Katniss loves certain sounds. The flowing silence of the woods. Mockingjay tweets. Her inhale before a bowstring snaps and that plop of prey behind the whistling arrow. Prim's gentle laughter afterwards and the comforting, deep presence of Gale's voice. Sounds she can understand.
She doesn't understand her mother's incessant silence. The coal mine's whistle which should've brought back her father from his shift but didn't. Capitol Propaganda. The alien chatter of girls at school and droning lessons about coal.
Hence, Madge's gentle voice comforts her. The girl's white cotton dress like spindles of silk wrapping Katniss in a cocoon that drowns out the entire world's incomprehensible noises. Until it's just the two of them and everything feels safe again.
"Is that all you get to eat everyday?" Madge asks. And before Katniss can answer, a new sound invades Katniss's cocoon with Madge. Crunch. Round lump of buttery, flaky pastry perched right next to the burnt bits scraped off her meagre hunk of bread. The syrup-glazed pastry glistens beneath sun-streaked windows. And as much as she swallows away her aching hunger, Katniss can't stop her mouth watering from what she imagines the taste of peaches and goat's cheese would feel like on her tongue. Hewn dry like sandpaper from burnt ration-grain bread.
She strains to breathe with the dilemma.
In the last two years, Katniss has taken for granted how easy things are with Madge. Too easy to ignore that clench in her chest when Madge smiles. Focusing instead on her gnawing belly. Too easy to turn away when sunlight falls on Madge's crown of gold hair and makes her life feel alright again. Rather, staring off at the woods and its never-ending duty for survival.
So why does this gleaming piece of pastry feel like such a difficult obstacle to overcome?
She thinks about losing this thing she has with Madge. The rich girl with a Mayor's wealth still offering a place of safety for a poor wretch like her. And yet asking for nothing in return but her company (which isn't even that exciting to begin with). The longer Katniss stares at the pastry, the more she realises it'll upset this delicate balance. She'll now owe Madge a piece of herself. And she knows she has fuck-all to give.
The thought of their silent friendship turning transactional forces Katniss's hand across the table. Shoving the Peach Danish back in a trail of crumbs. Her chair grates against the lunch hall's concrete floor. Stunned silence from the kids around them. Madge's voice gasping, "Wait, wait-"
Too many sounds. All incomprehensible.
Her heartbeat slows when she escapes into the crisp fall air and bathes her ears in Mockingjay chirps. The rush of a breeze. Understandable sounds. She doesn't even mind when Madge catches up to her, but still fails to keep the scowl from her face when she turns to face her.
"It's nothing, ok?" Madge pleads, half-smile bent on her face, "I just thought you'd like some-"
"Well, you thought wrong!" Katniss shoots back. And already she remembers her father's words. It's impossible to recall an arrow after you've shot it.
That brokenness on Madge's face. Katniss doesn't appear to have missed her mark.
"J-just pretend I didn't do anything, alright?" Madge argues, shrinking away from Katniss's glowering stare, "I-I don't want to ruin things between us."
Katniss inhales sharply, pressing a hand to her head as the words swirl around her head. Things between us.
"What things?" she gasps, a question more to herself. One Madge picks up anyway.
"We're friends," Madge answers, before she lowers her voice. Laced with equal parts trepidation and hope.
"Aren't we?"
It hurts like a sledgehammer to her gut. Friends. Aren't we?
In another life, perhaps. Where I'm not poor as shit with a crippled mother and a helpless sister. Where I had more to give and I'd never owe a debt I can't repay. Where my brain isn't bogged down by selling dead rabbits and milking goats and I can figure out exactly what you are to me. Or why I can't get your fucking voice out of my ears each night when I dream.
"Have you ever considered," Kaniss balls her fists, bowstring pulled tight, "that I don't want to be friends with you?"
She rarely misses her target in the forest. But this time, she wishes she does.