katniss everdeen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burnwithus) wrote2010-09-28 12:21 am
burnwithus) wrote2010-09-28 12:21 am
Entry tags:
(peeta) heavy in your arms
As time passes, I go through the motions but nothing I do would ever qualify as living. The cravings for morphling have returned, and it's enough to send tremors and shooting pains running down my body. I don't eat anything except for mangoes. There's nothing else that my stomach can keep down. And sometimes during the midst of all the island's peacefulness I expect the roar of gunfire. I expect all of this to be taken away sooner rather than later. Like District 12. Like Peeta. Like Prim. If I don't expect anything from anyone, then I won't be disappointed. It's a fail-proof plan that gets harder to carry out every day because the people here are friendly without being asked. It's why I avoid them in favor of my own company, seeking refuge in a collection of caves that leads to a small lake and a waterfall outside.
I dip my legs into the pool. The water is cold, but it helps me keep my grip on reality well enough for these next few moments. My legs still remember what it was like to be on fire, and the change in temperature has a numbing effect that I'm grateful for until it's combined with the tremors and ends in small fits. I scramble out as best I can, rising unsteadily from my knees. The old Katniss would have loved this place, but it only serves to remind me of my father's lake - the only untouched piece of land surrounded by ashes.
My wet feet slip unsteadily on the grass until I stop myself at the sight of a prosthetic leg and further up until I see him. This isn't happening. I've lost my mind or my morphling-starved brain is bringing back images from the past. I half expect him to have a shovel in hand, ready to throw the clumps of dirt onto my deserving face. But his eyes have lost that crazed, clouded look and his skin looks smooth and unburnt, which should have been a sign.
Logical or not, I take steps towards him, my hands reaching tentatively out to touch him, because I need to make sure that he's real.
I dip my legs into the pool. The water is cold, but it helps me keep my grip on reality well enough for these next few moments. My legs still remember what it was like to be on fire, and the change in temperature has a numbing effect that I'm grateful for until it's combined with the tremors and ends in small fits. I scramble out as best I can, rising unsteadily from my knees. The old Katniss would have loved this place, but it only serves to remind me of my father's lake - the only untouched piece of land surrounded by ashes.
My wet feet slip unsteadily on the grass until I stop myself at the sight of a prosthetic leg and further up until I see him. This isn't happening. I've lost my mind or my morphling-starved brain is bringing back images from the past. I half expect him to have a shovel in hand, ready to throw the clumps of dirt onto my deserving face. But his eyes have lost that crazed, clouded look and his skin looks smooth and unburnt, which should have been a sign.
Logical or not, I take steps towards him, my hands reaching tentatively out to touch him, because I need to make sure that he's real.
no subject
It was an overload, his brain hopped from place to place and had no idea where to settle. He had felt the tension growing, but full on war seemed like madness. Not caring if she fought him, he wrapped his arms around her holding her tight. He would be the anchor for them both.
"You didn't get them killed. Remember that. It was a war and any people who leave the rest of the Districts to fend for themselves are dangerous. Stop, Katniss. Stop blaming yourself for the world."
no subject
His face is so concerned, and his arms are steady and so unlike the shaking, quivering heap I remember him as. A year ago, his arms were the only things that could make me fall asleep. The effect is the same here. I flinch, but don't fight him. I rest my head against his shoulders. Reliving it all is exhausting.
"It's too quiet here." I don't respond to his words, because what's there to possibly say? I can't promise anything.
no subject
"I know," he said because he did know. He often woke up with little sleep, hearing noises that weren't there. He had taken to walking, spending the hours between snatches of sleep moving. Anywhere out of his head.