Entry tags:
(hoping to rid us of this little hell)
Bit by bit, things get better. It's hard to accept, sometimes, but the nightmares are less frequent then they used to be. Her neighbors will be happy to note that the screaming has mostly gone down. There are days when she wakes up unable to feel anything, but that's a marked improvement from one year ago, and Katniss will take what she can get. Even if getting better somehow feels like an affront against her sister's memory. Like she's slowly forgetting how painful it was to lose her.
The island will make sure she doesn't forget. The Cornucopia was just a warning, but even that was melted down, thrown into the ocean. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.
Katniss moves through the forest as soon as the first rays of sun begin to light up the sky. These are reflexive movements that feel like home. But there's a rustling in the trees that she moves to investigate, one arrow nocked to the string. Probably a boar or something of the sort, which will make her first hunt of the day. Even before she had even set up any snares. Except that it isn't a boar, or a bird, or any other sort of wildlife known to the island.
It's Buttercup. Her sister's cat. That ugly, mashed-in face and dirty squash-yellow fur could not be mistaken. There he was, pawing at a bush, mewling and pacing as if looking for something. Katniss approaches before she even realizes what she's doing. "Are you looking for Prim?" she asks, as Buttercup turns to face her. A cold sort of fury takes over, rage and grief mingled together , and her throat closes up as surely as if it were blocked by tears. "She's not here. She's gone. Do you hear me? She's dead. She's not coming back."
But Buttercup doesn't understand. He stares stupidly at her for a moment before continuing to root around in the bushes. Katniss picks up a handful of rocks, grass, dirt, anything she can reach and flings them in that general direction, although her aim is so haphazard and poor that none make the target. "Go away! Get away from here! She's dead, you stupid cat! There's nothing left for you here!" her voice raises to a scream, shrill and too loud in the normally quiet forest. And before Katniss knows it, there are real tears now, flowing hard and fast as her legs give under the shaking strain and her knees embed in the soft dirt. Buttercup stays out of reach, warily watching her, hissing. He still probably remembers how she tried to drown him in a bucket when he was a kitten.
"She's dead. She's dead. She's not coming back," her voice is quieter now, brought down from screams to choked whispers. Cautiously, Buttercup puts one paw forward and then another, approaching her. Katniss reaches out for him, arms closing around rough, matted fur. For something that inevitably arrived from District 13, he's done well for himself. She clutches the stupid cat and cries, though she couldn't tell you for how long, until she's laying on her side in the dirt. Her knees curl inwards towards her chest, ignoring the way the cold and damp seep through her clothes. Buttercup seems to understand, too, because he's still for once. He normally never lets Katniss touch him. Prim was the one that he loved, not her, even though she was the one who fed him. Technically.
Maybe he understands. Maybe he needs this as much as she does.
[OOC; katniss' second item! open to all in-game, though it's probably not the best time to meet her. Feel free to have your pup encounter her during her encounter with Buttercup, or hours later. She'll be there for a while.]
The island will make sure she doesn't forget. The Cornucopia was just a warning, but even that was melted down, thrown into the ocean. Gone. Out of sight, out of mind.
Katniss moves through the forest as soon as the first rays of sun begin to light up the sky. These are reflexive movements that feel like home. But there's a rustling in the trees that she moves to investigate, one arrow nocked to the string. Probably a boar or something of the sort, which will make her first hunt of the day. Even before she had even set up any snares. Except that it isn't a boar, or a bird, or any other sort of wildlife known to the island.
It's Buttercup. Her sister's cat. That ugly, mashed-in face and dirty squash-yellow fur could not be mistaken. There he was, pawing at a bush, mewling and pacing as if looking for something. Katniss approaches before she even realizes what she's doing. "Are you looking for Prim?" she asks, as Buttercup turns to face her. A cold sort of fury takes over, rage and grief mingled together , and her throat closes up as surely as if it were blocked by tears. "She's not here. She's gone. Do you hear me? She's dead. She's not coming back."
But Buttercup doesn't understand. He stares stupidly at her for a moment before continuing to root around in the bushes. Katniss picks up a handful of rocks, grass, dirt, anything she can reach and flings them in that general direction, although her aim is so haphazard and poor that none make the target. "Go away! Get away from here! She's dead, you stupid cat! There's nothing left for you here!" her voice raises to a scream, shrill and too loud in the normally quiet forest. And before Katniss knows it, there are real tears now, flowing hard and fast as her legs give under the shaking strain and her knees embed in the soft dirt. Buttercup stays out of reach, warily watching her, hissing. He still probably remembers how she tried to drown him in a bucket when he was a kitten.
"She's dead. She's dead. She's not coming back," her voice is quieter now, brought down from screams to choked whispers. Cautiously, Buttercup puts one paw forward and then another, approaching her. Katniss reaches out for him, arms closing around rough, matted fur. For something that inevitably arrived from District 13, he's done well for himself. She clutches the stupid cat and cries, though she couldn't tell you for how long, until she's laying on her side in the dirt. Her knees curl inwards towards her chest, ignoring the way the cold and damp seep through her clothes. Buttercup seems to understand, too, because he's still for once. He normally never lets Katniss touch him. Prim was the one that he loved, not her, even though she was the one who fed him. Technically.
Maybe he understands. Maybe he needs this as much as she does.
[OOC; katniss' second item! open to all in-game, though it's probably not the best time to meet her. Feel free to have your pup encounter her during her encounter with Buttercup, or hours later. She'll be there for a while.]
Entry tags:
(and amateur cartography)
The invisible fence that keeps the dinosaurs from entering the rest of the island reminds her of the electrified fence that surrounded District 12. It looked entirely foreign to her, the presence of something modern and terrible in the middle of the forest. She goes no further than the posts that mark it, not stupid enough to risk her life over the appeal of exploring the wilderness.
But she hears a noise from within, more than the usual stomping of giant feet and angry roars. A human voice, faint but definite. And despite all of her mind's more sensible protests to ignore it and run while she can, she can't. Won't. Because Katniss once made a promise to herself that she wouldn't run anymore. Even if it is her first instinct, she hates herself for it.
Maybe it's her mind's subconscious way of trying to atone for all those people she's killed. Katniss would laugh if she realized this, more inclined to believe that she's doing this because her life doesn't mean much anyways.
Her feet are silent on the grass, one arrow knocked to her half-drawn bowstring. Moving through the foliage as if she were no more than a ghost.
But she hears a noise from within, more than the usual stomping of giant feet and angry roars. A human voice, faint but definite. And despite all of her mind's more sensible protests to ignore it and run while she can, she can't. Won't. Because Katniss once made a promise to herself that she wouldn't run anymore. Even if it is her first instinct, she hates herself for it.
Maybe it's her mind's subconscious way of trying to atone for all those people she's killed. Katniss would laugh if she realized this, more inclined to believe that she's doing this because her life doesn't mean much anyways.
Her feet are silent on the grass, one arrow knocked to her half-drawn bowstring. Moving through the foliage as if she were no more than a ghost.
Entry tags:
(every fire is a lesson learned)
She finds herself singing lately, more often than not, and Katniss doesn't really know why. It feels as if suddenly, everything comes rushing back to her. All of the songs her father taught her; old ballads and the songs coal miners used to sing. Love songs and those that tell stories alike. She sits and sings, hands busy with the knot of a snare or the sharpened point of an arrow while she does. And if asked, Katniss could honestly not say why this was. She'd shunned music entirely after her father's death, dismissing it to the point where she was half-convinced that she'd never loved it at all.
But some things always come back, even if they're not entirely welcome.
Katniss sits there for hours, running through songs - she likes the ones that tell stories the most.
The morbid ones remind her of 'The Hanging Tree', and how oddly she was drawn to it, and not only because it was forbidden. This story, at least, has a happier ending than the others she'd sung that morning with the backdrop of the waves accompanying her. The good thing about the beach was that it was so vast, and it wasn't hard to find a secluded area here or there.
When she'd first arrived, her voice had been raspy and terrible. Destroyed from inhaling too much smoke, from screaming too loudly and too often. But like the redness of the burn scars, even that's faded.
There's a metaphor to be found there, she supposes, but she never liked those anyways.
But some things always come back, even if they're not entirely welcome.
Katniss sits there for hours, running through songs - she likes the ones that tell stories the most.
There was a youth, a cruel youth,
Who lived beside the sea,
Six little maidens he drowned there
By the lonely willow tree.
The morbid ones remind her of 'The Hanging Tree', and how oddly she was drawn to it, and not only because it was forbidden. This story, at least, has a happier ending than the others she'd sung that morning with the backdrop of the waves accompanying her. The good thing about the beach was that it was so vast, and it wasn't hard to find a secluded area here or there.
He turned around, that false young man,
And faced the the willow tree,
And seizing him boldly in both her arms,
She threw him into the sea.
Lie there, lie there, you false young man,
Lie there, lie there, cried she,
Six little maidens you've drowned here,
Now keep them company.
He sank beneath the icy waves,
He sank down into the sea,
And no living thing wept a tear for him,
Save the lonely willow tree.
When she'd first arrived, her voice had been raspy and terrible. Destroyed from inhaling too much smoke, from screaming too loudly and too often. But like the redness of the burn scars, even that's faded.
There's a metaphor to be found there, she supposes, but she never liked those anyways.
Entry tags:
(the boys are too refined)
Things are different these days, now that Gale's gone and the treehouse is empty. But life goes on, and in her own way, Katniss is beginning to see that as well. She revives a bit more each day, albeit gradually. Some nights, the nightmares are more brief than others. Some days, it isn't a struggle to get out of bed. Her body recovers too, bit by bit. Not enough to be noticeable, but after months and months - nearly a year now, she reflects on it from time to time.
Except that morning, she woke up to many things that were noticeable. Pushing the blankets back, Katniss realized that her burn scars were much more faded than they usually were. And she felt...different. Taller, stronger, although no less tired. One quick look in the mirror revealed something entirely different: herself, but older. The same braid, the same scrubbed face and grey eyes, but-- it was strange. It must be something done by the island. She throws clothes on haphazardly before grabbing her bow and rucksack, heading out to see if this isn't just something happening to her.
Peeta. She should check on him, shouldn't she?
Moving quickly despite her legs being longer than her remembering them being, she passes by a woman she doesn't quite recognize, and doesn't give it any thought. Katniss is antisocial. She knows very few people on the island, although...one would think she would at least recognize people's faces.
Except that morning, she woke up to many things that were noticeable. Pushing the blankets back, Katniss realized that her burn scars were much more faded than they usually were. And she felt...different. Taller, stronger, although no less tired. One quick look in the mirror revealed something entirely different: herself, but older. The same braid, the same scrubbed face and grey eyes, but-- it was strange. It must be something done by the island. She throws clothes on haphazardly before grabbing her bow and rucksack, heading out to see if this isn't just something happening to her.
Peeta. She should check on him, shouldn't she?
Moving quickly despite her legs being longer than her remembering them being, she passes by a woman she doesn't quite recognize, and doesn't give it any thought. Katniss is antisocial. She knows very few people on the island, although...one would think she would at least recognize people's faces.
Entry tags:
with rocks and clouds we breathe violent skies ➴ buffy
It's only a few days after the disaster that was her return visit to Panem, and Katniss still hasn't slept. It feels as if things are moving far too fast, uncharacteristic for this idyllic island 'paradise'. She can't stop the dread building in her gut when she realizes that what had happened was only a taste of her fate should she return home. Being dragged into prison by Peacekeepers. Executed in front of the entirety of Panem.
This is what happens when you defy us. A message for all to see. People would talk, she has no doubt about that. Years after her execution, they'll wonder why she did it, because they don't know the truth. They'll write her off as being unbalanced and get on with their lives. Katniss doesn't contest the proposed accusation - she knows that her actions were based off of paranoia, at least in part.
She's back to her old habits already, wandering the forest, but this time Katniss doesn't take her bow with her. It's the bow that Beetee made for her. A bow that was meant for war. It feels wrong in this forest, untouched by the Games and the War and all the promises that the Revolution said it would bring but ultimately failed to do for her.
There's a bush of primroses growing wild, the yellow flowers drawing her in. The word rose is the first to make the connection in her brain and she almost gags again at the thought, but doesn't in the end. She doesn't know what she's doing, but Katniss kneels in front of the bush and reaches out anyways, wrapping her palm around a stem, trying to remove the flower from the plant. The thorns cut into her palm but she grits her teeth and bears it until the flower snaps off.
A drop of blood falls onto the yellow flower, staining a delicate petal red. Blood and roses. The symbol isn't lost on Katniss.
Blood on her hands again. Slick and shiny and sticky, stinking of iron. She's so used to it on her skin by now, but at least this time it's her own blood. Katniss can't help but think of the Peacekeeper's blood, hot on her hair and clothing back in Panem, and even though it was only a dream it had felt real at the time and Katniss can't help but notice how little she hesitated before reacting with the knife. There was really no hesitation at all.
So she's a murderer. That's nothing Katniss didn't know already. The problem is being forced to see the evidence of it in front of her.
With a sigh that resonates through the forest, she picks another flower. Maybe she'll make a wreathe. These aren't the places where Prim walked and lived, but it'll give her something to do.
This is what happens when you defy us. A message for all to see. People would talk, she has no doubt about that. Years after her execution, they'll wonder why she did it, because they don't know the truth. They'll write her off as being unbalanced and get on with their lives. Katniss doesn't contest the proposed accusation - she knows that her actions were based off of paranoia, at least in part.
She's back to her old habits already, wandering the forest, but this time Katniss doesn't take her bow with her. It's the bow that Beetee made for her. A bow that was meant for war. It feels wrong in this forest, untouched by the Games and the War and all the promises that the Revolution said it would bring but ultimately failed to do for her.
There's a bush of primroses growing wild, the yellow flowers drawing her in. The word rose is the first to make the connection in her brain and she almost gags again at the thought, but doesn't in the end. She doesn't know what she's doing, but Katniss kneels in front of the bush and reaches out anyways, wrapping her palm around a stem, trying to remove the flower from the plant. The thorns cut into her palm but she grits her teeth and bears it until the flower snaps off.
A drop of blood falls onto the yellow flower, staining a delicate petal red. Blood and roses. The symbol isn't lost on Katniss.
Blood on her hands again. Slick and shiny and sticky, stinking of iron. She's so used to it on her skin by now, but at least this time it's her own blood. Katniss can't help but think of the Peacekeeper's blood, hot on her hair and clothing back in Panem, and even though it was only a dream it had felt real at the time and Katniss can't help but notice how little she hesitated before reacting with the knife. There was really no hesitation at all.
So she's a murderer. That's nothing Katniss didn't know already. The problem is being forced to see the evidence of it in front of her.
With a sigh that resonates through the forest, she picks another flower. Maybe she'll make a wreathe. These aren't the places where Prim walked and lived, but it'll give her something to do.
the world was on fire and no one could save me but you ➴ gale
Katniss wakes up screaming, sweat-drenched and shaking, eyes wide and staring up at the ceiling yet the only thing she can feel is the sticky blood on her skin and the feeling of being grabbed and dragged by dozens of hands. It takes her a moment to realize that she's still in the hut, in the same place where she went to sleep and that her hands are clean and the pain is gone.
It takes a long time for the adrenalin to stop pumping through her veins, triggering the fight reflex in her and her heart is pounding so fast and hard in her chest that she just wants to run away. It hurts to see District 12 and know that she's escaped her fate for now, but for how long? People disappear from the island all the time.
Gale didn't shoot her.
She can't forgive him for that. Even if Katniss knows that she had failed him similarly before, she can't.
It takes a long time for the adrenalin to stop pumping through her veins, triggering the fight reflex in her and her heart is pounding so fast and hard in her chest that she just wants to run away. It hurts to see District 12 and know that she's escaped her fate for now, but for how long? People disappear from the island all the time.
Gale didn't shoot her.
She can't forgive him for that. Even if Katniss knows that she had failed him similarly before, she can't.
volcanoes melt you down ➴ peeta
Every time she settles down to sleep, there's the feeling of being grabbed that shakes her awake. The Peacekeepers are her new nightmare fodder, not that Katniss was lacking in that department. It's really the only thing that she's thought about since they've returned home, the memories of screaming for Gale to shoot her hitting too close to home. Like everything is an echo.
He didn't, though. The deal Katniss had made with him did not apply to this version of Gale, just as she never quite knows how to act around this Peeta, unbroken and whole after being resigned to the reality of losing him for so long. All of the rules have changed, and she's stuck in the middle of it all, trying to adapt.
Trying is the operative word.
It's late. She's not sure how late, but the night air has the sort of stinging chill that only comes in the small hours of the night. Possibly foolish to be walking around at this hour, but she has her bow and her ears are as good as ever. Briefly, Katniss wonders if Jason's somewhere out there, now that she knows that he's watching her.
A twig snaps somewhere behind her, back to a cozy-looking house with lit windows. Katniss whips around, every muscle already tensed and only relaxes when she sees a flash of blonde hair, even by the pale light of the moon.
"Peeta?"
As always, there was a twist in her stomach when she sees him, of emotions she couldn't quite disentangle even if she were up to the momentous task of doing so. "What are you doing here?"
He didn't, though. The deal Katniss had made with him did not apply to this version of Gale, just as she never quite knows how to act around this Peeta, unbroken and whole after being resigned to the reality of losing him for so long. All of the rules have changed, and she's stuck in the middle of it all, trying to adapt.
Trying is the operative word.
It's late. She's not sure how late, but the night air has the sort of stinging chill that only comes in the small hours of the night. Possibly foolish to be walking around at this hour, but she has her bow and her ears are as good as ever. Briefly, Katniss wonders if Jason's somewhere out there, now that she knows that he's watching her.
A twig snaps somewhere behind her, back to a cozy-looking house with lit windows. Katniss whips around, every muscle already tensed and only relaxes when she sees a flash of blonde hair, even by the pale light of the moon.
"Peeta?"
As always, there was a twist in her stomach when she sees him, of emotions she couldn't quite disentangle even if she were up to the momentous task of doing so. "What are you doing here?"
they won't ask you why (they'll just watch you die) ➴ homeplot
I taste ash on my lips, heavy and choking. It's in the air, along with the smell of coal fires that only remind me of District 12.
District 12.
My eyes snap open, face pressed against the fallen ash. Trying not to breathe it in. There was a disease that all the miners got after too many years of working, a cough that no amount of salve could take away. Black Lung Disease, my mother used to call it. I already feel the burning begin in my lungs as I pick myself up from the floor. This was District 12, and it didn't feel like a nightmare. After a year and a half of fighting them repeatedly, I knew all of my nightmares.
This was something else. This was...focus. I press a hand against the scar on my temple, the one I automatically associate with confusion in hopes that it will help me think. It doesn't. After a minute I give up on trying to figure out why and focus more on figuring out where I am. In the distance, the red flames of the slag heap are still visible. With all that residual coal dust, it might be burning forever. Still burning, I think numbly, reaching automatically for the quiver at my shoulder, except it isn't there. Just the knife I sleep with underneath my pillow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something beginning to move. Someone. Multiple people whose faces I can't quite make out. How is this even possible? There was no one left alive after the firebombing, except those that Gale managed to get out.
Maybe it's the dead. It sounds ridiculous, but if this is a dream, if it's my dream...it's entirely possible.
District 12.
My eyes snap open, face pressed against the fallen ash. Trying not to breathe it in. There was a disease that all the miners got after too many years of working, a cough that no amount of salve could take away. Black Lung Disease, my mother used to call it. I already feel the burning begin in my lungs as I pick myself up from the floor. This was District 12, and it didn't feel like a nightmare. After a year and a half of fighting them repeatedly, I knew all of my nightmares.
This was something else. This was...focus. I press a hand against the scar on my temple, the one I automatically associate with confusion in hopes that it will help me think. It doesn't. After a minute I give up on trying to figure out why and focus more on figuring out where I am. In the distance, the red flames of the slag heap are still visible. With all that residual coal dust, it might be burning forever. Still burning, I think numbly, reaching automatically for the quiver at my shoulder, except it isn't there. Just the knife I sleep with underneath my pillow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something beginning to move. Someone. Multiple people whose faces I can't quite make out. How is this even possible? There was no one left alive after the firebombing, except those that Gale managed to get out.
Maybe it's the dead. It sounds ridiculous, but if this is a dream, if it's my dream...it's entirely possible.
(gale) we are young and stupid and raised by wolves
During her stint in 13, Katniss had become amazingly adept at finding little hiding places where nobody would come across her. The boiler room, a storage closet, an abandoned classroom. Oftentimes these were barely big enough for her to fit, but she didn't mind curling up in order to do so. It was in these places that she would purposefully disregard her schedule and spend her days sleeping and wandering, partially because of the concussion Johanna Mason gave her, but mostly because Peeta Mellark was gone. They had taken him to the Capitol, used him to break her and it had worked spectacularly. She was a useless Mockingjay with clipped wings without him, and everyone in the War Room had known it.
Peeta was gone now, too, but this time it was different. This time Katniss at least knew that he was safe and on his way to some form of happiness and normalcy, and as twisted and bruised as her heart is now she's not going to deny him that. It's almost strange not to have him around, and it's definitely something she had taken for granted in the past. That Peeta would be there, always. That his hands would always be steady and he would smile slightly when he saw her, and that...
Well, what was the point in thinking about it? She wasn't going to call him back if he had moved on, because that was selfish and she had already been selfish enough in not telling him about 12. If he didn't love her anymore, hated her, even, who was she to deny him the chance to love someone more functional than she? Maybe this Peeta, whole an unbroken as he was, deserved more than the burned-out husk of the Girl on Fire. This Peeta didn't need her.
Katniss is curled up in a hollow tree, head resting against the wood and breathing in the faint scent of mildew, though she hardly minds it. It's almost a comforting scent, natural although slightly sickly sweet. But this tree is hidden from view in most angles, and the quiet of the forest is just what she needs to calm the myriad of thoughts in her head.
Peeta was gone now, too, but this time it was different. This time Katniss at least knew that he was safe and on his way to some form of happiness and normalcy, and as twisted and bruised as her heart is now she's not going to deny him that. It's almost strange not to have him around, and it's definitely something she had taken for granted in the past. That Peeta would be there, always. That his hands would always be steady and he would smile slightly when he saw her, and that...
Well, what was the point in thinking about it? She wasn't going to call him back if he had moved on, because that was selfish and she had already been selfish enough in not telling him about 12. If he didn't love her anymore, hated her, even, who was she to deny him the chance to love someone more functional than she? Maybe this Peeta, whole an unbroken as he was, deserved more than the burned-out husk of the Girl on Fire. This Peeta didn't need her.
Katniss is curled up in a hollow tree, head resting against the wood and breathing in the faint scent of mildew, though she hardly minds it. It's almost a comforting scent, natural although slightly sickly sweet. But this tree is hidden from view in most angles, and the quiet of the forest is just what she needs to calm the myriad of thoughts in her head.
(gale) sing to me about the end of the world
In 13, Katniss found that she had a penchant for hiding and finding small places to slip into where no one could possibly find her. Places that she could be alone with her thoughts, no matter how dark they were. Today she slips into the caves, avoiding the forest where she knows the Cornucopia glimmers dully in the hot island sun, yet another reminder of things she can't forget.
The bloodstains haven't quite washed away either, despite the snow.
She comes across a pool of clear water and lets her legs dangle into them, tingling against healing scars but in a way that feels good. Cathartic, in a way. Katniss stares quietly at the cavernous ceiling, noting the stalactites on the ceiling, pointing down like great stone arrows.
The fact that she can only hear the dripping of water echoing in the cave helps to calm her just a little bit, closing her eyes and trying to sift through exactly what she's feeling right now. Peeta. Gale. Everything is crowding around her mind right now until it's nearly impossible to see through. Gale had kissed her, and she'd let him. Why? Why did she do that?
It's because she wasn't thinking, Katniss realizes sullenly a few seconds later. And now Peeta knows about what happened after the Capitol took him, and she still doesn't know where they stand or where she wants them to stand.
A sharp, shuddering sigh is released from her lips, and it's loud in the all-pervasive silence of the caves, with plenty of surfaces for it to echo against.
The bloodstains haven't quite washed away either, despite the snow.
She comes across a pool of clear water and lets her legs dangle into them, tingling against healing scars but in a way that feels good. Cathartic, in a way. Katniss stares quietly at the cavernous ceiling, noting the stalactites on the ceiling, pointing down like great stone arrows.
The fact that she can only hear the dripping of water echoing in the cave helps to calm her just a little bit, closing her eyes and trying to sift through exactly what she's feeling right now. Peeta. Gale. Everything is crowding around her mind right now until it's nearly impossible to see through. Gale had kissed her, and she'd let him. Why? Why did she do that?
It's because she wasn't thinking, Katniss realizes sullenly a few seconds later. And now Peeta knows about what happened after the Capitol took him, and she still doesn't know where they stand or where she wants them to stand.
A sharp, shuddering sigh is released from her lips, and it's loud in the all-pervasive silence of the caves, with plenty of surfaces for it to echo against.
(peeta) the sea's wine red; this is the death of beauty
I hate hospitals. I spent far too much time in them in District 13, but until Gale wakes up there's nothing to do but wait. I've been sitting in this chair for hours, given a lot of time to wonder why and how everything went so wrong. Trying to figure out what he'll remember when he does wake up, or what he'll expect of me but I can't go back to being the girl that he used to know. There's a point crossed where that becomes impossible.
My back aches from sitting too long. I should stretch my legs before they fall asleep. But before I get the chance to, the door of the room opens.
It's Peeta.
Just the sight of him is enough to cause an uncomfortable twist in my stomach. Peeta, who was so willing to throw his lot in with mine despite how angry he was with me. Hospitals remind me of him, too. Of how much time I spent in them, trying not to think about what the Capitol was doing to Peeta. Images of him being beaten and electrocuted like Johanna or forced to live constantly in the nightmares that tracker jacker venom brings. I tried not to think about what the rebels were doing to undo it, as if I wasn't sure it would work. As if I should prepare myself for losing him. That's something else I haven't told him about, something I should tell him, but-
I have to swallow before looking at him, regaining composure. "Peeta...what are you doing here?" He doesn't have to be here. He knows that, probably. But he is, because that's who this Peeta used to be.
My back aches from sitting too long. I should stretch my legs before they fall asleep. But before I get the chance to, the door of the room opens.
It's Peeta.
Just the sight of him is enough to cause an uncomfortable twist in my stomach. Peeta, who was so willing to throw his lot in with mine despite how angry he was with me. Hospitals remind me of him, too. Of how much time I spent in them, trying not to think about what the Capitol was doing to Peeta. Images of him being beaten and electrocuted like Johanna or forced to live constantly in the nightmares that tracker jacker venom brings. I tried not to think about what the rebels were doing to undo it, as if I wasn't sure it would work. As if I should prepare myself for losing him. That's something else I haven't told him about, something I should tell him, but-
I have to swallow before looking at him, regaining composure. "Peeta...what are you doing here?" He doesn't have to be here. He knows that, probably. But he is, because that's who this Peeta used to be.
Entry tags:
(gale) we're half-awake in a fake empire
It's hours before Gale finally wakes up, even with all the care it took to treat and bandage up his back. It gives me many, many moments to wonder why I'm still sitting in this chair. To wonder if I can talk to him at all, even though I thought I never would again. Gale Hawthorne gave me the last arrow I ever shot in Panem, and I was supposed to die after that.
That was the plan. It didn't work.
Now where does that leave us? My mind sifts through the details and the memories, trying to create some kind of order out of the chaos. Gale was whipped after I told him Eight rebelled. He doesn't know about the Quell, or the war, or the rebellion that he helped plan.
He doesn't know about Prim.
A flash of anger fires through me, tenses my muscles all at once. He should know! I want to scream. He should know, even though this Gale has never even seen a bomb in his life. Even though this Gale thrives best in forests with clean air and running water and wouldn't dream of living in an underground bunker.
It's petty, but I've never been forgiving. Peeta's the one who sees the good in people, or tries to. I see what's there.
But that isn't fair. It would be as if the husband of the Capitol woman I shot came and found me before the Quell. Before the world changed. I wouldn't understand why I would do such a thing. I'd think that it wasn't possible.
No amount of cruelty is impossible when it comes to humans.
I bury my face in my hands and take a moment to breathe, tears slipping out of my closed eyes. Gale can't see me - he's unconscious. There's no one else around. He looks younger and more peaceful asleep, like he wouldn't be capable of the deadly things I know he is.
There was never anyone as good as Gale when it came to snares. It was the quarry that changed.
That was the plan. It didn't work.
Now where does that leave us? My mind sifts through the details and the memories, trying to create some kind of order out of the chaos. Gale was whipped after I told him Eight rebelled. He doesn't know about the Quell, or the war, or the rebellion that he helped plan.
He doesn't know about Prim.
A flash of anger fires through me, tenses my muscles all at once. He should know! I want to scream. He should know, even though this Gale has never even seen a bomb in his life. Even though this Gale thrives best in forests with clean air and running water and wouldn't dream of living in an underground bunker.
It's petty, but I've never been forgiving. Peeta's the one who sees the good in people, or tries to. I see what's there.
But that isn't fair. It would be as if the husband of the Capitol woman I shot came and found me before the Quell. Before the world changed. I wouldn't understand why I would do such a thing. I'd think that it wasn't possible.
No amount of cruelty is impossible when it comes to humans.
I bury my face in my hands and take a moment to breathe, tears slipping out of my closed eyes. Gale can't see me - he's unconscious. There's no one else around. He looks younger and more peaceful asleep, like he wouldn't be capable of the deadly things I know he is.
There was never anyone as good as Gale when it came to snares. It was the quarry that changed.
Entry tags:
(sawyer) light up, light up as if you have a choice
It's late when she crashes through the forest, which is good considering how little care she's taking to be quiet. At least there's no one around to hear or see her. Katniss was told that there were animals here that were worse than the occasional boar, but she doesn't care. It's hard to care about things like that when there's still alcohol and god-knows-what rushing through your system and bad memories cemented in your brain.
She nearly trips twice over tree roots but keeps going deeper into the forest, not knowing what she's running from but crying and screaming until her lungs hurt, until her voice feels raw and rough. It feels good. Cathartic, almost, even if it doesn't change a thing.
Katniss stops in an empty clearing, laying down in the piles of fluffy white snow that reminds her of comfortable beds and duvet covers, but that only makes it worse. The Capitol had beds like that. Her fingers trace lines in the snow as her tears hit the piles but don't melt the magically pristine substance.
It doesn't change a thing.
She nearly trips twice over tree roots but keeps going deeper into the forest, not knowing what she's running from but crying and screaming until her lungs hurt, until her voice feels raw and rough. It feels good. Cathartic, almost, even if it doesn't change a thing.
Katniss stops in an empty clearing, laying down in the piles of fluffy white snow that reminds her of comfortable beds and duvet covers, but that only makes it worse. The Capitol had beds like that. Her fingers trace lines in the snow as her tears hit the piles but don't melt the magically pristine substance.
It doesn't change a thing.
Entry tags:
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.