This just popped into my head today and, since I'm sick and have absolutely nothing better to do (like study for exams), I decided to write this.
It's angsty and sad, but I like it.
Also, this is supposed to be choppy and jump from subject to subject. That's how I wanted to write it.
The Five Stages of Grief
by emblah01
People say that there are five stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
I think that these people lie. There are only three stages: Anger, denial and depression.
I would never bargain for Prim. Prim was someone priceless, someone I can't replace. To bargain for her would be an insult to her memory. And her memory is all I have.
I know I will never accept Prim's death. I know this and I accept this about me. To accept her death would be like saying she is really gone. But she isn't. I see her in everything.
Peeta helps a little. He tries to understand me, but there are still moments he will leave the house shaking in fear, me screaming at him and throwing things in his wake. There are still moments the glass he is holding will shatter and he will clench his teeth, screaming nonsense as he is ridden with another flash of terror. There are still moments Haymitch will have to knock him out cold so he doesn't kill me by accident.
But I think we have a mutual understanding of one another. We know where our limits are now. There are days when he will come over in the early morning and I will wake to the smell of fresh breads and pastries. There are nights when I will wake up screaming for my father to run, and Peeta's strong arms will be open to comfort. There are moments when we will share a small kiss and I feel the hunger I felt in the cave and on the beach. I have found comfort in this familiarity.
I am currently sitting on the rock Gale and I sat on that fateful morning, only three years ago. I clutch my wooden bow in my hand, running my thumb over smooth, polished wood. It feels familiar. A few strands of dark hair that have fallen out of my braid run across my vision, blowing in the wind. I carefully brush the side of my head, just behind my right ear and swallow when I feel the bare skin, puckered and scarred.
The explosion that killed her left its marks on me too.
A sharp burst of anger begins in the pit of my stomach and I feel nauseous. I taste salt in my mouth and swallow the vomit down with difficulty.
The leaves toss and turn around each other on the ground like a dance, the cold autumn wind biting into my flushed cheeks. A mockingjay sings in the distance, a familiar tune. One I haven't heard in a long time.
I hum along under my breath, singing the words to myself in my head.
Deep in the meadow, under the willow,
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow.
I pick a few blackberries from the sparse bush growing beside the rock I site on. I roll them in between my fingers before popping one into my mouth. The juice bursts onto my tongue, erasing the previous taste of salt.
I see Gale on television sometimes.
On his arm, he has a beautiful blonde woman with warm brown eyes. He is smiling and she is smiling. On her finger, she has a dainty, sparkling ring, glittering in sunlight of District Two. Though she seems nice from what I've seen on camera, I know that I will always hate this girl, because she is with Gale.
And Gale is the one with the bomb.
The sunlight dances on the deadened grass through the bare tree branches. I can hear the faint sound of a creek somewhere beyond me. It is probably swimming with life right now. Fish, catniss roots and other edible water plants, oblivious to the death around them.
I slowly pull an arrow out of my quiver, loading it into the bow. I pull back on the string with some difficulty; the feathers carefully fastened on the end of the arrow tickle my cheek. I let out a hiss of angry air and let the arrow fly. It spears a bird in the chest and it falls to the ground with a dull thump.
I jog to it, leaves crunching under my leather boots, and stare at the sight in front of me. It is lying on its back, its wings flapping around helplessly. It shrieks and squawks for help that won't come. Dark red blood spurts from its chest, soaking its glossy feathers. I wrap my fingers around the wooden hilt of my knife and slice its throat.
Blood dribbles onto my fingers from the bird's neck as it lets out one last painful shriek and dies. I stare at the red liquid decorating my hands and holey woolen gloves, my eyes wide.
Panic bubbles in my stomach and I take a deep breath. Control, I tell myself and grab the bird by its neck. I load it into my game bag. I will come home with very little today, but I will always have another chance tomorrow.
This is another thing that feels strange to think about; a second chance. Because how many of those do you get in your life?
I stare at the ground. Red stains the dead, yellow grass. I let out a sigh and start back toward the fence, my game bag thumping against my leather-clad back as I walk across the rocky terrain.
I stop suddenly when a soft pink flower catches my eye. It is a primrose, delicate and gentle, swaying in the frigid wind. Surrounding it are small white flowers; rue flowers. A small smile graces my face and tears prickle in my grey eyes.
I take in a sharp breath and begin walking again.
People say that there are five stages of grief: Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
I have finally reached acceptance.
I hope you liked it.
Please review; I love constructive criticism.
-Lou