Blooming in the Spring

Chapter 21

The weeks leading up to our trip to the Capitol pass agonizingly. 

My nightmares worsen in anticipation and it's nearly enough to make me back out of the thing entirely. I'm hardly consolable when they come, images of decaying bodies that belong to the people I've killed and screaming bird mutts that peck at my face and dodging fire bombs that singe my skin and hair. Going back to the Capitol, and seeing the memorial has brought up all of the horrible memories I've tried so desperately to forget, pulling me out of the sweet state of delusion that I've built over the past few months. But I also know Peeta's anxiety over going back is increasing too, as well as his own nightmares that leave him in tears and panicked cries almost every morning, and I can't bear to let him go alone. So, I tough it out and assure him that I'll be fine, and maybe if I say it enough times I'll start to believe it too. 

Only I don't. Because before I feel I can even fully prepare myself, before I'm convinced I'm even really going, Peeta and Haymitch and I are standing on the train platform in 12, about to embark on our journey. The sight of the sleek bullet train pulling into the station is nearly enough to send me spiraling. I can't help but remember how it felt to be loaded into one of these cars 2 years ago for my first Games, so doubtful that I'd ever return to 12. And then a year ago, when I was positive for my second, I wouldn't. That Peeta would be the one to come back and live out the rest of his life as a District 12 mentor to batches of hopeless kids that would too take this anxiety-inducing ride into the city that I loathe so much. Except that's not what happened. There will be no more kids sent to slaughter, no more Games. I use this thought as consolation to get myself to step off the platform and onto an open car. 

The interior of the train is similar to how I remember, though there are more seats and less open space. I suppose more people use it now, as we're no longer required to stay in our individual districts. There are no more borders, no more fences. We're permitted to travel anywhere we like, though I can't imagine I'll ever actually go anywhere outside of 12 after this. I remember some of the other districts were beautiful, like 4 with its ocean and even 11 had some beauty in it, with its golden fields. But none of the other districts are home, never could be. Despite its painful history and memories, for me, it will always be District 12. 

Peeta and I find our way to the car at the back of the train without any discussion. It was always our favorite on the Victory Tour because it has seats on all sides against big windows. This is where we sit together now, anxious hands intertwined. He gives mine a gentle squeeze as I turn to look out the window, watching 12 grow smaller and smaller behind us. My heart skips a beat out of habit and I have to remind myself that it's not like before and that I will see it again and soon. The sites of the old arenas and the memorial are just outside the Capitol and the trip is only meant to take about 6 hours on the train. None of us intend on staying long and we certainly have no desire to go deeper into the city, though we've been invited to multiple fancy Capitol dinners and parties by Plutarch and Paylor and Cressida to name a few. We have respectfully declined all of them, planning to stop at the memorial site and hop back on the overnight train home. Only a day trip, really. Just one day. 

"How are you feeling?" Peeta asks, evidently taking note of my anxiety. 

"I'm alright," I say, though the uncertainty in my voice gives me away. "What about you?"

He shrugs and takes my hand in his, "More worried about you than anything."

"Don't be," I say, brushing his hand away and focusing my gaze on the passing fields of gold out the window. Every part of my soul screams to fall into Peeta's comfort, to give in to the anxious thoughts clouding my mind and making it increasingly harder to breathe. But I don't. 

Better not to give in to it, I think. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.

And this is true, Finnick's words whispered to me what feels like decades ago underneath the sounds of distant bombs and the flicker of warm candlelight. If I give in to it, it's all over. I fear I'll never recover. So I swallow my panic, harden my eyes, and give Peeta as reassuring a nod as I can possibly muster. He watches me carefully for a moment as he seems to suspect that I'm not quite as alright as I'm letting on but isn't sure if it's best to leave it alone. Ultimately, he does because, after a while of sitting together in silence, he retires to one of the bedroom cars for a nap.