Chapter Text
It’s hard to say that I miss the Games. I don’t miss them, at least I don’t think. The same way I miss my mom, and I also don’t miss her, and the way I desperately want her back and am glad she’s finally, finally, dead. Blinking up the dull grey ceiling, trying desperately to gather the willpower to get out of bed, I try and figure it out. Do I miss the the Games or not?
I miss colour.
I miss the warm-toned blue of the ocean and the sliding gradient to navy water. I miss the steel-grey cornucopia and how it clashed magnificently against the black rocks. I miss the collage of greens and browns in the jungle.
I don’t miss red.
I make a checklist of it all in my mind, what I want back and what I don’t. What I’ll paint if I get to do it again. Of course this all useless. I’m just procrastinating on the one thing I truly do miss, and can’t have.
Katniss.
I gasp suddenly, and grab the beads.
It’s a stupid little exercise a doctor from Thirteen came up with. Really, I should be grateful to him. It’s so hard to get colour in this place. But the silly little wooden beads, on the fading brown string dull in comparison to what I’m used to. The deep oak doors of a wooden door. The golden hue of melted butter. The pink sky in the arena.
My breath hitches, and to stall the waves, I start moving the beads and reciting.
Aqua dreams (20016B)
Carmel Apple (55784B)
Navy Velvet (37921D)
Garden Path ( 44402B)
Every little tube of paint I got from the Capitol came with a sultry title and a factory number. I move the beads and recite the name and number of the shade to distract myself. It even works sometimes.
“If just the beads themselves don’t seem to help, you could try looking up, categorising your surroundings. The most important thing is to break the intrusive thought pattern.”
I move the strings and say the colours like a prayer until my voice is hoarse and I’m finally allowed to get up.
The schedule for the day is printed on my wrist in a deep purple shade (Violet Haze 99332D) and the first thing listed is six-thirty AM, breakfast. I pull on my uniform and head out. I don’t like Thirteen. I never thought I’d say I prefer the Capitol to some place, but I almost miss the training centre, Effie’s outrageous costumes, the white-lights of the city circle. I do miss the rooftop garden, that much I’m sure of.
Don’t think about it. Grab the beads. Feel them in your hand. Indents on your palm.
Here, the world is sucked of colour. Like a loaf that’s been left for too long in the pantry, dry air folding in itself, concrete walls all so similar they seem to close in on you, long narrow hallways without an end. The people themselves, are like the place. Sharp and practical, dry and without good senses of humour. I miss Haymitch. I haven’t seen him since I got here and I’m glad. I’m sick of Haymitch. A useless pathetic old man. He’s locked in a rehab unit, drying out since they don’t allow excess liquor. He sobers up from drink. I sober up from pigment.
Johanna, one of the other lucky tributes also made it out. She’s in pretty much the same state as Haymitch, frequently bearing the brunt of numerous reprimands because of her reckless attitude and angry outbursts.
My doctor once suggested a debrief for all the victims of the seventy-fifth Hunger Games. It was miserable. Haymitch was scowling and bellowing. Beetee was quiet, Johanna was contemptuous but at least I got to meet Annie.
I go to our usual table, but Annie isn’t there. Which makes sense, since she sleeps later than me. She has a medical bracelet to say she can. I have a bracelet too. It says I’m allowed to keep my wooden beaded string. That no-one can take it away.
It feels very strange, having something that belongs to me. Back at home, all of my clothes belonged to Benn, then to Harth, then to me. All of my toys too. My bed.
I bought things for myself with my Capitol money. But I had a sense, even then that it was only rented. I never lost the feeling of Glimmer’s jaws snapping at the heels of my feet.
I place my tray down, and the cafeteria worker fills it up with an unattractive lump of greyish-brown oatmeal (Speckled Feather 52214B). The food here is bad. I offered to help out in the cafeteria, but Plutarch wanted me full-time. It’s quicker to get news on the war there too.
As I pass by the table where the medics sit, I make sure to nod to my hello. Mrs Everdeen nods back and Primrose gives me a sympathetic smile. They’re with the doctors unit now. Early risers.
I’m so sorry.
It was Katniss the rebels wanted. Katniss is the one Haymitch was working to save. Katniss, the mockingjay. Katniss the hunter. Katniss the swimmer. The girl on fire, the girl with the berries, District Eleven’s sympathiser, Rue’s comforter.
He ended up finding me instead, accidentally. The second choice. I feel eyes on the back of my neck and feel them thinking why you?
I sit down to eat, thanking whatever higher power is up there that Hawthorne isn’t in the cafeteria today when I see Johanna at the corner of my eye. Huh, I guess she got out of solitary early.
She finds me sitting, and starts waving frantically, her arms above her head. Her face is an odd shade of pink (Coral 65421D) and as I stare at her dumbfounded she flicks her wrist with an impatient “hurry up” motion.
I leave the tray behind, but I’m not even five paces away from her when she says, breathless.
“It’s Katniss.”
I immediately break into a light jog, heading to where I know I’m wanted, Plutarch’s communication room. The room behind me bursts into shocked whispers and conversations, and I feel Johanna pressing closely behind me.
In the communication room, the first person I see is Hawthorne, who’s obviously just been woken up. Hair rumpled and eyes clouded with sleep. I wonder if he’s been told.
Plutarch sits at his desk, his thumb pressed tightly to the bottom of his chin. He’s staring deeply at the biggest monitor, where a small crowd has gathered. I stop, suddenly afraid to go any further.
Someone grabs my hand.
It’s Katniss on the screen.
It’s the Ceasar Flickerman show, but instead of sitting on one of his plush red couches, Katniss stands stiffly on a little podium, quite a ways off from where Ceasar is sitting and talking in the wide frame. I search for obvious wounds, for signs of distress, but I give up quickly. It’s too easy to hide those kinds of things. Special make-up. Post-production. Ceasar is saying something, but it’s like he’s on the other side of a windy street, the words just don’t reach me.
I stare at Katniss. She’s wearing one of Cinna’s dresses. It’s pretty. A light blue shade, with creamy polka dots that cinches in tightly at the waist and then flares out into a cupcake-round skirt.
And they’ve bleached her long dark hair completely white (Midwinter Snowflake ———B).
There’s something in her eyes. The same look she had, when she talked about Cato in the arena. The same look she had when the quarter quell was announced. When we first began the Victory tour.
The face of a prey animal.
Finally, Ceasar stops talking and there’s a pause. Everyone hitches their breath, wondering what’s going to happen. A gunshot? A whip-crack? A cry?
Instead Katniss looks up into the camera, and starts singing.