The Hunger Games- What If's (Fan Fiction)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

   "That's my girl," Haymitch chuckles under his breath, which smells like mint toothpaste.

   I'm led by Haymitch through the pent house and into the hallway outside the entrance of the loft. We stop and then Haymitch turns to look at me. He removes his arm from around my shoulder. Then, staring straight into my eyes, he says:

   "You've got this, sweetheart."

>>------------->X<-------------<<

   I quicken my pace the closer I get to Cinna until I'm basically running across the cold hard floor into his arms. We embrace, and he whispers words of encouragement in my ears.

   "So. Are we ready to get you suited up for what's to come?" Cinna asks me after we pull away from each other.

   I swallow hard and nod my head nervously. I don't know what else to do; my throat refuses to let me talk.

   "Come on Katniss, let's look at what we've got, okay?"

   I nod.

   Cinna leads me over to where a medium-sized box is waiting, sealed and a pristine white.

   "I thought that we should open it together," Cinna tells me, as the clothing will probably be a dead giveaway as to where I shall be fighting.

   I nod again, not willing to take a risk with my vocal chords.

   Cinna picks up a knife that is sitting next to the box on a small wooden table. He takes one of my hands and places it on the handle of the blade, then puts his own hands firmly on top of mine. It reminds me of how much I hung on to Peeta's hand in the first Opening Ceremonies I was in. I almost smile at the thought.

   Before I know it, the box it open and the contents is strewn before me. Neither Cinna nor I speak a word for a moment.

   "Is this . . . for real?" I ask hesitantly.

   "It has to be," Cinna seems as puzzled as I am.

   I recognize the clothes. They are my own. There are two sets of them, too. There's the blue dress I wore for the Reaping, which is what puzzles me the most. Sitting next to that is the uniform I wore in the 74th Annual Hunger Games. It hasn't been washed, none of the blood was removed from it. My pants are still ripped from where that fireball burned through them.

   Most peculiar of all is the smallest accessory there.

   It's my mockingjay pin.

   This makes me wonder: does the Capitol want a fight?

   Do they want me to start a rebellion? I'm not the only one that must realize what this mockingjay stands for now. People always realized that as soon as the rebels were using the jabberjays for their own personal gain, the Capitol had failed. They lost. And that gave them hope.

   Hope is the most powerful force in the world. However, it can also be the worst force to use. When people's spirits are high, when they think they can succeed, they do. But when they're down, it's almost nearly impossible to pick them back up again.

   Sometimes, wounds are too deep to mend with simple medicine. Sometimes the cure is more complex, sometimes you need to brace yourself and stitch it back together yourself. Other times you may unravel. Whatever happens, even if that wound isn't cured and you end up dying from it, there will always be a memory of it. A scar. That says, even if you didn't survive it, you took it head-on. You were stronger than how much everyone expected you to be. You stood on your own, directly in the line of fire, and took all they threw at you.

   I, myself, am a wound. I am a wound that has been re-opened again and again, letting everyone see my pain and my blood ooze out again and again. As soon I heal, I get cut deeper. Right before I'm about to finish the last stitch, I fall apart and attempt to start over again. But that's the thing, I only attempt.

   I shall always fail unless I tell myself I can win. But is it even possible to tell myself I can win? After all, what would I be winning? Money? I've survived for long enough without money. I don't need it. I wouldn't be gaining knowledge or power or wisdom or hope or love. I'd only be losing love and hope and strength. I'd lose myself. I'd gain hatred. If I have too much hatred. . . . If I end up like Gale. . . . What will happen then? I can't fall down the path of what is wrong; I need to win by knowing that I didn't lose my life. I'm going to put these clothes on and march into that arena with a sense of confidence that might just get me killed.

   So, maybe that will kill me.

   Who cares anyway?

   After all, this is all only a game.

   Who will win?

   More importantly, who will lose?

                       END OF BOOK ONE: "THE HUNGER GAMES- WHAT IF'S (FAN FICTION)