Part 4: The Willows
It's cold, so cold.
My teeth chatter like tiny iceboxes and my tongue feels frozen in place. Each icy breath I take fills me up with the unrelenting cold, permeates my body. I've long ago lost the feeling in my fingers and toes. And yet I still keep moving forward, crawling at a snail's pace. I will my hands to hit my last shred of hope: the soft fabric of my warm jacket.
This is so futile. I'm going to die here, frozen to death. I imagine blackened stumps in place of my fingers, a fate some of the women in my District meet sewing into the night during a long, miserably cold winter, trying to reach the quota the Peacekeepers seem to raise everyday.
Immediately I stop, check my fingers. But I can't see anything in this darkness. Already I'm wishing for the blistering heat that, a few short hours ago, I wanted more than anything to disappear. Well, now I've got my wish. And I'm paying for it.
The night sounds all around me echo in my ears. I hunch over my legs, wrap my arms around my body, giving me the feeling of false protection from whatever roams the woods at night. Those beasts, the wild dogs and who knows what else, could be circling me right now, just waiting to rip at my flesh. And this time, I don't even have the will to run away.
I can feel myself begin to cry, but no tears will come. My body is so dehydrated I'm not even allowed to cry anymore. The Gamemakers have taken away even the control over my own remorse.
A sob escapes my lips and I press my hand to my mouth to try to quell the noise. It's no use, though. Choking sobs rack through my body. No more. No more Mother, no more Father, no more sister. No more friends at the factory, Leena, Hatch, Bonnie, and Frill. No more suppers with family and friends. No more walks to the Well to make my wishes known. No more Nylon, who was so close to kissing me before the Reaping. No more Hunger Games, no more Capitol, no more Reenie.
Reenie. What had Reenie said, that I'm more determined than the rest? She's eating her words now. Probably preparing her speech for the next unlucky tribute. Of course I'll never win, what was she thinking? And her awful advice! Make allies, start a fire, keep warm. A fat lot of good that did me. Look where I am now, a hunched-over, frozen ice cube, all ready to be towed upwards to the sky and sent back home in a wooden crate. Keep warm. If only there was some way I could.
I sit here a minute, the gears turning slowly in my frozen brain. Then my hand flies to my shirt pocket. The matches! They're still here! Oh, I could just cry from joy, if I was still able to. But I don't worry about that, in the morning I can just follow my path back to the water.
I spring into action, cracking sticks and twigs and making a teepee-like structure, just like the instructor at training told me. I smile up at the sky, hope he sees how his work saved my life. My stiff clothes crinkle and break as the ice cracks off them, but I don't care. I'm going to have a fire!
I take the precious matches into my hands, strike one against the box and start a flame. Oh, the heat from the tiny flame alone feels heavenly to my numb fingers. I place the match in the middle of the teepee, feed the fire with dry pine needles and kindling. As the flames leap higher, so does my hope. Happiness soars towards the Capitol-crafted sky, mingles with the smoke on the way.
The next few hours are spent in complete bliss. I warm every possible part of my body. My nose, my toes, the icicles formed in my hair. I even lift up my shirt and thaw my belly button. I hope my sister sees this at home and laughs. We could all use a little laugh.
A sigh escapes my lips as I transport myself back home, curled up with my little sister on the hearth, watching the flames shimmer and dance from underneath our heavy, patchwork quilt. My mother used to laugh and say she named my sister, Quillie, after the old blanket.
My fire crackles and pops, lighting up the scenery around me. For the first time, I see where I am. I'm surrounded by a grove of willows, their sad, droopy branches brushing against my back. Don't be sad, I want to tell them. Things are all looking up. Even the faint gray light of dawn paints the horizon, giving us the promise of a new and better day.
But the willows remain droopy. Sparks dazzle my eyes as I reach out to touch a branch, move it away to see what lies underneath. I'm just poking my head under the branches when running footsteps reach my ears. Catcalls and jeers echo through the willows, so out of place in this peaceful setting. Someone kicks the twigs of my fire and burning bits of matter scatter everywhere. I'm plunged into darkness, and with the last flickering flames of the fire, my hope dies out.