Katniss Everdeen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stillplaying) wrote2012-10-23 06:08 pm
stillplaying) wrote2012-10-23 06:08 pm
Entry tags:
9th Game
[Action]
[She woke up to an empty bed, an empty bed and an empty house. That was not necessarily unusual. Some mornings, those following nights she'd usually be unable to sleep, she'd usually slip out to the woods. Those mornings would be spent checking or securing traps, harvesting for nuts and autumnal plants. And, of course, hunting. Losing herself in the thrill of the pursuit, of that sweet moment when her arrow sinks into her prey. It wasn't just her. Even without the events that were to come later, Peeta's dreams could be just as haunted and his sleep just as restless. What hunting did to soothe her nerves, baking did for him.
He'd be at the bakery. She was certain of it. Even if, the past week, they had barely left each other's side, making up for the three weeks lost while Peeta was unconscious. But honeymoons and vacations couldn't last forever. Today was as good a day as any to break it.
After a quick shower and brief breakfast, she heads towards the bakery. But the building is still empty for the day. Lights off, oven cold. There's no sign of him.
The sinking feeling in her stomach grows and grows as she searches the village. She checks all the stores, the restaurants and bars, even the welcome center and school. Nothing. There's nothing. If he'd gone any further, he would have left a note. Unlike her, Peeta's responsible. He knows how easily she worries.
Mid-morning, she conducts a second unsuccessful search of the bakery for signs of her boyfriend. If he had wandered away for supplies earlier, he'd be back now. Back for a full day's work. But there's nothing. There's nothing. She manages to get outside without crying. Manages to make it halfway back to the house before sinking to her knees behind the weapons shop. She leans back against the wall, fumbling in her jacket for her journal. Frantically, she searches it.
Nothing. No sign of him. He's gone.
After what seems like forever, when all the tears are done, she opens the journal again. Without a pen, she's left little choice but to speak. Her voice is a little shaky but otherwise devoid of emotion. Monotonous. Its too hard to feel right now.]
[Voice]
Peeta Mellark has returned to Panem. He's not here. I can't find him anywhere.
For those that knew him -- he'll live.
[There's a long pause. It's stupid to say, she thinks. But she remembers his arrival. Remembers how he thought this was the 75th Games. He was from her past, from a past with a horrible, horrible future to look forward to.
But he'll live. She has to cling to that. Even if he'll hate her, never love her like he did here. It was a love she didn't deserve. And a love that she'll never, ever have again.]
Rapunzel, the bakery is yours.
[Action]
[She has to force herself up to her feet. There are other things she needs to do, belongings she ought to sort through. Somehow, she makes it back to House 43. The door is left open as she goes upstairs to his studio. Paintings. She should get rid of the paintings. The art gallery. Or something. But as soon as she sees the half-finished portrait of herself, of a girl that appears infinitely more beautiful than she's ever felt, she knows she can't stay.
The door is slammed shut to the room, Buttercup ignored as she runs down the stairs. She grabs a backpack and stuffs it with a bare minimum of clothing and provisions. Her quiver and bow are slung over her arm and she steps outside. She turns around to regard the house - the house once shared with the small girl from District Eleven and the boy from her own District, her everything. On afterthought, she locks the door.
And then she begins her trek in the western woods towards the treehouses by the Western Lake.]
[ooc: regarding action sections - feel free to catch her in any of the bolded areas!
Also - WARNINGS for the Katniss and Clove thread. Please do not read if you have troubles with depressive and suicidal thought and violence and death.]
[She woke up to an empty bed, an empty bed and an empty house. That was not necessarily unusual. Some mornings, those following nights she'd usually be unable to sleep, she'd usually slip out to the woods. Those mornings would be spent checking or securing traps, harvesting for nuts and autumnal plants. And, of course, hunting. Losing herself in the thrill of the pursuit, of that sweet moment when her arrow sinks into her prey. It wasn't just her. Even without the events that were to come later, Peeta's dreams could be just as haunted and his sleep just as restless. What hunting did to soothe her nerves, baking did for him.
He'd be at the bakery. She was certain of it. Even if, the past week, they had barely left each other's side, making up for the three weeks lost while Peeta was unconscious. But honeymoons and vacations couldn't last forever. Today was as good a day as any to break it.
After a quick shower and brief breakfast, she heads towards the bakery. But the building is still empty for the day. Lights off, oven cold. There's no sign of him.
The sinking feeling in her stomach grows and grows as she searches the village. She checks all the stores, the restaurants and bars, even the welcome center and school. Nothing. There's nothing. If he'd gone any further, he would have left a note. Unlike her, Peeta's responsible. He knows how easily she worries.
Mid-morning, she conducts a second unsuccessful search of the bakery for signs of her boyfriend. If he had wandered away for supplies earlier, he'd be back now. Back for a full day's work. But there's nothing. There's nothing. She manages to get outside without crying. Manages to make it halfway back to the house before sinking to her knees behind the weapons shop. She leans back against the wall, fumbling in her jacket for her journal. Frantically, she searches it.
Nothing. No sign of him. He's gone.
After what seems like forever, when all the tears are done, she opens the journal again. Without a pen, she's left little choice but to speak. Her voice is a little shaky but otherwise devoid of emotion. Monotonous. Its too hard to feel right now.]
[Voice]
Peeta Mellark has returned to Panem. He's not here. I can't find him anywhere.
For those that knew him -- he'll live.
[There's a long pause. It's stupid to say, she thinks. But she remembers his arrival. Remembers how he thought this was the 75th Games. He was from her past, from a past with a horrible, horrible future to look forward to.
But he'll live. She has to cling to that. Even if he'll hate her, never love her like he did here. It was a love she didn't deserve. And a love that she'll never, ever have again.]
Rapunzel, the bakery is yours.
[Action]
[She has to force herself up to her feet. There are other things she needs to do, belongings she ought to sort through. Somehow, she makes it back to House 43. The door is left open as she goes upstairs to his studio. Paintings. She should get rid of the paintings. The art gallery. Or something. But as soon as she sees the half-finished portrait of herself, of a girl that appears infinitely more beautiful than she's ever felt, she knows she can't stay.
The door is slammed shut to the room, Buttercup ignored as she runs down the stairs. She grabs a backpack and stuffs it with a bare minimum of clothing and provisions. Her quiver and bow are slung over her arm and she steps outside. She turns around to regard the house - the house once shared with the small girl from District Eleven and the boy from her own District, her everything. On afterthought, she locks the door.
And then she begins her trek in the western woods towards the treehouses by the Western Lake.]
[ooc: regarding action sections - feel free to catch her in any of the bolded areas!
Also - WARNINGS for the Katniss and Clove thread. Please do not read if you have troubles with depressive and suicidal thought and violence and death.]
voice;
Hands ball into fists and then loosen to pick up the journal. For a moment, she’s tempted to throw it. Instead, she just drops it back on to the floor of the treehouse in disgust. All the old arguments resurface.]
You could have rescued him instead of me. I should have been the one Snow tortured. I should have been the one left behind. He’s too good! He didn’t deserve that! Didn’t deserve what happened to him!