FicWad

The rough bark beneath my fingers soothes me. I lift my hand up from the tree, rubbing my smooth, small hands together. Carefully, I trot across the fallen tree underneath my feet, so quietly to not disturb my prey. I slowly graze the sculpted wood of my bow, a reminder of the good old days. I lock my target in sight; a measly owl perched on an old willow. Lifting up my bow, I let a small breath escape my lips, and embed the arrow perfectly in the owl’s dark eye.

The owl hits the ground with a thud, and I slump back against the tree. I can’t do this, I think to myself. Everyday I go on and on, pretending like nothing is wrong. Pretending that my sister isn’t dead. That my mother hasn’t abandoned me, again. That my former best friend has moved father out of reach, never to return to his home.

It’s been six months since President Snow’s defeat. Six months since Panem’s been free. Six months and a week since my sister’s death. Six months and five days since Gale and my mother left me. Seven months since Finnick Odair, one of my good friend’s, death. Four months since Annie had their baby. Three years since my first games, where my tiny ally, Rue, died fighting for her life. All gone.

I’ve been coping with the feeling of despair for quite some time now, as you can tell. There’s still moment where I throw psychotic mental attacks, crying and screaming, letting the voices in my mind eat away at me. Prim’s not here, Katniss. Peeta doesn’t deserve you, you mutt. Haha, Gale and your mother left you. Worthless.
There’s also times when I’ve had to cry myself to sleep. Everyone is District 12 tells me how good I am, how perfect I am for freeing Panem from Hunger and defeat, and the biggest challenge, The Hunger Games. But no matter how kind my neighbors words, I don’t feel any success. Because I am responsible for so many countless deaths. Primrose. Finnick. Boggs. Everything I feel inside me is truly murderous.

But I don’t have to cope with my pain alone, not always. Peeta’s there for me during the day and night. Holding me whenever I have a panic attack, just like we did long ago on those restless train nights. We spend an infinite amount of time together, thinking of ways to take our minds off the things that hurt the most. Peeta and I, and occasionally Haymitch, keep a book of all those who died fighting, weather for the Games or our Freedom.
I still hunt, though, and Peeta bakes. We sometimes share our skills with each other. Peeta teaches me how to bake bread. I teach him how to shoot. Sometimes, we even get together and write. One night, while I was sobbing in my bed, Peeta wrote a poem for me:

A locked door, cries from a melancholy female
Tears spilling over, enveloping her wholly
A pat on the back, a tale of ‘’Everything will be okay’’

And then I see it, a black light descending upon us
A fog spewing despair and worries overhead

But I need only look to my left, a light waving towards us
Taking over the darkness, driving it away
And then, she sees it too, passing through us
To touch it, would be to heal
And then I notice the stretch of her hand, moving towards the light

It truly amazes me how good he is at writing. Words have always been his forte. With these and the familiar shape of his body, I heal. Slowly but surely. We handle our fears together. Our sadness. Our tears.

There’s also been times when Gale has tried to get back to me. The Hob has been built back up, but seeing as there’s no reason to hide it anymore, it’s more like a town shoppe. Greasy Sae, the old woman who sells soup, continues to work there. Numerous times, she’s told me that Gale has tried to call to speak to me. How he got the number is beyond me. But I always wave her off, not wanting to speak to him.

I know that he didn’t exactly kill my little sister, but it was his bomb that blew her to smithereens. It’s been very hard for me to forgive him, especially since I find myself drifting closer to Peeta, but I only hope that one day I can. I know we will never get back to the way we used to be. And I accept that.

Snapping back into reality, I stare at the owl’s limp body, laying lifeless in a pile of leaves. How long have I been laying here, trapped in my thoughts? Surely long enough for the sun to dip down past the trees and have a fresh layer of leaves pile amongst the bird. I shake my head, staring once again at the owl. I pick myself up, not even bothering to take the bird with me, and run, run all the way back to the Seam.