Blooming in the Spring

Chapter 22

The train stops about 20 miles out from the site of the memorials. 

I feel my stomach flip as we disembark from the platform and into a car Plutarch has sent especially for us. Though the station isn't particularly busy, I catch the eyes of several people as we make our way outside. Each one is the same. At first, hardly gave a second glance to a rather plain-looking girl with her eyes lowered to the floor. After all, I don't look much like I used to. I may not look ghostly anymore but any trace of the war-torn and blood-thirsty girl they last saw of me is gone. Now I'm just a girl, only eighteen, and not particularly thrilled to be here. Still, when they catch sight of Peeta behind me I know it clicks for them. He still resembles the sweet boy everyone fell in love with during the Games. His muscle has come back, his skin is lightly bronzed from the summer sun and his eyes are still soft and kind, a blue as light as the sky. 

I watch as people of all ages do double takes as we pass when they realize who we are. No one approaches us, no one says a word. But I can't shake their curious eyes and occasional murmurs to each other. Do they hate us? I wonder. Or are we still figures of entertainment for them? It's difficult to say, especially because not all of them appear to be Capitol born. Some are dressed in plain clothes, district clothes--though everyone looks much more nourished than I remember. And those sporting brighter colors and gems and wigs seemed to even have toned down their wild appearances some. There are still individuals covered in glitter or tattoos or ridiculous makeup. But they seem just a bit more human now. If it's because of the aftermath of the war or just simply because they have to blend with the district people now, I'm not sure. 

When we make it to our car, I let out a long breath I didn't realize I was holding. Peeta and I take the back seat, with Haymitch up front--already making chitchat with the driver that I don't particularly care to pay attention to. My breath hitches in my throat and I feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead. The car is air-conditioned on the inside but the anxiety I feel coursing through my veins as we pull out onto the street makes me feel like I'm burning up. My cheeks are hot, my chest is heavy. I try not to look out the window, try to keep my eyes in my lap but I can't help myself. 

And there it is, the Capitol standing tall and looming above our heads. Their restoration crew seems to have done a good job. I suppose 12 was the last district they've bothered to rebuild, as hardly anyone lives there anymore, and they've already made so much progress. I'd imagine they started rebuilding the Capitol before I even left it. You'd hardly know what went on here. No rubble, no smoke, no bodies. But I can feel it. I can feel the presence of death all around us, on each street and sidewalk. We are nowhere near the mansion or the Tribute Center and I don't think I've ever even been to this side of the city at all. Nothing about it feels familiar but I can't shake the darkness that surrounds this place.

I squeeze my eyes tight and force myself to take a deep breath. There is no war. This is a car, not a tank. This is our driver, a friendly young man who makes conversation with Haymitch about our train ride. He is not a Peacekeeper, not a killer, not a threat. Though my mind can't help but wonder if he lost anyone during the war. Did I kill someone he loved? And those people, back in the station. Did I hurt them too? I have no way of knowing, I suppose. War makes you into someone you don't even recognize. Makes you do things that you don't even realize. Like, kill without thinking. Without looking at their faces, learning their names or who their families are. And though there are so many ghosts that haunt me always, I do admit that I don't remember the faces of everyone I watched die. There were too many. They are a blur to me now. The thought is almost as unforgivable as the killing itself. 

Peeta seems to notice my shaky hands because he takes my right one in his and gives it a reassuring squeeze. Peeta. How is he handling all of this, being back in the place that stole so much from him?