Sunshine leaks through the lacy curtains, spilling light into my room. Beneath my heavy blankets, I stifle a yawn. I close my eyes, hoping for the dreams to return, but the warmth of the day has already seeped into my bones, making it impossible to have a few more minutes of sleep. I tap the control panel next to my bed and order a pastry and some coffee, but the machine refuses. The automated woman's voice reminds me that today is a national holiday, and that we will be eating as a family.
For a moment I am stunned. Today, a national holiday? Then I realize what the date is, and feel the world spin around me. I reach out and tightly clasp a plush armchair, willing myself to stay upright.
The dizziness passes, and I let go of the chair and wobble over to my vanity table, where I sit and survey the room. My lovely golden cat, Angelus, jumps into my lap and lets out a loud purr. He was the runt of the litter of my mother's old pet, a disgusting tomcat named Buttercup, who's face was squished as if by a hammer. I remember the night when I was six that he came home with his pregnant girlfriend, a gray tabby. My father wanted to put him out of his misery then and there, but my mother interceded. It was the only time I've ever seen my mother show tenderness. She put together a sort of pen, a place where the cats could sleep and await the birth of their children. The kittens arrived the next morning, but only Angelus had the butter color of his father. When they were a week old, my mother plucked him out of the rest of kittens and handed him to me. "This kitten will be loyal and true, Primrose," she said. "Protect and cherish him now, and he will protect you later. Do you understand?"
I didn't, of course, but one ever refuses my mother. And besides, she was offering me a kitten. "Yes!" I cried, and proceeded to cradle Angelus as if he were a doll. Over the years, the other kittens grew large and ran away, but Angelus stayed on, always sleeping in bed with me at night. When I turned eight, the fat old cat, Buttercup, died. My mother sobbed unconsolably. It was the only time that I've ever seen her cry.
The automated voice breaks me out of my reverie. "Your father requests all family members to report to the dining room for breakfast immediately, miss." I nod my head in acknowledgement, knowing that the motion sensors and cameras lining the walls of the house will catch this movement. I pull on a robe- green, to match today's slippers- and leave my room. Getting to the dining room requires use of an elevator, as I must descend four stories. When I was younger, we lived in a house in the Victor's Village. Then came the reforms- new materials, new builders, new technology, and my father was named mayor of District 12. Soon we were living in a five-story mansion, with automated walls and servants, located on top of the remains of the Justice Building.
I reach the dining room and nod to my father, who sits at one head of the table. He smiles at me for a moment, then turns his attention back to a handheld monitor. My younger brother, Rye, sits to his right, gold hair falling into his dark eyes as he lifts his hand and waves at me. I smile wand wave back, then take the seat across from him.
"Did you see mom while you were coming down?" he asks conversationally.
"No, but I would assume that she is coming soon. After all, today is her big day." And it is. Today marks the twenty-seventh anniversary of the day that our country became the United Districts of Panem. At 12:00 today, we will dress in our fine clothes and watch as my mother addresses the citizens, recounting the harrowing defeat of the Capitol and the subsequent executions of President Snow and President Coin.
"Here she comes now," Father says, putting his monitor aside and smiling at his wife. She glares back at him, then throws herself down into a chair. She is always surly, and even more so on days when she has to make televised appearances. Her small frame is slouched over, and she glares down at her plate until the food materializes. Most people consider Katniss Everdeen to be a goddess- that she is the very definition of refinement, that she is always benevolent and kind. This is not so. My mother is not one for words, nor for emotions, nor for any social interaction, really. This is just one way in which we are different. I am a lot more like my father, but for his panic attacks, and my brother is more like our mother- fiercely determined, skillful, and cunning, although he has nothing of her hatred of people.
We eat mainly in silence, but for the beep of my father's device. Rye and I exchange glances, and I peek at my mother. Her hair, dark like mine, is tightly braided back, giving her the appearance of a severe school teacher. Her dark skin is pale today, more closely matching the scars that mar her neck and arms. Her wrinkles- which have been increasing in number for several weeks now- are growing more pronounced, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Still, her movements are controlled, and her fists do not tremble and shake like Haymitch's, our godfather.
We part with the usual civilities, except for my mother, who says nothing but, "Don't talk to me until after the show is over." I take the elevator back up to my room and instruct my wardrobe to find me an outfit for today. After it spits out several choices, I decide on a lacy white dress that has an elegance to it, and also shows how tan I've become in the recent months. Most importantly, there's no need to ask my mother for her approval. She keeps a picture in her bedroom of a pretty blonde girl wearing a dress almost identical to this one, so she must like it.
Ballet flats and a satin purse complete my look, and I take a seat at my vanity table, awaiting my team of stylists. They arrive right at 11:00, led by a pea-green middle-aged woman named Octavia, who instructs them to take me to beauty base 0 and build be up again. They smooth out my complexion, erase my teenage pimples, and draw out my eyes and lips in dark colours. I have the same skin and hair tones as my mother, but wear my hair down in curls. My eyes are more similar to those of my father's. Rye is almost exactly the opposite.
Having been dressed and prepped, I venture again downstairs, where our foyer has been turned into a panic zone. Teams of stylists rush around, shouting orders at one another. My father sits on a couch, looking concerned as he speaks into a headset. Rye is leaning against a window and smiles at me as I walk over to him.
"Ready for today, sis?"
I laugh. "Of course." Of the two of us, I'm less camera shy, and enjoy talking to people more.
"Lucky you." He sighs. "I wish we could just leave now and get this over with."
"What's stopping us?"
"Guess." It's not hard- Mother.
The elevator dings, and everybody freezes, then rushes to clear a pathway between the elevator and the door. As the doors slide open, my mother steps out, flocked by her prep team. Gone are her wrinkles, her under-eye circles, and any trace of age. With her hair held back by a headband and a dress of light yellow, she could be sixteen again. Only her scars give away what she's lived through, marks of the fire that ravaged her the day my namesake died.
We drive to town square. It is the same place that the Reapings were once held, so many years ago. My mother hates it here, it holds too many bad memories. It was here, twenty-nice years ago, that she stepped forward to save her sister's life and threw into action a rebellion that would bring down the dictatorship. It was here, twenty-eight years ago, that she learned she would be going back into the games. And it was here, twenty-seven years ago, that she stood in the ashes of District 12 and knew that her homeland would be avenged.
Crowds have already gathered. All of the citizens of District 12 are eagerly awaiting their heroine, and many people from other Districts have journeyed to see the Girl on Fire herself as she makes her annual speech. They begin a cheer as our limo pulls up. "Kat-niss! Kat-niss! Kat-niss!"
We take our seats on the stage. Caesar Flickman, a man so old it seems unthinkable that he could still be functioning, introduces our mother to the crowd, who go insane. Cheers and screams are heard as she takes the microphone and begins to speak.
Every year it is the same. She tells of her games, of her love of Peeta, of the berries that started the revolution. She tells of her sister, who she tried to save and ended up killing, two years later. She tells of District 13, and of watching her friends die, and how everyone came together to create the beautiful United Districts. Then she turns to introduce her family- her husband, Peeta, who has stood by her through all of the pain and sorrow, her son, Rye, and her daughter, Primrose- Rosie. Her eyes rest on me, on my outfit, and her mouth forms an 'O'."
She calls me over to her. This is not normal, and I'm not sure quite how to react. I slowly join her in front of the microphone.
"My daughter, Primrose, is wearing a lovely dress today," she says, and pauses as the crowd cheers. "But it is not just lovely. Twenty-nine years ago today, a dear friend of mine gave me the pin that would later come to symbolize the rebellion, and the United Districts of Panem. On that day, she wore this dress."
More cheering from the crowd.
Mother reached to her chest and unclips the Mockingjay pin that she has worn everyday for the past twenty-nine years. She gently pins it onto me, and then turns me to face the crowd. "Today, I give this pin to my daughter. Though I may not live forever, my spirit does, on through the children of Panem. And in this way, may the United Districts live for one thousand years!"
The crowd goes ballistic. People are shouting, hugging, laughing, and crying. TV cameras swoop around, interviewing citizens. I see myself on one of the enormous screens set up around the square, and smile and wave.
My mother looks at me, smiling. But as I search her face I see that the retelling of her tragic past has taken it's toll on her yet again. The wrinkles show beneath her foundation. Her hair has become more messy. She likes tired, she looks haggard. She looks old before her time.
The cheering of the crowd fades into the background, and as I look at her, I realize- the Mockingjay, the very essence of fire and rebellion, has become no more than a soot-ridden sparrow.