AN: I'd like to put out a quick reminder that this story is set in the year of the 73rd Hunger Games — the year before Prim and Peeta are reaped and Katniss and Peeta go in for their Games. In this story, Katniss doesn't have any interaction with Haymitch, and she hasn't had any romance with Peeta. Katniss has no experience with the Hunger Games and doesn't know anything about District 13. I'm sorry I haven't made this clearer, I had a hard time explaining it in the summary after I chose to go AU.
As always, thank you all so much for the reviews, follows & favorites! It makes it much more worth it to write 3,000+ words a day, haha.
Dike - Thank you for the kind words! I'll try to answer some of your questions, they're all very helpful as far as it goes for directing where the story is going to go. I thought I'd put in the reminder about this being the year before their Games ahead so Haymitch and anything involving 13 likely won't happen, and I apologize for not making that clearer! But, thank you again. :)
For the first time since my father died, I am the last to wake up. When usually the only sound I wake up to is the buzz of nothingness, I hear the muffled bangs and clinks of pots in the kitchen. It's the most homely thing I've ever heard.
The small, still bedroom looks as comfortable as I think it's ever been. When I usually pull myself from my bed, far before the sun climbs above the trees, the room holds a particular sadness, with colors that look like they've been left in one too many rainstorms. The pale blue sheets look so light I wonder if they're real, and the wooden bed frame looks as if one touch could reduce it to splinters.
But in the morning light of the window (the only other one in the house besides the one in the main room), it's a room that looks nothing like what I wake up in every morning. I can see every speck of dust floating in the nothingness, illuminated by the light, hanging from invisible threads. I suddenly notice every fold in the bedsheets, every wrinkle, every sign of life, of someone living, breathing, loving, in this little room. I take sight of the claw marks down one of the walls, where Buttercup drew his claws down the length of the wall on a rainy day when he couldn't get outside. I notice the crooked rug that lies at the foot of my mother and Prim's bed, the one my father traded four squirrels and a week's worth of berries for. I see the little book of herbs and animals my father started tucked in the small bed stand between the two beds.
I feel a smile come across my face as I reach out and take the book in my hands, feeling the worn pages. My father always swore that one day he'd have it bound in leather. It would have made the book the most valuable thing I have to my name. But, when we couldn't afford that, he took my mother's linen thread and stitched down the side to tie the pages together.
I trace my finger down the line of stitches. They're remarkably tight — my father wasted hours trying to teach me how to sew, considering it's a valuable skill, but I could never get the needle through what I was actually trying to sew without piercing my finger instead.
Drawing was another skill I always had trouble with. My father was always able to effortlessly memorize every shape and detail of something and have no problem sketching it onto the paper. Every angle, every shape, every shadow, just another mark on the paper.
I turn to the first page. The first ever entry my father put together was just after I was born — and naturally, it's of a katniss root. I can feel the indent of the charcoal he drew it with when my fingertip grazes the paper, and I can see the tea stain in the corner. The whole book has faded to a sort of yellow-brown, and even the newest entries are colored with the grunge. I have barely touched the book in years.
I look next to the careful list of writing beside the drawing. My father always took notes about everything, whether he thought them, spoke them or wrote them. It was his way of remembering everything — there wasn't one thing of his life that he didn't remember.
My smile breaks a little wider when I come to the last note. 'The name of my lovely daughter' scrawled at the bottom, in his perfectly neat yet delightfully handwriting.
I push the book off my lap and bring my knees to my chest, reveling in this little time to myself. It's the first time in what feels like forever that I've had time to sit. And just exist.
It's also the first time in equally as long that I've heard the sounds of my mother in the kitchen. I can hear Prim as well, and their hushed voices together. They both suspect I'm still asleep, but either way, I'm not ready to step out of the room yet. Right now, I am home. I am undeniably, truthfully home. It wasn't the belongings that made the home, that I had thought all along, the knick knacks that sat along the shelf collecting dust. It's the marks in the wall, the dents in the furniture, the scratches in the floor, the little signs of life that tell stories.
I slide the book under my pillow before I slip off the bed and tuck the sheets at the sides of the bed. I pause a moment to admire my work, and my mind drifts back to the book. The biggest question is whether or not to leave it for Prim when Gale and I run off. It might be one of the only material possessions that would devastate me if I lost it, but he was her father, too. And it's a little part of me to leave for her.
I hear the sounds of the pots and pans against the stove change into the thuds of ceramic plate against the wooden table, and decide it's time to crawl out of my room. I reach a hand to my hair, which is nothing like the braid I left it in. I untangle the rest of it before I open the door, and let it hang down my shoulders.
It's a surprise when Gale is the first face I see. "You're up late," he says with a grin as he stands up for a hug.
I hug him tightly back and tilt my head. "Why—"
"Mandatory viewing," he cuts me off, half smirking. "Well … you know why."
Truthfully, I didn't know why. I knew why, but not why. Regardless, I followed him to the couch and pulled my knees back up to my chest. "We haven't had as many mandatory viewings this Games."
"Nope," Gale shakes his head. "After the ice incident— I wonder if the Gamemakers are doing something to get after some of the districts. Like we've been doing something wrong."
I look over his shoulder to the kitchen where my mother and Prim are, still unaware that I'm awake. If Gale is going to start throwing out theories and ideas about the Capitol, I don't want Prim to hear. I don't want to give the Capitol any reason to touch her.
Gale catches my glance and knows instantly where I'm looking and why.
"Something wrong," is all I say, looking down the ground for a moment.
Gale beats me to the next turn to speak. "I wonder what the Quell's going to be like next year," he speaks about next year so passively, I almost think he's forgotten about running away altogether.
I play along for whatever reason. Perhaps it's because of Prim and my mother in the kitchen just a few feet away. "Didn't Haymitch— you know, that drunk guy who's the last living Victor, you know him — win the last Quell? Twenty five or however many years ago?" I have to explain Haymitch at Gale's confused expression.
"The one who's always vomiting on Miss Effie Trinket come the reaping?" he chuckles.
"Him," I nod, smiling at the memory of Effie's face when the vomit reaches her over the top Capitol outfit.
"Think so. Can't remember the circumstances of that one, though I remember learning about in school. I bet the Capitol would have every year a Quell if they could get away with it."
I shoot another look to Prim to remind him, but it's half my fault when I keep responding and continuing the conversation. "Why can't they get away with it now?"
"They can't be cruel all the time — that'd mean a surefire rebellion. Like I've said, they need to give enough reason to keep half of the population wanting change, but the other half too cozied up with the Capitol to care. It's how it works," Gale sighs and turns to the television.
President Snow stands before a crowd of people, which is unsurprisingly all Capitolites. Considering we're the ones forced to send our children to our deaths, we don't even get to see the battle from the luxury of the Capitol.
"Panem," he begins, waving his hands. He's incredibly blunt and to the point, which I suppose he has to be if he's behind the Games. But, I'm not even sure when the Games started, only that Snow has been the President for as long as I can remember. Even when I've asked people in the Hob like the only Peacekeeper who interacts with us, Darius, or Greasy Sae, they say that Snow's always been in power for as long as they've been alive.
"You are all here today to observe the 73rd Hunger Games. Right now, however, I would like to publicly announce the beginning of something related to the Games you are gathered here to watch today. It is of no secret that the Hunger Games were established after the Dark Days of Panem. The artifacts and documents that remain from the charred Dark Days tell of a time in Panem where disorganization and chaos ruled. Where the citizens rebelled against their government and believed they were superior — superior enough to rule and govern themselves.
It is also of no secret that this sort of government would never succeed. The government is in place not only because it allows the citizens to live their lives with organization and peace, but because the government is able to decide and deal with matters in a way that is not done by the average citizen. We are able to decide things with the greater good of the country in consideration. Following the Dark Days, the actual inception of the Hunger Games were to remind our citizens of this every year. Speeches, while traditional, do not teach lessons as well as entertainment and action. The Games are a creation to honor those who were killed in the Dark Days, simply by the ruthlessness and foolishness of their fellow citizens who believed they were superior. The Games honor through the tributes who fight to the death. Death is an honor in and of itself. Death is hope, not fear."
I look towards Gale and subconsciously move towards him as Snow begins to speak once more.
"In the idea of honor and thus sacrifice, we recognize the idea of rebellion. The Dark Days was the most significant rebellion in the written history of Panem, but that is not to say there have not been such attempts before, or that there will not be in the future. The idea of a rebellion would cripple and ruin Panem and it's citizens. With the success of the Games, all 73 of them to this day, I would like to announce the arrival of an update in the name of disrespect and rebellion towards the Capitol. An extra tribute of both genders will be added from the offending district for every act of rebellion. Should one district stage any sort of uprising, whether it is intentional or unintentional, they will be forced to offer two more tributes for their act. This addition to the Games policy will ensure that each district is punished individually for their crimes against the security of Panem government," President Snow pauses for a moment to look across the sea of people before him. He is the supreme leader, the ruler, the dictator, of these people, and also of all the people in the rest of the Capitol, of all the people in every district. He is the single hand of cruelness. "With that, I bid you all a good night, and a happy Hunger Games."
Gale and I look towards each other as the beginning of the actual Games coverage comes across the screen. 'We need to get out soon', I mouth to him.
'And get everyone we love out, too', he replies soundlessly.