4. Minding

I never noticed how much time I had to just do nothing. Possibly, because before, I was always filling that time with school or hunting or taking care of my mother and Prim. Before, I was basically the head of the household, and it was my job to make sure that food was there for cooking. To make sure that Prim's schoolwork was done. To make sure that we survived. But I know now, as a Victor of the Games, as the Mockingjay for the resistance, I will never want for anything ever again. It's such a sick truth that now, because of my participation in those first Hunger Games, I will indeed never go hungry again.

There is no longer any need to hunt, but sometimes I still do, because it really is all I have left. Aside from hunting, all I do is walk about the house, room after room, missing Prim, my mother. Even my father, though he has been gone for many years. I often cry myself into deep restless sleeps, only to scream myself out of them hours later, shivering in the haunted quiets that surround me. Other times there is my game; counting person after person who has died by my hand and because of my actions. 1. Rue, 2. Finnick, 3. Cato 4. Prim.

I always count Prim.

Now, I sit in my living room looking around at the house. The structure of it is so solid, the outside a solid brick, the inside walls made with thick oak wood. It's much stronger than any of the other houses. Sometimes I imagine that that is why these Victor's Village houses survived when no others did. But then I recall that if the Capitol had had its way, things would've gone back to "normal"; the reaping and the Hunger Games and the Victor's Village. Maybe they would've sent all of the overflowing victors here to live. Or maybe they would have used these houses as a historic site, like they once did the old game arenas. I imagine the strangely dressed Capitol men and women walking through my home, picking through my things like vultures. "This is where Katniss Everdeen once lived." A tour guide would say with that sickeningly upbeat accent. Just thinking this way agitates me but still I can never help it.

Thoughts. They're all I have, as there is nothing else to occupy my time. I sometimes really miss the way my life was just before the games. Hunting, fishing, being responsible for the lives of two others. It made me feel stronger, more useful, and more level-headed. Unselfish, which is one of those things you should not think of yourself though it is true. When you're taking care of two other human lives, you don't have time to worry about how you might be feeling. To fight with the demons swirling around in your head. I even sometimes think of the day before my first games, when Gale said that we could run away, him and me, and live off the woods. It was such a fantastical thought, and we both agreed that we had "too many kids". That we were bound to District 12, by our helpless, little siblings.

Gale. I think about him, and his white suit and I remember the packet from yesterday that now sits above the fireplace on the mantle. I set it there as a compromise with myself because I at first planned on tossing it into the flames. Would he ever even know that I didn't read it? Of course not. For all I know, he may never intend to speak to me again. I am sure that he chose his words carefully, said a lot about being sorry and regretting Prim, but even the fact that he may have written those words hurts me. He doesn't even deserve to write her name. Maybe, I will read it. But, for now, I can't even think about touching it again, so it will stay flickering with orange waves above the fireplace, with its single pathetic word: Please.

I try to have dinner with Haymitch at least once a week. Sometimes I think he enjoys it. Other times he acts like I am just a big bother to his very existence. After all this time, I like to think that Haymitch is just pretending that he doesn't care. Pretending that our lives are insignificant, but that we really do mean something to him. Peeta and I…But to be honest, I think I need the dinners more than Haymitch does. I spend so much time alone, that it's nice to be in the house with another living being. Even if it is just a drunken, bad-tempered one.

As I ready my things, the croissants shipped in from the Capitol, the milk from the cow down the road, and the small hens I had roasted in town earlier, I hear the low mewing of the cat. Buttercup. I glance down at him, grimace as I used to at his muddy yellow coat and see that he is curling up around my feet. As if telling me that I am not to leave him this time. I usually don't, but even after all these months of finally accepting him, he seems to always want to remind me that all we have left is each other. No mom. No Prim.

"Okay," I say quietly and the smile surfaces even though I fight it, "You can come too." He seems to be purring now and I just ignore him. Dinner nights at Haymitch's may as well be meat nights for Buttercup. Usually, I let him feed himself. Scrounge up whatever he can outside of lizards and mice, but on Haymitch dinner nights he always has a nice big serving of whatever meat we have. Mutton last week. Veal the week before. If I didn't know better, I would say that he actually knows the days of the week and looks forward to them. But it's probably just that he sees me preparing the basket.

The basket in one arm and Buttercup in the other, I walk down the steps and make my way across to Haymitch's. I glance up at the other house, identical to mine except that the Primrose bushes are not on the side of it and I see that the lights are on. But then, they always are in Peeta's house.

For just a minute, instead of walking briskly by, I stop and stare up at the house. I've only been inside it a handful of times. Peeta mostly always came to my house, and about 6 months after the games, we weren't even speaking to one another outside of the happy couple we played for the Capitol. Or I guess it was that he wasn't speaking to me. When we did start speaking again, it was on the Victory Tour not in our homes. So, I wasn't exactly going to his house to talk with him or anything.

Looking at his house now, I can't help but think about how lonely Peeta must be. The brown bricks are dusty, and the door is a deep black that makes it seem unwelcoming. I think about the fact that he never comes to the dinners though I've told Haymitch to invite him. Peeta is more alone than even I am. Sure, my mother is not here, but she's still alive. And Gale. He came to see me, even if I didn't want to see him. Peeta has no one. Well, he does have Haymitch, but he's not exactly someone you have, just someone who happens to be here. A creeping shame slides up my neck and grips my throat.

I am just willing myself to walk over, to stride up those grey steps and invite him over myself, just like the strong, confident young lady Effie always told me to be, when I see her.

A tall red-haired girl is making her way up Peeta's walk. She holds a brown bag in her hands and all I can see of what it contains is the candles poking out of the top. Her flaming, wavy hair falls down her back just covering her rear and her steps are long and deliberate. She is smiling very brightly, and she seems to be humming to herself. Before I know it, she is up those steps, at that door, ringing the bell. And I am frozen, watching the red head with the brown bag waiting for an answer. I wonder to myself who she is waiting for. I know logically that it is Peeta; that it could only be Peeta, but somehow this makes no sense to me. She waits patiently and I wait with her, and she seems to not notice the brunette with the moaning yellow cat and the messy basket of food gawking at her.

Staring up at the house with a sense of dread, I see Peeta open the door. He looks good. Better than he did the last time I saw him anyway. His scarring is minimal and from where I stand, you can barely see the patchwork that was once his newly sewn in skin. His blonde hair seems longer, falling just above his ears, and he is smiling. Now he looks almost like Peeta. Not the destructive Peeta who wanted to kill me. Or the fire mutt whose scarred skin matched mine. He looks like Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. The boy with the bread.

The girl is now hugging him, her arms wrapped around his neck in such a way that he stumbles a little to hold her weight. But he hugs her back, and after exciting chattering, and without either of them noticing me, the door is suddenly closed. And I am standing here, with Buttercup slipping and the food getting colder and my mouth on the ground. And I understand now what Gale meant when he said once that he realized he liked me because he was bothered by Darius, a man who teasingly talked about trading a rabbit for a kiss. "I realized…I minded," Gale had said.

I understand this because standing here, seething, wishing I'd had my arrows just now to take care of both of them with one shot, I know that I don't like that this strange redhead just walked into Peeta's house with her curly hair, and her bouncy steps, and her bag of food. I realize that I mind.

I mind a whole hell of a lot.