Song: "Paradise" by Coldplay
Chapter 4 - The Living (K)
I turn the small brass key in the lock of my post box at the train station, and I'm surprised by how full it is. Normally, my mail is little more than statements from my financial account held at a Capitol bank, a few bills, maybe a letter from my mother. Gale's written once, but the envelope still lies unopened on the desk in the study.
Back at home, I sort through the week's post. I set aside the statements and bills for later. I'm actually learning to manage my own budgets, now that my mother doesn't live with me, but I'll take care of that later. Thumbing through the letters, I find one each from my mother, Delly Cartwright, Plutarch Heavensbee, and Gale. There's also an official-looking envelope from the office of the president. This last one both intrigues and scares me, so I decided to open my mother's first.
Dear Katniss,
I hope, as always, that you are doing well. I'm still working on putting together all the information you wanted from me about people I knew. I promise to send it along as soon as it's ready.
I think of Prim every day, too, sweetheart. Sometimes I think I see her, too. She's always with me. I think now I have to be twice the healer I ever was, if I can, to even begin to make up for her loss. I miss you as well, but I hope you understand why I can't go back there yet. Maybe one day.
It looks like I'll be leaving District 4 in a few weeks. I'll be headed to the new hospital in District 7 to help train the nurses there. I've really enjoyed being near the sea here in 4, but I think a change of weather might be nice. I do miss the seasons back home.
I hope Peeta is well. Please let me know if you're able to come visit me, I'd love to see you. Take care, and let me know if you need anything.
Love,
Mom
I had last written her a few weeks ago, after Prim had haunted my dreams for nights on end and was creeping back into my waking vision as well. She comes and goes. I don't know if it's just a dream, a hallucination, or if she is actually there. Sometimes I hear her voice, clear as anything, and once I could swear I woke with her small, warm body tucked against mine, but found nothing when I opened my eyes.
Does she really see Prim, the way I do? I wonder. I'm glad, at least, that she's working and keeping busy. She must be doing well if she's been assigned a new job.
Temporarily pushing thoughts of my mother aside, I let my curiosity about the official letter get the best of me. I run the edge of my knife against the top crease of the heavy parchment envelope and remove a typed letter on matching stationery.
Miss Katniss Everdeen:
Hello, we hope this finds you in good health and good spirits. We are writing to tell you that, upon review of your records and testimony of your physicians, your probationary period will terminate effective January 1. After this time, all travel restrictions will be lifted, and you are granted full rights and freedoms afforded as a citizen of the Republic of Panem et Populi.
You will continue to receive your monthly stipends as set forth in the documents you received last spring. Additionally, all medical expenses related to mental and physical injury sustained in service to the Republic will continue to be covered in full. While we cannot and will not dictate your future from this point forward, it is our sincerest hope that you use your prodigious talents to better yourself and the Republic however you best see fit.
Should you have any questions or concerns, feel free to contact us at the enclosed telephone number or address. Thank you again for your service to the people of the Republic.
Kind regards,
The Office of President Regina Paylor
So that's it? I'm free to do as I please? Maybe with the end of the travel restriction I could visit my mother. The thought does raise my spirits some; I'll consider it.
When I go to put the letter back in its envelope, I find another, smaller piece of parchment I must have overlooked earlier. Unfolding it, I find a note written in what I can only assume is the president's own slanted print.
Dear Katniss,
I do sincerely hope you are well. Please know that you have the full support of my administration for as long as I remain in office. If there is anything we can do to help, don't hesitate to ask.
Best,
R. Paylor
It crosses my mind that if I hadn't killed Coin, Paylor wouldn't be where she is now. Somehow I feel that she's not merely repaying a favor, but I can't imagine what she could do for me right now, other than leave me alone. At lease it sounds as though the new government doesn't want to be too involved in my life.
As I put down the note, a strange feeling floods me. Nearly two years ago, President Snow was threatening the lives of everyone I loved in this very room. Now, I stand here reading a letter from President Paylor proclaiming my freedom. It's almost too much to believe.
My attention is drawn back to the other letters on the desk, so I open a few more. Delly writes about moving back to District 12 in the spring. Apparently, she'll be accompanying a handsome young medical researcher she met in the District 13 hospital who will be working at the new medicine factory.
Plutarch's letter contains the dates he'll be in District 12 this spring and a not-so-subtle hint that he wants me on film. As I stuff this letter back in its envelope, I see the only one left is Gale's. I consider opening it, but then think that I should read the original one he sent first.
I pick up the letter Gale had sent in early summer, but before I can open it, my mind is filled with images of silver parachutes falling from the sky, the expectant faces of the children beneath, the explosions, the aftermath…
When Peeta finds me hunched in the corner of my closet later that evening, he doesn't say a thing. But even so, as he picks me up and puts me in bed, I can see the concern written all over his face.
The letters from Gale will wait for a different day.
That night, I dream I am by the sea. My father plays with Prim in the surf, Finnick and Annie swim in the deep water, and I lie on the warm sand as the sun encases us all in splendid warmth. Across a large, grassy field opposite the water, small yellow flowers rustle in the breeze. I feel a hand holding mine, a man's hand, but when I look up into his face, all I see is light.
A brisk early winter wind blows over me and rustles the scarlet leaves of the sugar maple that conceals me. With the blanket of dry, dead leaves thick on the forest floor and snow yet to fall, waiting for game in the branches of a tree can be a better bet than tracking game on foot, particularly when you don't feel up to expending the necessary energy to tread lightly enough on the crispy ground cover.
Many days I still find it difficult to summon the will to go out into the woods at all, or out of the house even. But I have to try. What else is there to do? I think of all these weeks Peeta and I have been working on the memory book, as we've taken to calling it. Just yesterday, I was sitting at my kitchen table and slowly turning the pages of the book, running my fingers over the portraits, re-reading the captions, because I know it's important, somehow, never to forget anything. And there is still so much to add.
"Hey, Katniss." I hadn't even heard Peeta come in, yet his voice hadn't startled me, as if I expected him to be there. "I know I don't remember every detail of what's real or not," he had continued as he sat beside me, "but I know, beyond doubt, that our book is real, and the people in it will always be real as long as we let them live in us. And we have to go on, so they can live, Katniss."
Peeta's words stay with me as I descend from my tree to retrieve the wild turkey that will make an excellent dinner. I know he's right about our need to go on. But how can you think about any kind of future after living on the brink of death for so long? After seeing everyone you love be ripped to shreds or burned to ash, or else become so distant it's almost as if they're gone? Almost everyone. There's always Peeta.
And there he is again, pervading my thoughts as I walk home, then silhouetted in the window against the warm glow of his kitchen ovens. The day has become steely and the comfort of Peeta's house calls to me, so I quickly drop the birds in my own kitchen before heading for his.
"Mmm, smells good in here," I comment as I walk through the door.
"Thanks, I hope you like it. I've never made this before, although I watched my dad do it. Egg pie, he called it," Peeta explains as he sets a pie pan on the table. The pie looks rich and delicious, full of cheese and bits of meat and vegetables. I can tell before I even take a bite that I'm going to love it.
"Oh, wow, this is amazing," I say with my mouth full, taking another forkful before I can even swallow the first bite.
"My goodness," Peeta mocks in Effie's shrill tone. "Just when I thought I had tributes with some manners!" I can't help but laugh at him, and with my mouth full of hot food, I end up spitting half of it out. "Well, I never!" exclaims Peeta, and now we're both in hysterics. A moment passes before we can contain ourselves.
Then, as I wipe my face on my napkin and we regain composure, the silence that follows seems heavy and strange. "Have we heard from Effie?" I ask in a small voice. I'm suddenly feeling very guilty.
"Yes, she's called a few times, but it was when you… weren't feeling well." More like sobbing and locked in a closet, I think. "She's working for Paylor's office, coordinating schedules and managing events."
"I wonder if the president's table manners are up to snuff," I wonder.
"They better be, because we have another big, big, big day ahead!" Peeta finishes in a pitch-perfect facsimile of Effie's piercing tone.
"I'll bet Paylor eats with her hands." And with that mental image, fits of laughter are upon us again. When we catch our breath, Peeta's voice turns more serious.
"We ate with our hands on the train the day we were first reaped, just to annoy Effie," he says. "Real or not real?"
"Real." I wonder where he's going with this. These questions have been coming more frequently lately. I've learned to expect them if the conversation is going too well. I try to answer the best I can.
"And on a different train, on the Victory Tour, I would sleep in your bed, but it was just sleep."
"Real," I say. Sleep, and nightmares, and screams. And…kisses? How is it I can barely remember this myself? Aside from the horrors of my dreams, the image that stands out in my mind from those nights involves Peeta's warm body pressed up against mine, defending me from the chilly winter nights.
"And then that day on the roof of the training center, the day before the Quarter Quell interviews, I… I was preparing myself to die defending you, and you were doing the same for me. But we tried to forget about that, and we spent all day at that rooftop garden. That was the best day of my life." I forget that it's a question until he adds, "Real or not real?"
"I- we were on the roof-" The best day of his life? How am I to know? Suddenly my stomach lurches and I can't keep my thoughts straight. I find myself feeling confused and torn as if I'm in a nightmare, but this is real. I hear Peeta say something as he moves toward me, but I back away, not wanting his comfort right now.
Before I know what I'm doing, I find myself fleeing Peeta's kitchen and running across his yard. But instead of taking refuge in my own house, for some reason I find myself at Haymitch's kitchen door. He never answers his front door.
Forgetting that he always keeps it locked, I slam into it as I try to wrest the handle open. When the knob doesn't budge, I hammer the heel of my hand against the wood until I hear Haymitch's rough slur coming from the other side. "Alright, keep your pants on, I'm coming." A watery gray eye appears as the door opens a crack. "Oh, it's you," is apparently my invitation to come in as Haymitch unlatches the chain, swings the door open, and shuffles back to his chair (and bottle) at the table.
Haymitch takes a swig as he eyes me. "You two get in a fight?" he asks me.
"Not exactly," I say. From the window I can see the flock of geese that alighted over a month ago on Haymitch's back yard is still there, nipping at the last of the grass. "Those geese moving in? They should have been gone a while ago," I say, purposely changing the topic. Although it's true that I haven't seen a flock of geese in a couple weeks.
Haymitch grunts. "Looks that way. Thought I might raise them up, if they want to stay. Might as well have something to do."
"Yeah, might as well," I echo. "Oh, that reminds me, we still need your help with our book. If you can."
He takes another large swill of white liquor and almost spills the bottle when he puts it back on the table. "Why couldn' I?" he asks.
"Because you're a drunk, Haymitch," I say plainly. Once I began noticing people other than myself again, I had soon realized that Haymitch's drinking is as bad as it's ever been, maybe even worse. I find that I don't really want to be around him if I don't have to be. So why am I here now? "That stuff is bad for your health, you know," I say with a gesture toward his bottle.
"Life is bad for your health. I'm still alive, aren't I?"
Yes, Haymitch is still alive, and so many others aren't. But those who died so young, how many of them would have ended up like Haymitch? And who has he become: A gruff, jaded man who fights with betrayal and lies? Although he is also a man who, in spite of (or because of?) a constant need to consume so much alcohol to avoid being consumed by so much pain, has himself continued to fight against those who have wronged him. He's right, as much as I hate to say it.
"You're still alive," I reply dryly, hardly believing it myself. "Why? I mean, why did you fight, join with the rebels, after you had nothing left…"
"Nothing left to live for?" Haymitch finishes for me. "Suppose it would seem that way. More like nothing left to lose. But lemme tell you, sweetheart, for a long time I had given up. Started drinking 'cause it was less painful than thinking about them all the time."
"Your family?"
"And the tributes, the games. And my girl, Ryla. She knew Snow was threatening me, but she always said she wouldn't let them take her. When they came for her…I knew she didn't go without a fight." Haymitch's gravelly voice has taken a dark, slow cadence. I don't say anything – what could I? Haymitch's eyes are distant and heavy, and I think he's on the verge of passing out when he continues.
"And when she was gone, when they were all gone, I tried to forget. But I couldn't. For years and years, I couldn't. And then when I heard talk of a revolution brewing a few years back, I got to thinking that, well, maybe it would be better to do something. It's always stayed with me, how Ryla musta fought, hittin' and kickin' and bitin'. She could get dirty, that one. She could get dirty…" He smirks lewdly. I ignore this.
"So you joined the rebels for her?" I say. He's never revealed so much of his past, and I'm intrigued.
"For her, and my family, and all those kids I sent to off to the slaughter."
"Seems kind of anticlimactic, raising geese," I say. Haymitch just laughs. "Do you want to put Ryla in our book?" I offer.
He waves his hand dismissively. "Your book of the dead, for what it's worth girlie, is just that. Don't forget, you're still alive."
"Sure, Haymitch."
As I go to leave, he says after me, "Peeta's still alive too, you know."
I'm mentally and physically exhausted, but Haymitch's comment brings me back to Peeta. I need to see him before I can go home, if only to apologize for running out earlier. I know it hurts him when I do that.
His kitchen is empty when I enter. "Peeta," I call. Nothing. Walking through to his living room, I see him, sprawled out across the rug, his motionless body rigid. I hear myself cry out as I run to Peeta and drop by his side. He's still breathing.
The initial panic wears off and I begin to think. His doctor, I should call her. Finding her number on a piece of paper taped near the phone, I dial with shaky fingers. "Dr. Aceso?" I say as she answers. "It's Katniss Everdeen."
"Hello, Katniss. What's wrong?" I briefly explain our discussion earlier and how I came in to find him. Her soothing voice is reassuring as she replies, "He most likely passed out after a flashback. Since he's too heavy for you to move, try to make him comfortable where he is and let him sleep. Call me back if he doesn't wake by morning or if anything changes."
"I will, thank you," I say. I'm glad the doctor doesn't want to talk long.
I find Peeta a blanket and pillow and try my best to get him into a comfortable position. Managing to get Peeta settled on the side of his good leg, which he prefers to sleep on, I heavily plop myself down on the sofa as dusk settles in.
I'm too tired to move and I know staying with Peeta is the right thing to do, but neither of these reasons is why I find myself sitting in the exact same position hours later, blankly watching Plutarch's special on District 3 while Peeta lolls unmoved on the floor. When my eyes become so heavy I know sleep is inevitable, I turn off the TV and lie back on the sofa.
Sleepy as I am, rest won't come to me until I finally slip down onto the floor and nestle myself against Peeta's broad back.
I wake in the morning with a hammering headache to find Peeta still asleep, the two of us curled up together on the sofa. He must have woken up sometime during the night and moved us up here. Slowly, I realize that the pounding is not coming only from my head, but from the kitchen. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Someone is knocking at Peeta's kitchen door.
I slowly rise to my feet and shuffle through the rooms to the back door, where the knocking continues. When I peek through the window to see who it might be, I blink heavily, not believing what I see. Even as I open the door, the sight of the two blonde men in front of me has me agape.
I think I hear the baker and his middle son say something as the floor drops from under me and my world goes black.
A/N: Told you I'd be twisting it up! Don't worry, it will all be explained in the next chapter, which I'm over 1K words into already. I promise I won't make you wait as long for this one. :)
A huge thank you to all of my reviewers so far. I really do value your feedback, so keep it coming!
Love, LilD