if the world is flying over my head. I lay here, just willing myself to rot. How much easier it would be to just stare into space, and slowly die of hunger. There would be no more pain, no more suffering. My door opens and the crux of my problems walks in, Haymitch. Stupid Haymitch, who couldn't keep himself from wasting away from alcohol but somehow cares enough to make sure I eat and drink. Oh the irony, as I no longer judge Haymitch but envy him. If only I could drown the pain in a world of liquor. Alas, I never had the stomach for alcohol. At first, I resisted, but when Haymitch is sober (rarely) he is pretty smart. He just told me I would starve and become so weak that eventually, he would be able to feed me. Haymitch was right. Sometimes, I had just become too weak to resist. All he had to do was prop me up, and open my mouth. He force-feeds me baby food and clamps his hand over my mouth so I swallow. It's horrific. However, every day he always has a frosted cookie for me. I don't ask him where he got it, it doesn't taste any different. But I no longer resist, it's a waste of energy.
When I take a closer look at Haymitch today, I notice he doesn't Haymitch doesn't have any food. He carries a black dress and some notecards. I'm confused, my brain no longer working. What is Haymitch doing with it?
"Get up sweetheart, it's funeral day." He tells me. I stare at him. Funeral day? That's supposed to be next week.
"It's been a week already?" I croak. Days of inactivity, renders my voice almost gone. I stare at the notecards and the dress.
"Yeah, make sure you don't look like the walking dead and meet me outside in an hour!" He tells me, drops the dress on my bed and leaves. I'm about to go back to sleep when he pokes his head in.
"Don't sleep! You have an hour and try not to drown in the shower!." He yells. Curse Haymitch, he understands me so well. We're similar in a way, both losing our loved ones. We both think in the same way, survival. At least we use to. I groan and get up, grabbing the dress and boots and head in the bathroom. I stare in the mirror and get a good look at myself. I wince, I look unrecognizable. You can count the ribs on the person staring back, in their now tattered clothing. their dark eyes look like they haven't slept in weeks. The hair looks like a bird's nest, I look rabid, feral. I groan and step into the shower turning it to the hottest setting. It feels so good, clearing my mind a little of the pain as if burning it away. It's warmth cascading down my back, but I don't enjoy it for long. My legs are weak and my head dizzy. I desperately grab on to a handle, clinging on reality. God, Haymitch even predicted this part, as if he has been through it too! Then I remember he had. He also lost everyone he loved. I suddenly urge myself to try harder and let go of the rail. Instantly my head spins but I resist. Slowly, Methodiclly washing my hair. I make a list, now Katniss you have to dry off. Now Katniss you have to dry your hair. Now Katniss you have to put on your dress . I mechanically do everything I need, getting dressed, and making my own lines. The ones Haymitch wrote for me are crap. I read, reread them until I'm satisfied. Finally, I walk down the stairs, one step at a time. By the time I reach Haymitch, I'm sweating, exhausted and tired. Haymitch takes a look at me.
"You improved from walking dead to crap at least." He says. Haymitch, like me, didn't sugarcoat. Another thing I have to add to the evergrowing list of things Haymitch and I have in common. Great.
"At least I don't have vomit and alcohol on my shirt." I retort trying to sound snappy, but it comes out as a croak. Haymitch puts and hand on my back and leads me to the road.
"Take it easy sweetheart, don't knock yourself out." He pushes me in another direction and I frown.
"My car is that way," I say, pointing in the general direction of my car. Haymitch barks, half out of humor, half out of exasperation.
"Sweetheart, We don't want you following your sister's footsteps," He tells me. Immediately, my eyes start to water, threatening to spill. Haymitch must have realized he made a mistake and he tells me gently.
"Be strong, don't cry." He tells me. Crap, how does he understand me so well? How does he know I refused to cry all this time? The tears wouldn't come, I wouldn't allow it.
Haymitch calls a cab and takes us to the Cemetary. I stare out the window, my first glance of the outside world in so long. It's all a blur of pain. The park, where Prim loved to play. The Hospital, where she loved to volunteer. The bakery, where she loved to stare at the cakes. Everything reminds me of Prim, so I stop and make wretching choking noises. The man looks back at me concerned. Haymitch whispers something and he nods. Probably that I'm mentally unstable, but I don't care. When we get there the funeral is small. Not many people are here, and the priest says a bunch of random stuff. But suddenly it's my turn to speak. I freeze, never been good at public speaking. I'm caught, like a deer in a headlight.
"Speak from your heart," Haymitch whispers in my ear. I walk up and start talking
"Prim was the sweetest girl in this world and I loved her with all my heart. She was kind, always looked on the bright side, loved everything, and would never hurt a fly. On the contrary, she always wanted to be a doctor. Once we found an injured cat in the alley, and she had to help it, it's the ugliest thing I ever saw, but she loved it. She would have been a great doctor, would have saved many lives. Instead, her life was cut short. Cut short by recklessness," I glare at Gale, who still has trouble standing because of his ribs. He had to be wheelchaired here. His skin still in grafts, like something out of lab from the burns. I see him as a monster, not my best friend. He lowers his head in shame. Good, I think savagely that will teach him a lesson. "Everday, I see her in the meadows. I see her in the flowers she was named after" I take a deep breath before continuing. "Our lives are not measured in years but are measured in the lives of people we touch around us. And Prim," I choke and take a deep breath "she touched a lot of lives, mine for one. So even though her time was short, I will always cherish the time I had with her. Thank you." I step down and everyone claps. I remember all the time I had with her as I watch them lower the coffin into the grave next to my dad's. Suddenly the pain comes back, blinding my senses. The reality hit's me like I was the one who got crushed by that truck. Prim is gone, lowered into the earth, never coming back. I stumble back into the cab with Haymitch, and finally let my tears fall, no longer able to hold the pain back. And when they fall, they fall hard but I'm not able to control them. I don't think I'll ever be able to control them
I know what some of you are thinking. That line was a line Peeta Mellark said was from the movies in catching fire. But I really thought it fit well so please don't kill me!