The frosty air around me has long since stolen the warmth from my hands and the once-steamy flask of tea they grip tight. My body is stiff all over, as if my muscles themselves have frozen in the harsh January weather. If a predator were to attack me now, the odds of me walking away unscathed are miniscule. I should get up, get the blood flowing through my veins. I should do so many things. Say so many things . . . But instead I sit, still and silent as the first rays of dawn begin to break over the horizon and the calls of birds begin to split through the trees. I can't fight the sun. I can only watch helplessly as it drags me into a day that I've been dreading for months.
They'll be there by midday. The colorful circus that is my support team, along with a flock of camera crews, will have infiltrated my new house in Victor's Village. Effie Trinket, my old escort, who will probably be sporting a garish new wig in some obnoxiously bright color. My shallow and vain, yet surprisingly friendly prep team. My friend and stylist, Cinna, who made his extraordinary debut on the Capitol fashion scene after dressing me at last year's Games. Later, at the train station, there will be others as well. Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter and one of my best friends. And -- of course -- my "cousins" . . .
When Peeta and I made it to the final eight in the Games, the television crews arrived in District 12 to interview our friends and family. When they asked about my friends, all fingers pointed back to Gale Hawthorne. What with the star-crossed lovers strategy that Peeta and I were employing in the arena, it didn't quite fit with our story that my closest -- and almost only -- friend was an attractive 18-year-old boy from the Seam. Luckily, some genius started the rumor that we were cousins. It wasn't hard to make that connection -- we both had that stereotypical Seam look: gray eyes, olive skin, dark hair. But what's even luckier is that our families were smart enough to go along with it.
After the Games, Gale began to work in the coal mines, District 12's industry. We used to have annual class trips down to the mines. The trips were already miserable on their own. The rickety old elevator that spits us out into too-small tunnels, the darkness smothering us as the rancid air provides no relief to the feeling of being utterly trapped. But after my father and several other miners -- including Gale's father -- were killed in an explosion, I couldn't even look at the mines without seeing it. The smoke that billowed out of the old elevator, dumping out fewer and fewer survivors with each trip. The roped off area for friends and family, where my mother, sister, and I waited anxiously until dawn. The grim look on the supervisor's face as the sun began to rise, and we knew that any sliver of hope that remained had been extinguished. The annual trip became an enormous source of anxiety. Twice I made myself so sick in anticipation of it that my mother kept me home because she thought I had contracted the flu.
I think of Gale, who is only really alive in the woods, with its fresh air and sunlight and clean, flowing water. I don't know how he stands it. Well ... yes, I do. He does it for the same reasons I would -- or would have if I hadn't volunteered at the Reaping last summer. For family. Where I did -- do -- everything for Prim and my mother, he does everything to feed his mother and two younger brothers and sister. And despite the exorbitant amount of winnings that I now receive -- more than enough to feed both of our families for the rest of their lives -- Gale is too proud to take so much as a single coin from me. He barely allows me bring in meat, although I know he'd have kept my mother and Prim supplied if I'd been killed in the Games. I tell him it's no problem, that I'd go mad if I had to spend the entire day in my new Capitol-issued house. Even so, I never drop off the game haul while he's around. Which isn't difficult, considering his work schedule.
Since he now works ten hour days, six days a week in the mines, the only time I really get to see Gale now is on Sundays, when we meet up in the woods to hunt together. I still look forward to it all week, but it's not like it used to be, when there was a certain ease to our friendship. When we could tell each other anything. The Games have spoiled even that. I keep hoping that we will regain that closeness, though a small part of me knows that that will never happen. The starving girl that he once met in the woods is dead -- twisted and murdered by the Capitol.
I get a good haul from our usual line of snares, the majority of which have been designed and set by Gale. He has an affinity for them, much like I do with my bow. It's what makes us the perfect hunting partners. Where he knows how to precisely balance and weigh every intricate wire and stick, I can shoot at an animal in almost complete darkness and still take it down with one arrow. It's more than experience. It's a second nature. I reset the snares with a careful hand, knowing that I'll never be as naturally inclined to trapping.
I make it back to the fence surrounding District 12, the sun now illuminating the bleak winter day. As always, I wait for the telltale hum of electrical current running through the chain link fence. So much for it being charged 24/7. I slide underneath the chain link that has long since loosened from from ground and come out in the Meadow, just a stone's throw from my home. My old home. Legally it is my mother's and still belongs to her. If I were to drop dead at this very moment, both her and my sister Prim would be forced to return there. But for now, they're both happily settled in the new house in the Victor's Village, and I'm the only one who uses my childhood cottage. To me, it's my real home.
I step into the small front room to change my clothes before my walk back to Victor's Village. I make quick work of it, as the lack of life in the house has left only a bitter cold remaining. It is here that I slip out of my father's old hunting jacket and pull on a scratchy wool coat that doesn't quite sit right. Switch out my old and worn, but incredibly comfortable hunting boots for a Capitol-made pair that pinches my toes. Clothes that reflect my newfound status as a victor. My bows and arrows are already stashed in a hollowed out log in the woods. Despite the minutes counting down to the debacle that will shortly be arriving at my house, I allow myself a moment to mourn my old life here. We barely survived most days, but I knew precisely who I was. Who I was meant to be. A life in which I somehow felt a stronger sense of security for myself and my family than I do now.
I hear a yowl and scratching at the back door and I nearly roll my eyes in annoyance. I swing the door open to reveal Prim's disgusting yellow cat, Buttercup, and I'm greeted with a hiss. The only thing the cat and I have ever agreed on on is how much we hate the new house. He sneaks back here whenever Prim in is school. We've never been each other's biggest fan, but now we have a common hatred. I let him in, feed him a chunk of beaver fat, and even rub him between the ears for a bit. "You're hideous, you know that, right?" I ask him. Buttercup vies for more attention from me, but we must leave. I've already been here too long. "Come on, you." I scoop up the cat in one arm, my game bag in the other, and haul them both out onto the street. Buttercup springs free and disappears to find his way back to the new house.
The shoes are tight and uncomfortable as I stride down the cinder street, frost crunching under my boots. Gale's house is within view in mere minutes. His mother, Hazelle, sees me through the kitchen window, where she puts down whatever she's working on, dries her hands on her apron, and goes to meet me at the door.
I like Hazelle. Respect her. When Gale's father died in the same explosion as mine, she was left with three boys and a baby due any day. Nevertheless, she was back out on the streets hunting for work within a week of giving birth. As a new single mother of four, the mines weren't an option, so she turned to washing the clothes of some of the wealthier townspeople. Gale, despite being only fourteen, became the provider of his family overnight. He was already signed up for tesserae, which entitled them to a meager supply of grain and oil in exchange for his entering his name extra times in the Reaping. His skills with snares didn't hurt either. But it wasn't enough to keep the large family afloat without Hazelle working her fingers to the bone on that washboard. If not for a salve my mother makes her, her hands get so red and cracked, they bleed at the slightest provocation. But between Hazelle and Gale, they are adamant that none of the other kids, twelve-year-old Rory, ten-year-old Vick, or the baby, four-year-old Posy, will ever sign up for tesserae.
Hazelle greets me with a small smile when she sees the game. She takes the beaver, weighing it in her hand. "He's going to make a nice stew." While Gale may be too proud to accept my help, Hazelle has no problem with it.
"Good pelt, too," I answer. I enjoy Hazelle's company. While everything else in my life has changed so drastically, sizing up my haul for the day with Hazelle is a small comfort. She pours me a mug of herb tea, which I mutter my thanks for. "You know, when I get back from the tour, I was thinking I might take Rory out with me sometimes. After school. Teach him to shoot."
Hazelle nods her head in agreement. "That'd be good. Gale means to, but he's only got his Sundays, and I think he likes saving those for you."
I can't stop the redness that floods my cheeks. It's stupid, of course. Hardly anybody knows me better than Hazelle. Knows the friendship I share with Gale. Knows that it's not shyness, but rather embarrassment that flushes my cheeks. I'm sure plenty of people assumed that we'd eventually get married, though they couldn't be more wrong. The thought hadn't really ever crossed my mind. We were -- are -- friends. Nothing more would ever come of it. And besides, that was before the Games. Before Peeta Mellark announced his unrequited and undying love for me in front of the entire country. Our star-crossed lovers' romance became our life-saving strategy for survival in the arena. But it wasn't just a strategy, at least not for Peeta. I'm not sure what it was for me. Not that I've had much time to think about it since we left each other at the train station. Between the nightmares that hound me daily and the words I said the last time we spoke, it hadn't exactly been ideal circumstances for me to explore any feelings I may or may not have for him. My chest tightens as I think about how, on the Victory Tour, Peeta and I will have to present ourselves as lovers again.
I gulp down the too-hot tea and excuse myself from the table. "I better get going. Make myself presentable for the cameras."
Hazelle gives me a warm hug. "Enjoy the food."
"Absolutely," I say.
My next stop is the Hob, the abandoned coal warehouse that is the home to District 12's full-time black market, a place where I have spent a good deal of my days trading over the past six years. It's only right that I feel so comfortable in a place known for being frequented by criminals. Hunting in the woods surrounding District 12 violates at least a dozen laws and is punishable by death, not to mention trading my goods on the black market afterwards.
Although nobody would ever bring it up, I am indebted to the people of the Hob. Apparently Greasy Sae, the older woman who serves soup, started a fund to sponsor Peeta and me in the arena. It began as a Hob thing, but word got around and people from allover the district chipped in. I'm not sure exactly what they sponsored, but I know it must have been outrageously expensive, as are all gifts in the Games. For all I know, it made the difference between my life and death.
It's strange to come here now, game bag empty, and instead feel the heavy pocket of coins in my coat pocket. I try to hit as many stalls as possible, support these people as they have supported me by spreading out my purchases of coffee, buns, eggs, yarn, and oil. On an impulse, I purchase three bottles of white liquor from an amputee woman named Ripper, a victim of a mine accident who was smart enough to find a way to stay alive.
The liquor isn't for me. It's for my mentor and resident alcoholic of District 12, Haymitch. He's surly, violent, and drunk most of the time. But he did above and beyond his job when, for the first time in history, there were two victors crowned at the end of our Games. And besides, he has his own demons. So despite his unpleasant demeanor, I owe him, too. For as long as I live. The white liquor is for my back up stockpile. A few weeks ago, there was a shortage that had Haymitch going through the horror that is withdrawal. After so many years of him relying on drink, he quickly succumbed to cold sweats and shaking, cursing at the nightmares visible only to him. He scared Prim to death and I didn't particularly enjoy seeing him that way either. I've kept a steadily growing emergency supply ever since.
Our Head Peacekeeper, Cray, frowns at the bottles now in my arms. He's an older man with a combover who, based on his ruddy bright red of his cheeks, seems to be already drunk himself. "That stuff's too strong for you, girl." He should know. Cray's drinking is only second to Haymitch.
"Aw, my mother uses it in medicines," I say with a shrug.
"Well, it'd kill just about anything," he says, and slides a coin across the counter for a fresh bottle.
I sit down at the counter when I reach Greasy Sae's stall and order what looks to be a bean. and gourd soup. A Peacekeeper named Darius approaches and buys a bowl while I'm eating. As Peacekeepers go, he's probably my favorite. Friendly, never really throwing his weight around, usually good for a joke. He's probably in his twenties, but he doesn't seem much older than I do. Something about his smile, his red hair that sticks out every which way, gives him a boyish quality.
"Aren't you supposed to be on a train?" he asks.
"They're collecting me at noon," I reply.
"Shouldn't you look better?" he asks in a loud whisper. A smile plays at my lips at his teasing, in spite of my mood. "Maybe a ribbon in your hair or something?" He flicks my braid with his hand and I brush him away.
"Don't worry. By the time they get through with me I'll be unrecognizable," I say.
"Good," he says. "Let's show a little district pride for a change, Miss Everdeen. Hm?" He gives Greasy Sae a look of mock disproval and walks off to join his friends.
"I'll want that bowl back," Greasy Sae calls after him, but even she can't suppress a laugh, taking the seriousness out of the statement. "Gale going to see you off?" she asks.
"No, he wasn't on the list," I say. "I saw him Sunday, though."
"Think he'd have made the list. Him being your cousin and all," she says wryly.
I give her a pointed look.
Greasy Sae knows we're not related, but even some of the people who have known us for years seem to have forgotten.
"I just can't wait for the whole thing to be over," I whisper.
"I know," says Greasy Sae. "But you've got to go through it to get to the end of it. Better not be late."
A light snow starts to fall as I make my way back to the Victor's Village. What is only a mere half-mile walk might as well be worlds away from the rest of District 12.
It's a separate community built around a beautiful green, meticulously landscaped with flowering bushes. Though there are twelve houses in the Village, only three of the enormous houses stand occupied -- mine, Haymitch's, and Peeta's.
My house and Peeta's give off an air of warmth and life. Light filtering through the windows, smoke from the chimneys, decorations for the upcoming Harvest Festival fixed to our doors and wrapped around banisters. These are starkly juxtaposed with the neglect that exudes from Haymitch's.
I much inside his front door, my nose immediately wrinkling at the foulness. Haymitch doesn't trust anyone to clean and can't be bothered to do it himself. Over the years the odors of liquor and vomit, boiled cabbage and burned meat, unwashed clothes and mouse droppings have intermingled into a stench that brings tears to my eyes. I find Haymitch at his usual spot. He sits at the kitchen table, his arms sprawled across the wood, passed out with his face in a puddle of liquor, snoring his head off.
I nudge his shoulder. "Get up!" I say loudly, because that man will sleep through anything. He stirs briefly, but immediately resumes his violent snores. I push him harder. "Get up, Haymitch. It's tour day!" I open the window, gulping in the fresh air. I sort through some of the garbage on the floor, find an old coffeepot and fill it at the sink. I manage to coax the few live coals at the stove into a flame. I pour some ground coffee into the pot and set it to boil. Perhaps the only mercy he'll find in waking.
Haymitch is still dead asleep. I know there's only one thing to do. I fill a bucket with water and dump it over his head, leaping out of the way as he wakes up in flash, blindly jumping up and slashing through the air at invisible figures with a knife. I forgot he always sleeps with one clutched in his hand. I should have pried it out of his hand, but my thoughts have been elsewhere. Spewing colorful profanity, he stabs the air a few moments before coming to his senses. He wipes his face on his shirtsleeve and finally turns to where I stand, a safe several yards away.
"What are you doing?" he sputters.
"You told me to wake you an hour before the cameras come," I say.
"What?" he says.
"Your idea," I insist.
"Why am I all wet?"
"I couldn't shake you awake," I say. "Look, if you wanted to be babied, you should have asked Peeta."
"Asked me what?" Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. It feels as if someone is twisting a dagger in my heart as I turn to face him.
I watch carefully as Peeta crosses to the kitchen table, the winter sun filtering through the windows and glinting off his blonde curls. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the dying boy I knew in the arena, his limp now barely noticeable. I can see the muscles rippling in his arm under his shirt as he sets a fresh loaf of bread on the table and holds out his hand expectantly to Haymitch. These last few months after the Games have been kind to him.
"Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia," says Haymitch, passing the knife to Peeta with a grumble.
Peeta smiles and sanitizes the knife in white liquor from one of the various bottles around the kitchen. He wipes the blade clean on his shirt and slices the bread. Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks. We have our own ways to keep busy, to prevent nightmares from our time in the Hunger Games from taking over our lives. He hands Haymitch the first slice before turning his gaze to me, those magnificently blue eyes boring into mine. "Would you like a piece?"
I realize I've been staring and dart my eyes away quickly, looking out the open window as the hint of a flush creeps to my cheeks.
"No, I ate at the Hob," I say. "But thank you." My voice doesn't right, it's so formal and awkward. Just as it's been every time I've tried to speak to Peeta since we returned home after the Games.
"You're welcome," he says, equally solemn.
Haymitch snorts. "Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime."
He's not wrong. The audience expects the star-crossed lovers of District 12, whose love conquered all the challenges the Hunger Games had to throw at them. Not two people who can barely speak a word to each other. Where there was once such warmth -- heat even, as I recall a few stolen moments in a cave far away -- there is now a frostiness to our every interaction. I shake my head and say, "Take a bath, Haymitch," before I storm out the front door and head across the green to my house.
I take care to knock the snow off my boots before coming inside. My mother's been working for weeks to make everything perfect for the cameras, so it's no time to be tracking mud and snow onto her shiny floors. I've barely stepped inside, opening my mouth to greet her when she's there, giving me a wary look.
"Don't worry, I'm taking them off here," I say, leaving my boots near the door.
My mother laughs nervously and gestures for me to hand her my game bag, to which I oblige. "It's just snow. Did you have a nice walk?"
"Walk?" She's fully aware of where I spend the majority of my time. Then I see the man standing behind her in the kitchen doorway. He's dressed too formally. His features surgically enhanced. He's from the Capitol. My heart starts thundering in my chest -- something is wrong. "It was more like skating. It's really getting slippery out there."
"Someone's here to see you," says my mother. The cooler has drained from her face, and the note of anxiety in her voice is obvious.
"I thought they weren't due until noon." I say, pretending not to notice her reaction. "Did Cinna come early to help me get ready?"
"No, Katniss, it's - "
"This way, please, Miss Everdeen," says the man, ushering me down the hall. It's strange to be led around your own home, but I keep that thought to myself.
As follow him, I give my mother a reassuring smile. "Probably more instructions for the tour." It would make sense. We've received loads of information pertaining to various district backgrounds and itineraries that my mother has gladly fussed over the past few weeks. But I can feel my mind begin to race with each step that draws me nearer to the study. Who is here? What do they want? Why is my mother so concerned?
"Go right in," says the Capitol man, who has followed me down the hallway.
I twist the shiny brass knob and step inside. The conflicting scents of roses and blood meet my nose. A small, white-haired man who seems vaguely familiar is reading a book. He holds up a finger as if to say, "Give me a moment." Then he turns and my heart skips a beat.
I'm staring into the snakelike eyes of President Snow.
A/N
Hi,
I know it's a bit slow to start off, as I'm trying to follow the book as much as possible (where applicable). Trying to add a bit more romance/attraction when it comes to Peeta and developing clear friend-zone for Gale to be comfortable in. Things will pick up a bit more in the next few chapters, as the Victory Tour begins<3 In the meantime, I'm grateful for any feedback and hope you enjoy!