Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.
He was born a rebel. The first of his daughters was, too. So when Clara starts fussing, saying they'll both catch cold, they rush to tug their boots on, stomp through the front door, and practically race each other to the snow-capped woods.
One child's squeal and starving black bear later, his right leg's shattered and he's sprawled on the sofa. But Katniss is unharmed and unfazed.
To cheer him up, she reads to him from the book she borrowed. The cover's marred with cracks, yet the old poems inside survive. He didn't catch the name of the one his daughter's reading aloud, just that it tells its reader to, "Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
Normally, he'd agree. Except this light is much too bright.
It's his birthday. He figured he'd get a surprise. Last year, Clara scraped together her savings and paid a professional to take their family picture. This reminds him of that. He'll get to see all of his recent memories.
Still, a warning in advance would've been nice.
He ought to warn them that he's sick. He won't.
It isn't contagious, of course. Just a scourge in his lungs he caught in the mine. As days went by, the coughs chipped away at the inside of his throat, and the vague heaviness in his chest grew to a sagging weight.
It's dinnertime. He collapses in his chair next to the table, resembling a doll with half its stuffing gone. His daughters take turns giving him worried glances. And then Primrose asks if he's sure he's alright. "Yes, of course," he says with a faint smile.
Why lie? Because he's the one teaching Katniss how to swim. The one supplying Clara with the herbs she needs from the woods. The one who'll sing Primrose to sleep whenever she has bad dreams.
He has to be strong for them.
Well, he can forget about that now. He's falling apart. Breaking down.
The fragile ice buckles and cracks under the weight of Katniss' boot. Still, her steps are sure, her gaze steady. Someday, she'll outweigh him, and he'll have to look to her for help.
She must sense this somehow. "Guess what?" she pipes. "There's a Peacekeeper in town who knows you. He says you don't look well. Last time he saw me, he offered to buy us all a whole month's worth of food. You wouldn't even have to trade for it!"
Her eyes glisten. For a moment, he considers accepting the gift. Then his usual stubbornness surfaces.
"Don't take favors from Peacekeepers," he replies. "They'll use it against you later. Turn you into their slave. Let's just work for ourselves. Keep our freedom and independence."
Katniss pouts at that. But she knows once his mind's made up, there's no going back.
He wants to yell at his past self to turn around. To say yes. So he'd be able to stay.
Katniss stays close to him as he saunters into the Hob. They run into her generous law-officer friend. She politely declines his offer and says her family will be fine on their own.
"He doesn't like favors, huh? Alright. I'm not going to ask him again. Tell him I wish you and your sister the best."
He wishes Katniss would yell at him. And force him to stay.
He left before sunrise this time, just in case she tried to deter him again. The elevator sounds tired. It sags into the earth, carrying its load of six men. Their faces darkened by the invasive dust, their brooding expressions all the same. No longer individuals, just separate parts of one moving mass, meant to mine coal for the Capitol.
Those parts have been scattered, the machine's cogs wrenched from their hinges. Mangled beyond all hope of repair.
Luckily, Clara was right. Pain this sudden and extreme fades fast. Soon, he won't feel it anymore.
He can't do this anymore.
The choking dust seems to coat every square inch of his lungs. Making him gasp for air like a flopping fish, washed ashore on a beach. Just standing upright's a struggle, and instead of lending him a hand, the boss shouts insults at him.
He thinks about the gift he cast aside. His apology's already on his lips. Yet several hours of the workday remain, and the boss is watching him like a drooling wolf mutt.
Hopefully tomorrow won't be too late.
No. It can't come soon enough.
He only has time to register a slight rumbling before he's hit.
Clara would say that "hit" is too soft a word. But "struck" or "slammed" don't cut it, either. Not even "pulverized" or "liquefied" would do the trick.
It doesn't really matter now.
Seconds earlier, he was standing twenty feet away from the recent shipment of explosives. Now the ground's parallel to his body, pressing into the side of his face. He'd get up, but his right arm's two hundred feet away. His left leg, three hundred. And he can see only a tiny sliver of light, because some huge black form is in the way, pinning him.
Yet he gladly anticipates the dying of the light.
He can't say he's glad to go. Yet his girls and his wife can still live happy lives without him. Soon, only Clara and her healing touch will be that constant guide for Primrose and Katniss. She'll get them to accept the help they need, and everything will be all right.
No, it doesn't hurt anymore. And it never will again.
AN: Inspired by a scene in Chapter 29 of Louisa May Alcott's Little Women.