Part 2

I never knew my Aunt. And even now, after living her tragedy through her words, watching and re-watching her performance in the 50th Hunger Games, she still manages to evade me.

Yet ever since that day I discovered her journal, nooked into the far corner of the bedroom wardrobe, I have remained curious about the woman behind those sad eyes. My mother, when released from her spell of migraines, and I used to curl up on our porch (the only one in District 12) in the chill of the winter, just as the purple haze of dusk settled over the city, and she'd tell me stories about my aunt, her twin sister, and I held them close. They were plain, simple stories that truly didn't need to be told, but through every word I unlocked another piece of her, so treasured them.

I devoted many nights to reading, to worshipping, that abandoned diary. I usually let my mother keep her privacy. I used to pry, but when I turned old enough to, vaguely, be able to understand, I released her to her world of mild dreams. She had accepted her sadness, and was far past it, but seemed to live in a world of indifference. She lives in the past, her mood often changing as a certain memory overtook her, yet she was of the future as well. A future she would never have. The present was only a dream, a flicker of reality that was so foreign she could not accept it.

So I didn't pry. When I found something she had hidden, I let it be. That was… until I came across her sister's journal.

There was something to it. The yellowing pages were soft, and limp in my hands, its corners jagged with countless dog ears and its cover smudged with fingerprints. Capital books, with their stiff backs and bleached pages, were intimidating, but this one seemed to smile at me. Besides, the books my father got for me from his rare trips to the Capital were never worth reading anyways. They were all about celebrities unknown to me and 'safe' ways to pierce your eyelids.

And… she was there. Her strength oozed from the pages, the book's presence so similar to that of my Mockingjay pin I couldn't resist but taking it for myself. And yet, even now, my mother is unaware that I have kept the book.

So, with the diary nooked into the back pocket of my worn, muslin cloth trousers, I made my way to the towering gate of the District. In the early hours, when the majority was asleep, the Hunger Games are not aired. I knew that Gale would have to hunt at some point, and he wouldn't want to risk missing Katniss. If I ever was to get a chance and seeing the forest for myself, it would be now.

The air is crisp, and a blue, dawning breath clouds at my lips. I know that the wires are dead, but I do not dare lean against them as I wait. Time passes, and I'm beginning to doubt his arrival, and wondering if I should turn around and go home. But then I hear a voice.

"You're a lot more persistent than I thought you were."

I turn to see him. His side-swept hair traces the edges of his eyes, and his lips are pursed into an amused smile. Looking from his sturdy, ashen boots and array of blades and rope that I know is for trapping, I suddenly feel very unprepared. My outfit feels flimsy.

Indicating to his hands, I say, "Those are snares, right? What types of animals will those catch?"

"If we're lucky, bears."

A shock runs through my body. "But aren't those a little small?"

He shrugs. "It's only enough to anger them. When we've got one, we'll come up from behind and stab them in the back. It may be a bit of trouble, but the pay makes it worth it." It's not until he's well under the fence and slinking off into the woods with laughter that I realized I've been fooled.

Frustrated that I could fall for something so stupid, I jam myself through the barbed wire, temporarily forgetting my prior fear of being electrocuted.

I follow him in silence. Well, at least my mouth is silent. The sound of my feet are the shattering of glass compared to his nimble steps- sometimes he's so quiet I forget his presence. Still, there's a certain thrill crawling throughout my skin, fleeing down my spine- I'm actually here, in the elusive forest that had always remained a distant, impenetrable realm that was so unlike my own it was startling. Suddenly, in the midst of my own self-pride and fear, I'm desperate to hear words- something solid, something to hold on to. I'm grateful when he speaks.

"How are you holding up?"

"Good." I nod. "How much farther will we go?"

"Not much longer now." He pauses. "It's nice out here, isn't it? Sort of… safe."

"Safe?" I echo, doubtfully. I don't feel safe at all. I feel open and exposed, like there is nowhere to hide in this empty place.

"Safe." He repeats. "No one is watching you, no threatening glares pressed against you. We're safe out here. We're free." He shakes his unruly hair. "I guess you don't hear it, do you?"

I knit my eyebrows together.

"Listen." He instructs. "Everybody's waking up."

And, marvelously, I did. Standing there, I could feel the energy ebb from my fingertips, and therefore into the trees around me. The chatter of birds in the lace of leaves, the musky breath and pulse of fur and bone. I begin to open my mouth to speak, but he stops me by holding out a hand. Kneeling under the undergrowth, he removes a braided string from the jagged patterns of discarded leaves and motions me over. There, only a few yards away, a hare is nestled within the steely jaws of a snare, nibbling at the ground.

He hands me the rope.

"No." He whispers. "You're holding it wrong." Taking my hands, he rearranges my fingers so they are interlaced around the rope, and squeezes them to tell me that I must grip it harder. Despite his years of coal and winter, his skin is surprising smooth- like the sleek glaze of a spring-kissed leaf. Through the thread of rope, I feel as if I can feel the rabbit's nose quiver.

He nods. White voltage runs through my body as I pull the string, the cruel snap of the steely jaws echoing in the glowing dawn. With a sigh, the animal dies, and Gale stands to retrieve it.

He shrugs. "Not bad. You were almost too slow, but luck was on our side." Standing he says, "Let's continue."

I'm almost disappointed by his lack of praise, but I keep it to myself. The pride I feel is enough to count for the both of us. I trot to catch up with him, and when I do, I ask. "We can't kill any Mockingjays, okay?" He should be able to tell by my voice that I mean it.

He smiles sadly. "I know. And especially not now."