Okay, so, full disclosure, this chapter is quite a bit... shall we say unfocused? By that I mean that I had three separate story threads that I bundled up together for one chapter, rather than expand enough on all three of them so that they could cover a chapter each. I'd rather keep the story moving forward, even if it means that this particular chapter feels disjointed. It's not too bad, I don't think, but fair warning nonetheless.
Morning comes. Together with Prim and my mother I sit down on the couch to watch the 76th Hunger Games begin. I feel almost nauseous, over and over trying to convince myself that Madge is not likely to die as early as the Cornucopia bloodbath. Why that is, I don't know. The only real reason I can think of is that I'm not prepared for that to happen, which is of course not a reason that holds any water. But if Peeta's theory is true and Madge has meticulously studied previous Games to find out what tactics have the best outcome I have to believe that that includes how to maximize your chances of getting through the first hours.
I barely hear a word that is said as Claudius Templesmith opens the show and drums up the excitement. I hear nothing of the talk about pre-Game excitement in the Capitol, or last-minute speculations about the outcome. I just want the damn thing to start already. Waiting around for the inevitable is devastatingly hard to do. The sooner the Games begin, the sooner they will end, and the sooner Madge might come home a victor. And if she is to die… I hate to think "let's just get it over with", but on some level I think I'd rather know one way or the other than keep living on the edge of something that might happen.
Finally it is time. The tributes are lifted onto their platforms placed around the cornucopia. The setting is underneath a large glass roof, slightly convex but not entirely dome-shaped. It's merely the roof that is made of glass; the walls are in faded pink brick and there are marble pillars supporting various parts of construction. Caesar Flickerman informs us all that the setting for the cornucopia is modelled after old stationhouses, which doesn't mean all that much to me since it's something I've only heard of but never seen. District 12's train station may be old, but not that kind of old. Through the glass ceiling sunlight shines in and reflects on the golden cornucopia, as per usual surrounded by various bags and crates and weapons. It seems to be a standard year as far as supplies go. Assorted weapons, foods and other supplies. I breathe a small sigh of relief, thinking back on the year when all the tributes had to fight with were maces. That is the only bit of relief I'm feeling. My whole body is trembling, and my pulse must be well over a hundred beats per minute. My mouth is as dry as a desert.
I see Madge on her platform. She is squinting in the bright light shining through the ceiling and reflecting off the cornucopia. Her blonde hair is arranged in a strict French braid, not a single strand out of place. She, just like the other tributes, is wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, coupled with an actually quite comfortable looking cardigan that reaches halfway down their thighs. There's a mockingjay pin on her cardigan, on the left side, just above her breast – just above her heart. Her district token. Madge and Eric have coal black cardigans while other district pairs have other colours or hues. It seems to be an urban theme for the Games this year and it makes me shudder. I've always had an easier time stomaching arenas set in wilderness, maybe because if so many children are to die they should at least get to do so while breathing fresh air and being surrounded by nature. The setting this year calls to mind the ruin city of a few years back, one of the most popular arenas but to me one of the most unsettling ones. The more civilized the setting, the clearer the barbary of the Games seems to be. The uncivilized murder fest shouldn't be set in an impersonation of civilization.
My mouth by now feels completely dry and I hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears as the clock counts down towards zero. The career tributes all assume positions to allow them to instantly sprint towards the cornucopia, while most of the younger tributes seem to be looking for a way to run. A few look indecisive. The boy from Nine, a seventeen-year-old who seemed awfully cocky during his interview, is visibly shaking, his teeth clattering and tears falling down his cheeks. I write him off as a goner unless he's playing the Johanna Mason ploy, which I doubt. Samantha, the twelve-year-old girl from District 11 who is this year's youngest competitor, is ghostly pale and has vomit stains on her sleeve. She looks ready to vomit again but doing so might actually trigger the landmines beneath her platform.
And then the counter reaches zero. The 76th Hunger Games have officially begun.
The six career tributes all immediately race towards the cornucopia and so do maybe eight or ten of the others. Carnage ensues instantaneously as they begin the battle over the supplies. Madge is among those who run for the cornucopia, but she doesn't go very close, grabbing the first thing she can reach and then stopping to look around, insecurity written on her face. Then her features settle into determination. She runs around the carnage, heading off behind the tail end of the large golden horn and then she is gone. Nobody follows her. Any tribute who chooses to run makes it out okay this year while the butchery ensues between those who stay and fight.
I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. Madge is safe – for now. The other tributes are unlikely to come after her at this precise moment when there is still so much fighting to be done at the opening bloodbath. I relax a little, sinking back against the couch cushions. Slowly it seems like my heart stops pounding and resumes its normal, softer beats. I never feel at ease watching the Games but at least for the time being I don't feel any more anxious than normal.
But I can't stay. The moment I feel it's safe to head out to the woods without being detained by a peacekeeper if I should run into one, I'm off the couch and out the door. As I leave the house I hear my sister's voice ringing in my ears, calling out to me to stay and watch. I don't listen. I'll get to see the highlights tonight, anyway. I've been so worried for a week now, and for just this brief window of time I feel I can be a bit relaxed about Madge, knowing that she is unlikely to be targeted by anyone while the bloodbath is ensuing. I feel like I've been wound as tight as a bow string all week long, and now I can breathe, and it almost makes me panic.
I go hunting. What else is there to do? I can't sit around at home all day and stare at the screen. I need to do something to distract myself. There's nothing I can do to help Madge in that arena, so I might as well not even try; might as well try and save myself from the pain of constantly thinking about it. And it works, to a degree. I spend the better part of three hours tracking my prey through the woods and on my way back towards the fences I stop and gather as much edible vegetation as I can carry with me. Only when I reach the spot where most of the wild strawberries grow do I hesitate, unable to bring myself to pick any today.
When I crawl underneath the fence to get back to the Meadow I've got my bag filled with a small wild boar – a baby, pretty much – and a pheasant, along with a leather pouch filled with blackberries, an assortment of herbs for my mother and sister to sort through and even some wild carrots. The boar is only halfway in the bag, too big to fit entirely, the rest of it flung over my shoulder. I head straight for the butcher and sell it, getting a small part of the meat as well as a decent bit of money. Under any other circumstances I would have been excited but I'm finding it just a touch difficult to be delighted right now. With the boar taken care of I go to the bakery with the intention of selling the carrots. I love wild carrots and would normally keep them for my own table but after Peeta told me they use them in baking I've begun to trade them from time to time. I'm more in the mood for a pair of fresh bread loaves than I am for carrots today, anyway. Not that I'm in the mood for much of anything. My appetite seems to have gone away, along with the desire to do anything, really. But just like I need to find something to occupy myself with, I need to eat – and Prim needs to eat – and bread will be better for us than a sheaf of carrots.
When the back door to the bakery opens, answering my knock, it is Peeta on the other end. The sight of him almost makes me smile. It's not often that Peeta gets the door but I'm always glad when it is, especially now when I could use a friendly face. But when he sees me his features immediately show concern, and he wipes his hands on a towel to rid them of flour or dough, or whatever he gets on them when he works.
"Hey," he says. "You okay? Rough day, huh?"
Immediately a knot forms in my stomach. Is he implying that something has happened to Madge while I was out in the woods? I force myself to calm down. If she had been seriously hurt – or killed – he would have had something more compassionate or profound to say than "rough day".
"It's going to be a rough Hunger Games," I reply hoarsely, fidgeting where I stand.
"Yeah…" He looks over his shoulder. From what I can tell only his brother is in the kitchen with him. "Was it very difficult to watch the opening of the Games?"
"What do you think, Peeta?" I ask dryly.
"I know. Sorry."
I keep shifting my weight from one foot to the other, feeling strange all over. Mostly I feel guilty. It's hard to meet someone's eyes when feeling this way.
"I couldn't sit at home and watch all day," I admit to him. "I figure she's pretty safe at the moment. People are usually a bit exhausted right after the cornucopia bloodbath. It should buy her some time."
"It was pretty mild this year," says Peeta. "For a bloodbath." The way he says it leaves no room to wonder if he finds it a bizarre thing to say. It reminds me of how he says one of his favourite words is oxymoronic. "Seven tributes killed."
"Only seven?"
He nods.
"Eric was one."
I close my eyes and draw a deep breath through my nose. The worst part is I don't really care. I can't handle caring about more than one tribute this year. A young boy from the Seam is dead and I won't be crying over him or feeling sad. I'm not sure I will give it much thought at all.
"I guess I'll get to see it all unfold at the broadcast tonight," I mumble, opening my eyes and brushing a stray bit of hair behind my ear.
"So, you brought us something?" says Peeta after a moment's silence, feigning cheerfulness. I'm thankful for his attempt at focusing on something else for a minute. "My father isn't here but I'm authorized to barter in his place."
The faint hint of a smile crosses my lips at how official he makes it sound. Grabbing my game bag I begin to rifle through it, taking the pheasant by its talons and lifting it up to have it out of the way while I search for the carrots. I'm distracted by a faint whistle from Peeta, causing me to look up.
"You shot a pheasant?"
"Yeah?" I say, dumbfounded by his reaction. It's not like they're some mythical creature near impossible to fell.
"I love pheasant," he says, his eyes indeed lighting up at the sight of the bird. "Not quite as much as I like quail, but I love it all the same."
"You've… had pheasant?" I question.
"You traded a few with my father, maybe four years back or so. I still remember how they tasted. Kind of been wanting to taste them again ever since…"
"Then why haven't you simply asked me to shoot one?" I ask, not sure if I'm amused or confused.
"I, uh… Well, it didn't seem right to… I wasn't sure you'd think it was okay."
"Peeta hurry up!" his brother calls from inside the kitchen. Peeta looks over his shoulder and then back at me and I falter. I had planned on myself, my mother and Prim having the pheasant tonight but if Peeta wants to have one so badly…
"What are you willing to give me for the bird?" I ask. I have a bit of pork in my bag and with the money I traded for the rest of the boar I can buy something else for us to eat for dinner.
"Name your price." He folds his arms and leans against the doorpost in a casual manner, a small smile on his face.
"It's worth a lot," I challenge.
"I should think so. Name your price."
"Five loaves of bread. And a bag of cookies."
"Done." The way he so easily agrees to the trade takes me by surprise. "Just hold on a minute and I'll get the bread. You want all five to be raisin-nut? And the cookies, anything you want in particular?"
"Surprise me," I manage.
He chuckles softly, despite everything, and goes into the kitchen. His brother gives him a questioning face but Peeta says something to him in a low voice and the older Mellark boy nods and grabs a bowl and stirs its contents. I stand there by the door, waiting, drinking in the lovely smells that always fill the bakery kitchen. I wonder how these people can work here all day long, every day of the week, and not leave trails of drool wherever they go. I for one would not be able to be surrounded with so many delicious treats and wonderful smells and sell everything off to others. To pass the time I entertain myself with the thought that perhaps being in this environment all day long without getting to eat your fill is the reason why Mrs. Mellark is so unpleasant.
"Okay, here we are." Peeta's voice brings me back to reality. He holds out a pair of large paper bags and under normal circumstances my mouth would have watered at the thought of the bread inside. I have a funny feeling though that today most everything will taste like ash. Just as well, then, that I traded the pheasant. "Two raisin-nut, two cheese bun loaves and one walnut. And assorted cookies."
"Thank you," I say, taking the bags.
"Thank you," he replies with a smile. "Can't wait to taste this bird."
I try to force a smile, but it comes off as a grimace. I turn to leave but stop myself and move to face him again.
"Peeta…"
"Yeah?"
"Oh hurry up with it!" his brother complains from further back in the room. Instead of feeling embarrassed I just feel irritated.
"Just a second, Rye," says Peeta, giving his brother a quick look. His brother mutters something under his breath and I don't care to know what it is.
"Actually I was wondering…" I say, not sure where I'm finding the strength and courage to say what I'm about to say. "It's a big pheasant. They're not all that common."
"You mean it's worth more?" Thankfully he doesn't sound irritated.
"Yeah, uh, I was thinking…" I hesitate and avert my eyes for a second. Unfortunately they land on Ryean who looks quite irritated and that gives me the incentive to just say what I want to say. "Maybe, if you don't mind… You could come over tonight and keep me company? You know, for the broadcast? I told Prim she should spend the evening with her friend and my mother, well…" I draw a deep breath and let it out in a huff. "Some company would be nice, is what I'm trying to say."
"I'll be there fifteen minutes before the broadcast starts," says Peeta. "Sound good?"
I nod, drawing a trembling breath. Without further ado I turn and hurry off towards home before Peeta's brother decides to throw me out. I have a weird knot in my stomach but also a sense of relief. I told Prim to visit her friend in the evening because I don't want her to have to hold my hand while I watch the Games, but I've been worrying how I will be able to handle watching it by myself. Knowing Peeta is going to be there makes it all seem a little bit easier to deal with.
"So how was the bird?" I ask that evening as Peeta and I sit down on the couch, the television already on in the background.
"Oh, I didn't get to eat it yet." He smiles crookedly. "Scotti is having dinner with his fiancée's family tonight and we decided to save it until the whole family could enjoy it."
I nod and shrug, shifting to find a more comfortable position. I wish I had something more to offer him than just some tea – with no sugar but a bit of cold water. He seemed almost too pleased when I handed him the mug, just on the verge of making me feel patronized. Now he's holding it between both hands, sipping from it every minute or two.
"Your parents don't mind that you're here?" I ask, mostly just to pass the time before the broadcast starts.
"No." I expected some form of elaboration, but I get none. "So how was the rest of your day?"
"Great," I reply dryly. "Couldn't be better. How about yours?"
Truth be told I don't really care, and I'm sure he knows it, but he talks about it anyway. It helps keep my mind off of things for the remaining few minutes until the broadcast starts. He talks a bit over Claudius and Caesar, for which I'm thankful, because their vapid shallowness might drive me crazy. Then he quiets when they begin to show footage of the bloodbath. Eric's death is barely shown, just another tribute whose throat is slit. I can't decide if I'm relieved that they didn't dwell on the moment, or if that makes it worse. Once the segment from the bloodbath is over they move on to talk about the arena itself, the alliances that are forming, and any other things of interest that have transpired. It's been an eventful day, that much is obvious.
I study the arena carefully, an uncomfortable feeling lodged in the pit of my stomach. Caesar and Claudius call it "post-contemporary", which makes Peeta snort and claim that their choice of term is both moronic and oxymoronic. I agree with him completely. It's supposedly modelled after urban areas before the Dark Ages which begs the question how it can be considered contemporary by any stretch of the imagination. Or how anything can be post-contemporary, for that matter.
"My guess is they don't know what either of those words mean," I say dryly. "Or they found a thesaurus and don't know how to use it. Possibly a pre-contemporary thesaurus."
"Maybe. Do you think they meant to say post-apocalyptic?"
"No doubt they would call it pre-post-apocalyptic."
I find out that Madge escaped the bloodbath by running towards an exit of the enclosed cornucopia space. The exit in question has a large glass carousel door flanked by glass walls, making it impossible to sneak in our out without being seen. Not that anyone was paying attention to the doors at that point in time. Madge just happened to be the first tribute to use that exit and everyone else was busy either slaughtering or avoiding being slaughtered. Having the Games begin indoors is a new feature, the cornucopia placed in an old stationhouse at the centre of a city structure. Unlike the ruin city of a few years back this arena still has buildings that are intact, only they are very much worse for wear. We are informed by our hosts that the city structure is made to resemble what cities might have looked like in the early 21st century, with lots of asphalt, lots of multi-storey buildings and only a few green areas. There are abandoned playgrounds and basketball courts, dark alleyways, two parks – one small and one bigger –and everywhere there are buildings. Some of these buildings are little more than facades, having no rooms or even upper floors even though the walls and windows reach several stories tall. Other buildings have apartments, some even furnished with worn and dirty couches and tables and flower pots and so forth. Not all buildings are multi-storey. There's one meant to resemble a school house, located amongst a collection of small houses in an area Claudius dubs "the suburb". Across from the stationhouse there's even a church building, reminding us of one of the many religions that didn't survive the natural disasters and the rebellion that eventually followed. Some of the buildings have graffiti on them, others have broken windows or rusty fire escapes. Plenty of space to hide and plenty of space to hunt. Not that there's anything to hunt but humans. There seems to be no animals of any kind, not even birds.
The oddest thing by far in the arena is the track that runs about fifteen meters up in the air, called a monorail. It runs through many places in the arena and connects to a number of small stations, accessible through climbing hills or trees or sometimes the structure of the stations. The whole purpose is for it to seem abandoned and partially destroyed so it won't be very easy to get up there, but those that do will have a clear advantage. At least in theory. You can probably see a whole lot from up there that you can't see down amongst the tall buildings, but you are also plainly visible yourself once you venture from the stations and onto the tracks, which are wide enough for a person to walk on without having to rely on balance. I'm not so sure I'd risk going out there. The monorail tracks all connect to the stationhouse, the one place where you can easily access the tracks via a staircase, and there is an actual train running from there. I definitely wouldn't want to be caught up there on the tracks when the train is approaching. In that situation you are limited to two options – jump to your death, or best-case scenario to broken bones, or be crushed by the oncoming train.
To emphasise how desolate and unpleasant the arena is the tributes have only gotten a few hours of sunlight today. Caesar Flickerman assures us that there will be a normal amount of daylight come morning, but for this first day the darkness helps set the mood. Not that I have ever been in an arena myself, but I cannot imagine that you would need the help of darkness to feel dreary in there.
As Peeta already informed me the death count wasn't particularly high at the initial bloodbath. Most years see at least ten tributes fall in that opening struggle. However it seems that an unusual alliance has formed this year. Both hosts are giddy with excitement over this new turn of events and Peeta sighs heavily at their silly crooning.
"This development is brilliant. Brilliant!" praises Caesar, emphasising the point with an exuberant wave of his hand.
"Well that's one way to put it," sighs Peeta, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Can't wait to find out what this brilliant development is," I say, rolling my eyes as I make the false statement.
"Oh you're going to love it. It's brilliant."
Peeta's sarcastic tone manages to lighten the mood just a little bit but then the two hosts continue their ecstatic rambling and I'm back to wanting to crawl out of my skin. The twist of events that thrills them so much is that the traditional career alliance didn't happen this year. There is an alliance but it's between seven boys. The three career boys and the ones from Six, Seven, Nine and Eleven. As it seems, they formed some kind of bond during training and the boys from One, Two and Four turned on their female co-tributes, letting them believe they had the traditional career alliance but all the while making other plans. In fact the girl from Two was the first casualty of the 76th Hunger Games; in an all-too-ironic move that was most likely intentionally played as such by the perpetrator she was stabbed in the back with a butcher's knife by her district partner. The other two career girls were also killed at the bloodbath, along with both tributes from Three, the girl from Six and District 12's Eric Riven. The boys of the new alliance – the Boy Pack as they are dubbed by the unimaginative hosts – have found themselves a headquarters in a building within eyesight of the stationhouse. The church, in fact. There they sit and congratulate themselves on being masters of the Games and invincible and, according to themselves, the only actual threat in the arena. Knowing Madge will have to face these seven boys worries me and I almost look forward to seeing them turn on each other. No, scratch that, I do look forward to it. The sooner the better.
"Do you think she's got a chance?" asks Peeta in a voice that's low, soft and vulnerable. He's looking at me with sadness but also with a willingness to hope. His arms are still crossed, and it almost looks like it's a self-protecting stance.
"I do," I nod. Then I nod with more fervour and my voice gains strength. "I do, I most certainly do. Those boys are arrogant as hell, even worse than the typical career packs tend to be. She can exploit that, turn them against each other. I think she's smart enough to do it. We believe she's studied past games to find patterns, right? She might know the most likely way to turn people in alliances against each other."
"Does she have it in her to kill? If it were to come to that?"
I give the question some serious thought – and not for the first time. Had you asked me before the Reaping I would have been absolutely sure the answer was no. But knowing what I know now about her aunt, not to mention seeing the determination in her eyes, I've begun to seriously rethink the matter. I don't think Madge Undersee will go down without a fight.
"If she has to, then yes," I say. "Yes I think she does."
Later that evening as I prepare to get into bed with Prim I think about it yet again. Would Madge Undersee be capable of taking another human being's life in order to survive the Hunger Games? Does she have an underlying determination and strength that I never knew about?
"How do you feel?" asks Prim timidly, pulling her worn nightgown – it was mine once upon a time and has been slept in for well over a thousand nights – over her head. "It must have been such a difficult day for you today."
"I'm fine," I say in a monotone. "Given the circumstances."
"Everybody talks about Madge at school," offers Prim, climbing into bed. She sleeps closest to the wall; I don't want her falling out of bed if she rolls around in her sleep. "Though today they talked more about Eric…" Her face falls as she lies down and fluffs her pillow. "His brother and sisters were sent home from school when…" She swallows hard. "Well, his oldest sister insisted on staying. But it was terrible, Katniss. Nobody wanted to talk to her all day, nobody-"
"She should have gone home," I interrupt. I don't want to hear another word about Eric Riven. He's dead now. Probably for the best. He was never going to win, so why extend the process? Why let him suffer, starve and thirst for days, before it's finally over? "She shouldn't have stayed and showcased her loss."
"That's not what she was doing," objects Prim.
I say nothing, sullenly climbing in beside my sister, grabbing the comforter to pull it up over us. It's been one hell of a day, and although Madge made it through the beginning without any problems she is now in constant mortal danger, all around the clock, and will continue to be until the Games are over. I can wake up tomorrow morning and find that she died during the night.
"I just wish these Games would be over," I mutter, staring at the ceiling. "I hope they won't drag on for weeks."
"I didn't know Peeta was going to be here," says Prim, lying on her side, studying me intently. "When I got home this evening… You didn't tell me he was coming over."
"Well, he did come over," I say awkwardly. Is this what we're going to talk about instead? "He's… my friend now." I sigh, turning my eyes down to my hands, resting on top of the comforter. "The only friend I have."
"You have me," says Prim, somewhat cheerfully.
"That I do, little duck," I say with a light laugh, turning my head to look at her. "Thank God for that. But it's nice having a friend who isn't a family member, you know?"
"Is he going to be coming by often?"
"I don't know… Maybe…"
"He's nice. You should invite him over more often."
"Go to sleep now," I say, mock-sternly, giving her a look and a raised eyebrow.
She smiles smugly but obediently closes her eyes and yawns. I turn my face back towards the ceiling, eyeing it silently as I wait for sleep to come. I thought I would be more tightly wound, unable to get any form of rest, but perhaps it's the days on end of being on edge, culminating today in the Games beginning, that makes me exhausted and sleepy. It doesn't take long for my own eyes to flutter close. And when I begin to drift off to sleep it's not my best friend in the arena who is on my mind, but my new friend who watches the Hunger Games with me.
Three days go by. Madge has been able to get enough water to drink and at least something to eat, by discovering that in some of the apartments there are refrigerators that have water, and sometimes food, in them. She is not the only one to have made this discovery. The girls from District 7 and 11, and the boy from District 8, make the same discovery in other areas of the arena. One of them also noticed that there's a fountain in one of the parks, but at the moment there's no water in it. If it starts to rain, and the rain keeps up for long enough, then... It also turns out that there are a few rodents running around in the parks, rabbits and squirrels and rats, and birds have begun to appear in the sky. All good signs in my eyes. Unfortunately I don't think Madge knows how to hunt, and some of the other tributes might, so the animal life doesn't benefit her primarily. Perhaps the mayor's mild-mannered daughter is apt at stealing and could take game from other tributes who've managed to fell something. It's not a nice deed, but when it's a matter of life and death it's just the way it is. All is fair in love, war and the Hunger Games.
The guys holding up in their headquarters have almost all of the cornucopia supplies so they don't need to go looking for supplies elsewhere, though they spend a bit of time every day sitting around and congratulating each other on having collected what they believe to be almost everything edible and drinkable in the arena. They expect their competitors to start dying of thirst soon, or at least be weakened by lack of food and water and become easier targets. They don't paint themselves up to be particularly brave for wanting their competitors weakened before the kill, but that detail seems to elude them.
One fatality does occur due to lack off supplies. On the third day Angela Maize, a sixteen-year-old girl from District 9, dies of thirst after having failed to find anything to drink since the start of the Games. On the second day the sun is broiling in the sky, advancing her dehydration, and she spends hours frantically trying to find something to drink, the physical activity also exacerbating the poor girl's thirst. It's a difficult way to die, and I can only pray that Madge will be able to find water continuously throughout the show's run.
Other than this not a lot of excitement goes on in this early stage of the Games. The boy pack eventually divides themselves up into groups of three – one to stay and guard the headquarters, two to go out and hunt and kill. Page McKeen, the girl from District 6, is starting to impress by not only having found supplies, but on the second day climbing up onto the monorail track through the structure of one of the stations. She walks out onto the track itself and looks around but doesn't stay out there for very long before retreating inside the station house. Madge lays low for the most part during these first early days, exploring her surroundings and – I want to believe – planning her strategy for the duration of the Games. Only one kill takes place during these first days after the bloodbath, and it worries me a bit. The most dangerous thing for the tributes collectively is if the gamemakers start to worry that the viewers are bored. That's when they begin to get creative with their traps, and you never know who might get caught up in the crossfire.
It's almost impossible to be at home during the day. Prim is at school and Mother is hidden away in her bedroom feeling sorry for herself. I don't even see her at all for the first five days of the Games, impossible as it may seem, because she doesn't even come out to eat with her daughters in the evening. Prim has to take a tray with food to her, since I refuse to do it. I've spent the past six years doing her job for her, putting food on the table, taking care of my sister. Now, when I need my mother's support the most, she is only consumed with herself. And why? How is this at all difficult for her? This could even be a golden opportunity for her to rally and pull herself together, having somebody else to focus on right now – her own damn child! But I know better than to hope or expect anything from her.
When we finally run into one another when she is on her way back from the bathroom, I can't keep quiet. She looks almost like she did in the worst days after Father died – hair greasy and dirty, eyes sunken in, her face pale and hollow, her whole stance hunched over – but I can't feel any sympathy. She's wallowing in whatever it is that she's upset about. She could choose to pull herself together and take care of her youngest daughter and, more to the point, support her oldest daughter. After everything I've done over the years, she can't be there for me now? Fine. But then she can go look for understanding from me where neither sun nor moon can shine.
"So you've finally emerged?" I say icily, stopping her on her way back to bed by simply standing in her way in the narrow hallway.
"Katniss, not now," she says in a hollow voice.
"Oh, of course not," I scoff. "No, you've got yourself to feel sorry for. Can't be a mother right now, can you? It's really fortunate that motherhood is one of those things you can just press 'pause' with and your kids will just stop needing things until you're ready to be a mom again."
"Katniss…"
"Why are you even like this?" I had decided I would talk rationally to her when I finally got the chance, ask her what is going on with her and calmly explain why I feel she's let me down. But I can't. I'm too upset, feeling too let down. In truth I want her to feel bad. I want her to know what a terrible mother she's being to me. I can't pity her. How many seconds has she spent pitying me since this whole thing began? She's the one failing spectacularly – why should I always have to be the adult between us? I'm her child. "My best friend is in the arena and you act like you are the one who's been struck by this. Did you even know Madge? Have you ever spoken two words to her? What the hell gives you the right to-"
"I don't know Madge," she cuts me off, her voice weak but somehow carrying. She closes her eyes, shivers, and a tear falls down her cheek. It only serves to make me angrier. She opens her eyes again and looks down at the floor. "I knew her aunt. I knew Maysilee." There's a pause, and her whole body trembles now, her arms wrapping around herself. "Maysilee Donner was one of my best friends when I was your age and watching her in the arena during the second Quarter Quell was the worst thing I had experienced – until your father died." She swallows, and another tear falls down her cheek. "Madge looks so much like her. Her mother and Maysilee were twins, so that's only natural I guess. But seeing her… seeing her in the arena now, too, is like… It's like Maysilee all over again. Everything, every bad memory, just comes flooding back. And her poor mother… Oh that poor woman!"
She begins to openly sob now, wiping away tears every few seconds. I stand there wordlessly for a few minutes, just watching her, trying to comprehend what she is telling me. She's obviously expecting me to feel sorry for her, but that's not the emotion I'm experiencing.
"This is unbelievable," I breathe.
"Katniss…" pleads Mother. She snivels and reaches out a hand to me. "I know you understand."
"Understand?" I don't know whether to laugh or cry or rage, so I settle for scoffing and shaking my head decisively. "I'm supposed to understand? What about you, huh? How come you can't understand? If anything, you should know better than anybody what I'm going through right now. But are you there for me? After everything I've done over the years, for you, for Prim, for us, are you giving something back to me? Putting your own feelings aside and consoling me?" I can't seem to stop myself once I've begun to rant. Mother has pulled back her hand, and her crying has intensified, but again it does nothing to garner sympathy for her. It only makes me more furious. "Why can't you ever be there for me, huh? I am your daughter, aren't you supposed to set aside your own crap and make sure that I'm okay? How can you let me down now, of all times, if you know first-hand what I'm going through? You know first-hand, and yet all you can think about is your own damn self."
"Katniss, please," she sobs, taking a step towards me, but I back away.
"Don't speak to me," I say icily. To my surprise, tears begin to fall from my own eyes. "Don't you even try… It's too late now. Do you understand? I am done with you. You've been a terrible mother, and now that you've got your chance to step up and do your job, it's once again all about you. And you're supposed to be a healer." I snivel, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. I hate that I'm crying too right now, but there's no stopping it. It's more from anger than from anything else, anyway. "And yeah, speaking of that, you can't even try to put food on the table right now, so it once again falls on me. If you feel too upset to do that right now, how can you place it on my shoulders? One of us has got to do it or Prim will starve, and you are selfish and cruel to force it onto me. Oh my God, if Father knew that all you do is let me down…"
"Katniss, no," she pleads. I can see where she might feel I went too far by invoking him, but I don't feel bad about it. I don't feel bad because I honestly believe it's the truth. My father, if he watches over us and knows what is happening with us, would probably never forgive her for failing his children this way.
"You can go to hell," I tell her, more tears of anger falling down my cheeks, wetting my shirt. "Go back to your bed and wallow in your misery, and don't spend one thought worrying about the daughter who is going through worse than you are right now and needed her mother. I needed you to be there for me." I find myself scoffing at her. "But I don't anymore. What's the use? I'll never depend on you for anything, ever again."
Turning on my heel I stride away from her, ignoring that she calls out to me several times. I'm done with her. I have no sympathy left. I leave the house, slamming the door shut behind me, too angry to be in her vicinity.
First I head for the Meadow, my anger only seeming to build as I walk briskly, but at least the tears subside. Out of nowhere I suddenly think of Mrs. Mellark, whom I've always thought of as such a poor mother. Now I wonder if my own mother isn't just as much of a failure, only in a different way. From what I've been told this past year Mrs. Mellark at least cares for her sons in some ways, looking after them when they're sick, worrying about them. My mother just hides away and thinks of her daughters as people who should put their own pain aside to cater to hers. It's supposed to be the other way around. Mothers are supposed to set their own heartache, pain, discomfort aside and put the needs of their children first. What the hell did my father ever see in her? He was too good for her, that's for sure. All these years I've looked down on Mrs. Mellark for being a terrible mother, while my own is no better. No better at all.
The thoughts of Mrs. Mellark turn my mind towards her son. Peeta. Suddenly I long for him. I can't tell him all about what I'm feeling right now, but if I could just spend some time with him I think I would feel better. I need to be with someone who cares about me, who is there for me, and the only other person is Prim, who is still in school. Even if she wasn't I'm not sure I want to put her in the middle of this. I know it's the middle of the day and Peeta is no doubt busy working at the bakery, but he did say I can come to him whenever. If he didn't really mean that, I'd rather know right away.
When I reach the bakery it turns out to be Scotti who answers my knock – I think. I'm still not entirely able to tell Peeta's brothers apart when they're not all together. But the lack of a disapproving glare suggests to me that it isn't Ryean, and that leaves only Scotti. He does seem surprised that I arrive without a game bag, but there's no judgment in his eyes.
"I need to see Peeta," I say bluntly. "Is he here?"
Scotti raises his eyebrows pointedly but turns without a word and walks back inside the kitchen and through the door to the shop. A moment later Peeta comes walking through the door and hurries through the kitchen and out into the alleyway where I'm standing, fidgeting. He closes the kitchen door behind him and looks at me with concern.
"Is everything alright? Did something happen in the Games? I've been so busy behind the counter that I haven't-"
"It's not Madge," I assure him, shifting my weight between my feet. "Not directly, anyway. It's just…" I close my eyes hard and sigh, shaking my head. Then I suddenly feel absolutely ridiculous, and I laugh at myself as I open my eyes again. "I'm sorry Peeta. I shouldn't have come here like this." I raise both my hands to my cheeks, then to my temples. "Urgh, I'm such an idiot."
He walks right up to me and pulls me close, his arms so soothing and comforting, his body so steady and secure.
"Hey…" he says soothingly. "You're not an idiot. You're a person under tremendous amount of stress." He pulls back, kissing my cheek, remaining very close to me even though his arms are no longer around me. "How have these past days been?"
"Terrible," I say with a sigh. "Madge is hanging on, but I can't seem to relax at all. And my mother…" I swallow hard and look down on the ground. I came here to be in his proximity, not to talk about what's going on at home. Talking is futile anyway, there's no way on earth I'll be able to put my thoughts, feelings and concerns into understandable sentences. Yet I have to talk about this or I will explode inside. "I don't get it, Peeta. She knew Maysilee Donner, Madge's aunt. Shouldn't that mean that she would be there for me even more? Knowing exactly what I'm going through?"
"I don't know," he says simply. "You certainly deserve that. But people who are broken…"
"But what if I become broken?" I ask, looking up at him. "What then? Who's going to take care of Primrose if Madge dies and that breaks me, too?"
"But you're not going to break," he says calmly. "You're going to be alright."
I take a few deep breaths to calm myself. I don't want to talk about my mother anymore. I think I've gotten the worst of it out of my system and now I want to talk about something, anything¸ else.
"I'm sorry I bothered you in the middle of your working," I say awkwardly.
"That's alright. It's been a slow day anyway."
"Liar. You just said you've been too busy to keep up with the Games. If that's true then things must be uncommonly busy."
"They can make do without me. They have every other year, when I've been in school during the day. Hang on, just give me a minute. Wait here."
He disappears back inside the bakery, and I stand there waiting for him. It doesn't escape me that apparently his family can offer enough understanding that they let him leave for the day in order to offer support to a friend in need while my own mother can't think about her daughter for long enough to not put herself first right now. Odd, how suddenly the baker's family seems to me like they are so much more caring and understanding than my own mother.
Peeta comes back out after a couple of minutes, smiling slightly in an encouraging way.
"I've got forty-five minutes," he says. "Want to go somewhere? The Meadow?"
"The Meadow sounds good," I nod. Then I scowl. "No, you know what? Let's go home to my place. I don't want to hide away somewhere. I should get to be at home, and if my mother is uncomfortable, then screw her."
His eyes widen at the last part, but he says nothing about it. He nods and follows me as I take the lead. Going to my home means we'll have less time because he'll need about fifteen minutes for the walk back home, even if he walks fast. But I don't care. It's partially about making a statement to my mother. To show her what it means to be there for somebody. I walk briskly to ensure that we have as much time as possible to talk once we get there, and Peeta doesn't question, just follows beside me. Neither of us speak until we're there. I open the door and let him in, not bothering to call out to my mother and announce our presence. I haven't done so in a week, anyway. Besides, I know she's back in her bed, feeling sorry for herself. Feeling like the victim.
"So you've had a pretty bad day, huh?" says Peeta once we are inside.
"Try a pretty bad month," I sigh. "Peeta, I don't know what to do anymore!" I walk inside the living room, him in tow, and gesture to the couch with my hand, inviting him to sit. "Not even being out in the woods seems to help. I'm so frustrated, so frightened, so… ugh!"
"I wish I knew how to help," he says, sitting down on the armrest of the couch. "You deserve better than this. I just don't have the first idea what to do, and how to make someone feel better when their friend is in the arena."
"See, and this is why it would have been nice if my mother had bothered to care," I say, lowering my voice because even though I hate her right now I'm not sure I want her to overhear. There's no need to be mean just for the sake of spite. "She actually knows what it feels like!"
"Well… maybe… maybe that's a reason why she hides away," offers Peeta slowly. "Because there's nothing she can say or do. And she knows it. And it's hard for her to know you're going through it, and that there's nothing she can do to help you."
"Oh, stop that," I snort. "Don't be all 'looking at it from her perspective'. That's not what I need. I need for you to be on my side."
"I am."
"Yeah, I know," I sigh. "I just feel so… powerless. It's so difficult to watch Madge in the Games every day and not be able to do a thing to help her!"
"Yeah, I get that," he nods.
I pace back and forth, I fidget, I can't keep still. I'm filled with the feral need to do something, to act and not just observe. There's only one thing I can think of to do to help Madge, but I can't do it by myself, nor can I do it with the help of just a handful of people. I need a large group of people to contribute and that is where I run into trouble. I think maybe I can get the people I know to help me out but what about the people that I don't know?
"I want to help Madge!" I tell Peeta, needing to vent my thoughts and my frustration. "I want to gather enough money to send her a sponsor gift in the arena."
Peeta hops down from the couch, his face calm and serious.
"How can I help?"
For a moment I almost forget the problem at hand, and even my friend who is fighting for her life in that arena. His immediate offer to help me, showing no hesitation whatsoever, makes me feel so warm and happy inside, even with everything that's happened today. A smile spreads across my face and he gives me a bashful smile in return. Oh how I wish I knew the way to tell him how much I admire him for his kindness, his generosity, his wonderfully good heart. Instead I begin talking about what I ought to be talking about.
"It's going to cost a lot of money. I can get people in the Seam to pitch in, I think. But we'll need more money than I can raise that way. Do you think you could get some people from town to contribute?" I know it won't be the easiest sell. Money is tight even for merchants, and sponsor gifts are expensive from the start and only getting costlier as the days go by.
"I think it can be arranged. She's the mayor's daughter," says Peeta.
"Yes," I nod, "and I don't want him or his wife to be involved. I want to surprise them too, let them know people care about their daughter. But anyway, we can't go knocking on his door and ask him to sponsor a gift to her this way."
"I'll convince some people to help out. And I can tell them that if twenty people each pitch in we'll end up with enough. If forty pitch in we each have to give less. Of course, it depends on the gift. What did you have in mind?"
"Strawberries. Madge loves strawberries."
"You are incredible Katniss; do you know that?" The compliment comes so unexpectedly that it makes me blush and makes my heart swell in my chest. Maybe he doesn't mean it more than as a general compliment of me wanting to help my friend, but it feels like more than that. I know I want it to mean more than that. After the day I've had it's like balm to the soul. It feels so very good to hear the words come out of his mouth that I soak each syllable up like a sponge. And the best part is that he isn't even finished yet. "Putting all this effort into doing something like that for your friend says a lot about your character. I admire you. Truly I do."
I smile at him, blushing, unable to comprehend that I'm suddenly feeling good.
"So does this mean you'll help me?" I say, knowing what the answer will be before I even ask the question.
"You can count on me."
"That's the thing, Peeta…" I say with a soft smile. "I already think I do. About most everything."
He returns the smile.
"Good."
I wake up screaming, escaping from a dream about Madge exploding in the mines – a familiar dream, but this time starring her and not my father. It's not the first nightmare I've had about Madge dying since this all started, and Prim has taken to sleeping with our mother, frightened by my frequent screaming fits in the dead of night. Not that our mother is much better sleeping company – she has nightmares, too, but she doesn't wake with a startle and a scream. Instead she cries herself awake, or sobs through her sleep.
I don't blame my sister for taking refuge in another bed, but I miss her when I wake up like this. I miss the comfort of another human being beside me in the darkness. The comfort of having the one person I know that I love be there beside me, safe and sound. For Prim's sake Mother and I ought to be the ones to share a bed, since neither of us gets much quality sleep anyhow. At least then Prim could get a full night's rest. But there is no way I'm sleeping next to my mother – I haven't since my father died, anyway. But I should consider sleeping on the couch and letting Prim have the bed. She's got enough to put up with as it is right now, the least I can do is help her sleep at night.
Turning to lie on my side I feel tears falling down my cheeks. The nightmare is slowly loosening its grip on me, but I know that another one won't be far behind. If not tonight, or tomorrow, then the day after that. So far I've seen Madge die in about five different ways in my nightmares. Twice I dreamt that Prim was somehow thrown into the arena with her, and in one of those dreams the two of them had to face off against each other. Once I dreamt that Peeta was in the arena, too, as Madge's district partner. It seems like the only person I care about who hasn't been in the Hunger Games in my dreams of late is Gale.
It's been over a week now since the 76th Hunger Games began. Still no visit from Gale. I can't go knocking on his door, and I don't want to be rejected, so until he comes to me I have to make do without him. By now though there's a part of me that's beginning to wonder if Peeta had a point with what he said. If Gale was truly my friend, oughtn't he to forget about our ruined relationship just for the duration of the Games? Does he really hate me so much that he can't show me any support, or at least show me that he sympathises with me? It's not that I need it especially, it's what his absence represents. It's depressing to realize how few people I have in my corner, but at the same time the two people I do have are better than anyone could ever hope for.
But as far as Gale is concerned, the more I think it over the more I begin to question what kind of a friend he really is. Or if any of this is his fault at all. Maybe I'm the terrible friend. Maybe what I did was so over the line that not even the strongest friendship could endure it? I wish I could tell Peeta everything and get his thoughts on the matter, but there's no way I could do that. He's the one friend I've got now. I can't risk losing his good opinion of me.
Because if I lose Peeta, what do I have left?
Katniss both says and thinks things concerning her mother in this chapter that aren't exactly true (for instance implying that her mother doesn't take care of her daugthers when they are sick), which is something that is very true to life. I think we've all done it - probably many times, at that. When we are that upset with someone we tend to suck at objectivity. I'm mentioning it here to point out that while some of the things she says are valid, not everything is true, and Katniss herself doesn't believe so either.
As for the conflict itself it's not just about Mrs. Everdeen's behaviour in the past couple of chapters. At least in this story, Katniss has been carrying around bits of resentment and feelings of abandonment for years and this is where it all comes to its head. You probably noticed that there are some things that are repeated throughout the chapter; that's not me forgetting what I've already written but Katniss dwelling on some of the issues that are particularly sore with her. It's a bit of a risk to write it that way - it's common to dwell like that IRL but not all such things make for good storytelling or a good reading experience. I wanted to do it that way to show her thought process, and some of the things that she's the most hurt about.
Feedback is appreciated, as always. =)