CHAPTER 2

Ghosts

Prim was my sister.

I stare down at the words I had written on the piece of paper for the tenth time. Each time I had written the sentence prior I had scribbled it out – always the same sentence. It is meant to be my opening line but once more I cross through it. I have exactly a week in which to write this speech before I have to say it before a crowd of thousands and more. It will be broadcast live all over Panem. I cannot screw it up. Although I should be used to my words and actions being seen in every corner of Panem from my time in the games to my time as Mockingjay, I am not a good speaker. Even on a one to one basis, words do not come easily to me. I don't even want to be there, dredging up each and every bad memory from the last few years. There are things I don't allow myself to think about. The only word I can write is my sister's name. I have no desire to be guest of honour. There is nothing honourable about me. I am just Katniss. A girl whose mistakes cost almost everyone I knew their lives. Why would I want to be reminded of that, when it is the only thing I see when I look at my own reflection?

I had been to the woods earlier today, hoping some of its previous sanctuary would enable me to gather my thoughts and perhaps be able to bring to mind something to put down. I had sat by a tree, pen and paper in hand, willing the words to come to me. Nothing had been forthcoming. Instead, the only image I could conjure whilst inhaling the fragrance of the flowers, the wood of the trees and the dewy grassy floor was of the only person who could truly appreciate its beauty. Yes I always lost myself to Gale's memory when I came here. Battling the onslaught to my fragile mind and keen to try and distract myself, I had taken out my old bow and arrows for the first time in months, which I had left hidden in their usual spot and tried to shoot. My aim wasn't the same as it was before and I watched despairingly as my hands shook as I raised my bow, missing most targets by a fraction. I had always prided myself on being such a capable hunter. Now it seemed my own talent had deserted me. I hadn't hunted since I had come back to District 12 but aren't these things meant to stay with you? I had never spent long enough in the woods to try. Hunting only reminded me of the days gone by, with my partner by my side, and those reminders were too painful to bear. Now it just didn't hold the same feeling. Frustrated, I had returned home and managed only four words in the protracted couple of hours since.

I am taken away from the task at hand when I hear a knock on the door. My heart leaps momentarily as I glance at the clock. On seeing the time I know it must be Peeta.

'Hi', he says when I open up. He places a tender kiss on my cheek. I greet him with my usual smile and allow him in. He takes off his boots and follows me into the lounge. As he comes in, I am surrounded with the fragrant aroma of cinnamon and I know he has brought something back for me, just as he always did. Sure enough he places a small white box on the living room table.

'Cinnamon buns', he says grinning, 'Do you want one now?'

I shake my head no.

'Good day?' I ask politely.

'Nothing out of the ordinary', he says, 'What have you been up to?'

'I've been trying to write my speech', I tell him.

He nods encouragingly and sits beside me. 'Can I see it?'

I pass him the notepad and his eyebrows crease when he sees all I have managed. 'Finding it hard, eh?'

I am glad Peeta is here. He always knows what to say. But Peeta wasn't the Mockingjay, I was. It has to be my words. Peeta's words and mine are as different as chalk and cheese. He could easily write me a speech but I am convinced that within a few sentences, everyone will know that they are not my words.

'I just don't know what to say, Peeta', I explain.

He studies the notepad for a few seconds. 'Why don't you just keep it simple? Try and write down what you feel?' he suggests.

That was a lot easier said than done. Every emotion associated with anything that had happened from my time in the games until my return to District 12 was painful - too painful that I had pushed it so far deep inside me to be able to retrieve it now. Even the happier memories were too bittersweet to revisit. I don't know why I thought I could get anything down in writing.

'You've started with Prim. Just talk about how you remember her', Peeta said. I can't think of Prim without physically aching so that will be almost impossible.

'They'll be expecting me to sing the praises of the new government', I say warily, 'But Peeta I just can't', I say. As many benefits as the new regime had brought to Panem, those advantages had come at a cost. The price I had paid I would go on paying until the day I die. Rebelling against the Capitol had taken so much away from me and contributing even a word of praise on it would be entirely forced. I acknowledged what they were trying to do was for the best, and the obliteration of the games was what I had wanted. But the deep-rooted damage being part of the uprising had caused me was already done.

'I know it's going to be hard for you', he said understandingly, 'Just do your best. I'll be right there with you'.

That was the only thing reassuring me. Knowing Peeta would be there. Just as he always is. Ready to take me in his arms and hold me, protect me from the world. I decide to give up with writing anything and take his hand.

'Thank you', I whisper appreciatively. He smiles at me and his blue eyes reflect the love he has for me. The love I am unable to reciprocate. The blackness in my heart darkens and I retreat to the furthest corner of the couch from him.

Peeta and I sit together on opposite ends of the sofa as I eat my cinnamon bun. They're divine, as are all the cakes Peeta brings back from the bakery. They offer a small slice of pleasure in my barren world and I am grateful to him. We both watch the small television and wait for the first of the live broadcasts covering the tour to start. Today will be the first one as the tour starts at the Capitol. The President will give two speeches every day in two separate districts, culminating here in District 12 in just under a week's time with me as guest of honour. I see the Capitol on my screen as it is now. All the old colourful buildings which were not affected by any bombings during the rebellion have been kept and joined by new ones. They are not as colourful but somehow they seem to fit. President Paylor will be speaking in front of a crowd at the large arena which had been especially built for political and other major events a few yards away from where President Snow's mansion still stands occupied by President Paylor now. The stage is large and painted a crimson red, highlighted from above by giant lights which beam onto it. A long table and at least twenty chairs have been set up and a tall microphone stands on the platform before which the President will speak. Behind the platform are three large screens strategically places at either side and directly behind the table. A packed crowd has already gathered and the camera pans into them. Apart from the slightly dressed down citizens, it's almost the Capitol of old. All that is missing is President Snow standing before them. At the thought of him, my blood runs cold and a chill goes down my spine. He had been dead a while now but still has the capacity to make my blood turn to ice. The citizens of the Capitol have got used to life under the new regime quickly – not that they had much choice. The new government had set up base at the Capitol and run as tight a ship as President Snow had been. Only there were no hunger games. There were some pockets of people mostly from the Capitol and Districts 1 and 2 who were opposed to the new government but there weren't enough of them to pose any considerable threat to President Paylor's new rule. Traitors to the cause were tried publicly by military court and mostly imprisoned in District 4 where a series of high security prisons had been built specifically for that purpose.

President Paylor, the mayor of the Capitol and a few other guests are due on stage in less than fifteen minutes. During the gap, the broadcast has started showing recorded interviews with various citizens and political figures, all backing the occasion and giving words of support to the President and in remembrance of the fallen.

'It hasn't changed much', I mumble out loud.

'Still garish dress sense', Peeta agrees. I laugh.

'Yes, I can't ever see that changing', I say.

'I don't know how they still think it's a good look', Peeta states, 'It seems a little too dramatic for the less than exciting life they must live now'.

He was right. Since the fall of President Snow, the Capitol citizens had had to work for a living. New factories and shops had been opened, where they manufactured many different items from clothes, shoes, perfumes and delicate dishes for distribution between themselves and all over the remaining districts. Gone were the days when everything was imported there. Now with children to feed and no entertainment, work had quickly become a way of life.

I suddenly sense Peeta tense up beside me and as the sound of that voice comes from the television, my eyes are drawn up to meet a sea of burning grey. I feel his eyes penetrating all the walls I have painstakingly put up between us, finding that solitary crack with the precision of a hunter's arrow to reach a place somewhere so far inside me I never knew existed. I am overcome with the pure intensity of my own reaction and I shakily place my cake back onto the plate, somehow unable to tear my eyes away from his. My mind cannot process what he is saying but there on camera, speaking as though he is only directly addressing me, is Gale.

/

'This is meant to be an opportunity for all of us as a nation to remember all the people who lost their lives in order for us to have the freedom we have now. This will be an annual event and the President fully expects each and every one of us to take part in showing our respect for the fallen. I have been given the honour of travelling alongside the President on this landmark tour, and as with all such engagements, it is imperative that the safety of our President is priority…'

He lips continue to move but I have stopped listening now. The most prominent thought in my mind as I watch him speak, as it has been many times before, is that he is undeniably striking. I can concede somewhat grudgingly that he is attractive in the physical sense. It is easy to see why a girl could fall for him. Thick, dark hair, chiselled masculine jaw, deep dangerous grey eyes, full lips and that tall, muscular physique – he is handsome in every sense. Obviously a soldier, he is dressed all in black in the military uniform of the higher ranked, indicating that he is someone with an important responsibility. There is some part of his looks that reminds me of her – same colour eyes, olive complexion and dark hair. He has always been attractive but this thought irks me, not because he's good looking - it's more about what he has always been to Katniss. They have never had a romantic history from what I know, but I can never look at him in any other way than as her ex-lover. I had come along and interrupted their friendship unintentionally.

I catch the pained look that seizes her face briefly, although I wish I didn't. It hurts me more to see it than anything I can imagine. I reach over and take the remote from the table before I flick the channel over. Her eyes stay on the screen for a second longer before her lashes lower and her attention returns to the cake lying half eaten in her lap. She has clutched the sides of her plate and I can see how tightly she is holding onto it from the whites of her fingers. My heart aches from feeling the pain she is radiating and I am powerless to stop it. I do not know what goes through her mind when she sees his face. When she looks up at me again, she doesn't smile and her face is a blank canvas. But somewhere inside her eyes, behind that vacant stare, I can see that pain. The pain she never speaks about. The pain she feels over him. She is being torn apart inside. She always makes me turn the channel over when he comes on, but a part of her resents me for doing so. This is the constant challenge I face with Katniss. She has never said his name from the time he left but I feel as though it is the only name that she wants to call. I always hear it as it lingers on the tip of her tongue in a forbidden whisper, penetrating the air and deafening me. I detect the slight, almost unnoticeable quiver of her lower lip every time his face appears or his voice resonates from the television. He isn't here but I can still feel him everywhere around us. Sometimes when I hold her, I can't help but think that his body is between us. She will never admit it or say it out loud, not even to the privacy of her own thoughts I'm sure, but I am aware that she aches for him. She holds him responsible for killing her sister but whether she knows it or not, she yearns to forgive him. She longs to be able to forgive him not just for Prim, but for doing what was completely unthinkable and unacceptable to her – leaving.

I am jealous of him, yes, and I am not comfortable with this jealousy but above and beyond that, I resent him deeply with every part of me. I always will. I resent him because when she desperately needed answers, answers she had craved to questions which had resonated long after he had gone, he had none to give her. This had hindered her ability to heal internally. He is the reason she couldn't give herself completely to me back then. I turn away from her as I always do when we face this predicament, unable to stand neither the force of her emotions which force me back away from her like a wall, or my own inept ability to accept them. He is part of the invisible barrier that prevents my love from ever truly reaching her and I don't know how I can ever defeat that. How do I vanquish a ghost? I have loved her from the innermost depths of my soul, yet still that love is rendered futile and weak in comparison to a friendship that ran so deep between them that neither of them ever comprehended it until it was too late. I have no words to offer her that will lessen the pain and so I sit quietly, watching images that don't register and we eat silently. From what I could gage from his words, it seems he will be returning to District 12 with the President and inevitably I am filled with dread at having to stand by and watch while she is haunted and tortured by those conflicting emotions over him once more. Does she even realise that he is coming back? I don't think she has heard a word he was saying. He is the one subject I can never broach with her. I don't even know whether I am strong enough to try. All I know is that I will not let him hurt her any more than he already has. No matter what it takes.