The Girl Who Was On Fire

[Twenty.

She doesn't realize it until later in the day. Until she's back from her morning trek in the forest, passing the calendar in the kitchen as she makes her way to stow the skinned and dressed squirrels in the freezer. The calendar's turned to the month of May. And it has been for the past eight days. Today's May 8th. Today, she turns twenty.

That's two decades lived. Four years since she survived the 74th Hunger Games and two since she outlived her sister, found herself trapped in Luceti. She nearly drops the squirrels when the date clicks in her head. She can feel it building within her, the verge of losing everything. Crawling into a corner somewhere within her bedroom - her original bedroom with the forest mural that Peeta once painted - and do absolutely nothing all day. Because it's the same thought ringing through her head that seems to come every birthday:

She never should have lived this long.

But she did. And, somehow, someone or something rewarded her for that. Because she still has Prim here to celebrate with. Prim to have dinner with tonight and to sing and dance with, pretending for the night that she never died. That they never wound up in this place. Even if she doesn't know how long it'll last, today she has Prim to celebrate with.

Living for each day. It's been a long time since she's done that. Instead, she's attempted to shelter herself, hide from anyone that might care.

Taking a deep breath, she finally puts the squirrels in the freezer. Then, she pulls out her journal and flips it open. There's a shy smile on her face as she looks at the camera.]

I'm twenty today. And I think I'd like to celebrate.

What would you recommend?

[She's been so busy lately that she hasn't noticed the time fly by. Busy with teaching Foo Foo, busy with hunting and providing for her family, busy helping Richard finish the extra wing to the house before first snow, trying to learn filial magic, busy stealing every spare minute of time with Prim and Teddy and all those others she holds there. She hasn't noticed the time pass. Hadn't realized that it's already November.

It's been a year since Peeta's left. Over a year now. And though she misses him every day, misses him even more when she wakes up on the couch screaming from night terrors, she's... still alive. Found something - someones - else to live for. And maybe that boy who had asked about finding a way to bring others here might actually succeed. Maybe she could bring him back. The boy that loves her. Where everything is actually real.

More than that, though, she's realized what time of year it is again. Has it really been two years, then, since the end of the rebellion? Since losing Prim?

But Prim's no longer lost. She's here. And if Katniss has her way, she'll stay here forever.

It's this realization that makes her more reluctant to leave that morning. But she has responsibilities. Things she has to do. Including teaching that stupid sabertooth moose lion how to actually hunt his own food rather than snatching her squirrels from her bag. Foo Foo has, at least, grown incredibly skillful at that. So at some point mid-morning, Katniss makes her way to House 56 to pick up the beast and continue their way in the Eastern Forest.

Once again, her hunt with Foo Foo isn't nearly as successful as her hunts alone. She loses more squirrels to him than she manages to retain. And when she finally spots a rabbit - perfect for tonight's dinner, perfect to make one of Prim's favorite stews - he lumbers in the way of her shot. Frightened, it runs into the bushes. Annoyed, Katniss lets her arrow fly into the trees.

Some seconds later, she pulls out her journal. With the video feed on, she focuses on Foo Foo.]

How is anyone supposed to teach something this stupid to do anything?

[She doesn't even feel remotely guilty when the young animal looks up from his interest in the rabbit-clad bushes and gives her a goofy, happy grin. It seems one enjoys these outings more than the other.]

Dumb mutt.



[Sometime later in the afternoon, she's back in the town. Having to pick up food is becoming more and more an uncomfortably common task on the days she tries to train Foo Foo. But this week more than ever, the week of her sister's death, she feels the need to spoil her. To go to the items shop and find little gifts that might make her happy. Or pick up fresh bread at the bakery and sweets at the grocery.

Anything for Prim. Anything.]

( She's spent the last week hiding... )

Effie's last post remained fresh in her mind as she turned on the video recorder in the journal. Her hair was neatly braided in its custom side braid. The mockingjay pin pinned high on the chest of one of her nicer blouses, displayed where everyone could see it. She stared resolutely at the camera for a minute before she nodded.]

Today, back in my home of Panem, would have been the first time in seventy-six years that a reaping of contestants for the annual Hunger Games would not have occurred. As many of you know by now, every year, on this day, the names of two children from each district - a boy and a girl between the years of twelve to eighteen years of age - would be selected to fight to the death in an arena days later. The Hunger Games served as entertainment to those who lived in the Capitol. People like Effie Trinket who didn't know better. An honor to those in the richer Districts, the ones favored by the Capitol. For the rest of us, it was a punishment, a reminder of the cost that came with rising up against our government.

[She took a deep breath, lips pursed together for a quick second as she remembered. She spoke without thinking. Determined, she only realized later, to take the heat off of Effie for her suggestion of games here in Luceti. Her mockingjay wings twitched behind her. But once she started speaking again, the words tumbled out. She held her gaze steady, grey eyes showing all the emotion her stoic expression hid.]

Many of you were angry when Effie suggested the idea of gladiatorial-like games here in our prison. But Effie was only acting like everyone else here, trying to make the best out of a horrible situation. Looking for something that would make her feel more at home. Just like the rest of us. You have no right, no right at all, to judge her for that. You don't know our world. You don't know what it could be like.

The 75th Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell, were the last official games held by President Snow and the Gamemakers. But they weren't the last Hunger Games. Because after the second uprising ended, after we won, the surviving victors of previous Games met. There were only seven of us left. Me and Peeta. Our mentor, Haymitch. Johanna, Enobaria, Beetee, Annie. We were given a choice by President Coin - the new leader of Panem, the leader I executed in revenge for my sister's death. One last Hunger Games, this one played by twenty four children directly related to those who held the most power in Panem.

I think the way the vote fell was obvious. Peeta and Beetee and Annie voted no. The better of us. Johanna and Enobaria voted yes. And Haymitch and I? We had the last votes. But he's as unlikable, as bitter as I am. I suspected how he'd vote. And I voted to kill those Capitol children anyway.

I am not a good person. Maybe... maybe I thought I could change. Maybe I thought I could put all this behind me. The Captiol, the Hunger Games, Peeta... But girls like me don't deserve to be happy. They don't deserved to be liked. Or loved.

So do yourselves all a favor and think before you make a judgement about someone. Because as wrong as you are about Effie? You're just as wrong about me.

[There are some nights where she can't sleep. Can't fall asleep to begin with, can't stay asleep once she's there. The nightmares become too intense. She awakes crying, screaming, gasping for breath. Curled up in a ball, clutching her knees to her chest in as tight a fetal position as she can get. And alone. So very, very alone in the dark, dark room.

Those kinds of nights have grown more and more common since Peeta's departure, since her death. Even Buttercup's plaintive mewling in the night hasn't made it any better. The pain and fear doesn't fade. It lasts long, long into the morning on the nights she's unable to go back to sleep. Turns into another fitful nightmare otherwise.

In one short month, there's been a lot to think about. Too much to think about. She's been stuck here a year now. Seen various shifts and experiments. Fallen in love and then lost that love. Died. In the most recent shift, while she hadn't been forced to fall in love against her will, she had watched it happen, even observed it first hand in once case. All of it, more than anything, had made her think of Peeta.

Think and mourn until she thought that she would burst from all the heartache.

During the early morning, she awoke screaming, thrashing in her bed as her nightmares played Prim's death out for her again. Prim's death followed by that of Rue's. And Peeta's electrocution in the clock arena. How she had screamed and rushed forward, how he would have been dead if not for Finnick's quick thinking.

So, so many deaths. And all because of her.

As she moves about in the bed, screaming and crying, she knocks the journal down on the floor. Buttercup mews and she just screams again, a wordless, animal scream. Whimpering and sobbing, she does eventually come to her senses. Her body remains cocooned in the sheets as she reaches for the journal, face tear-stained and lost.

She misses him. Maybe more than that, she misses having someone to comfort her in the night when the memories get to be too much.]

Gale was right. [The words are whispered, an acknowledgment to words long past that she once overheard. It's never going to be about love for her. It'll only be about who will extend her longevity in the end. Who'll make her life easier to bear. And if Peeta's not here, how could it possibly be him?

She stares at the journal a few minutes more before clearing her voice and finally speaking, wiping away any lingering tears.]

I know that when you die here, they'll take things from you. And they'll change things during the shifts. Hijack you and alter your memories.

Can you get them to do that even outside a shift? How would you contact them? I-- I want them gone. The memories of Peeta being here. I don't want to miss him anymore, miss--

[Being in love. Being loved. But she doesn't know how to say that part aloud. She wishes for a brief moment she had kept some of that candy from the spa. The stuff that made her open up more. It'd make this all the more easier.]

Is there a magic? Please? Something, anything? I don't have much to offer, but I am a good hunter. I'll trade game and pelts. Anything you want.

I want to move on. I want to forget. And I don't know how else to do it. [Richard's advice comes to mind. She's already thrown herself in hunting, thrown herself in anything and everything she can think of to distract her. It hasn't worked. Not at all. So that leaves only the other thing he recommended: moving on.] He might never come back. I might never go back. I-- I don't want to be lonely anymore. I want to move on.


[With that, she closes the journal to go get dressed. Her hair is pulled back in a messy braid before she heads out. Not to hunt. Not today. Instead, she goes to the library. She has research to do.]

[( cut for introspection and mention of suicide )

When she awakes, she finally remembers the journal she had brought back from the forest with her. She flips open the pages until she finds the little video screen and begins to record:]

Where I come from, we had Games. The annual Hunger Games, where every year a boy and a girl were chosen as Tributes to represent their District in a fight to the death. There would only be one winner, one survivor who would be crowned Victor and be honored by the Capitol. President Snow's way of giving the Districts a spark of hope, of showing the kindness that the Capitol was capable of even as they took our children away year after year to die while we were forced to watch and celebrate.

I was sixteen the year of the 74th Hunger Games. My sister, Prim, was twelve. It was her first year in the Reaping. Unlike me, her name had only been submitted once. She was never supposed to be chosen for the Games. But she was. I went in her place. I went and lit an entirely different spark. A spark of rebellion. That year, there were two Victors. I couldn't let Peeta die. He loved me, even then. Me? I was just playing a game. But I refused to carry the guilt of killing this boy.

The spark of rebellion grew into an inferno. The girl who was on fire lit the whole country ablaze. There are no more Hunger Games in Panem. Because I had been selfish. Because I didn't want Peeta's death on my conscience. Peeta was just... good. A good boy who refused to be changed by their Games. Who only wanted to die as himself. If anyone deserved to live, it was him.

He's gone back to Panem now. Lived, but at a great cost. He'll be tortured because of me. Hijacked. Given false memories and sent back to try and kill me. It doesn't work. Because it took a pack of wild dogs to accomplish what tributes and soldiers and even presidents could not do. I... I froze. At the memory of dog-like muttations with children's eyes ripping a boy to pieces while I watched and waited for his death to come in the night. It never did. Not until I took my last arrow, cost Peeta his leg, and sent it flying into the other boy's brain.

I'm only really good at a few things. Singing, surviving. Killing. And now it seems like I'm only really good at that last one. I can't sing anymore. I've tried since coming back but I can't. I can't and I don't know why.

[She takes a deep breath. The girl on the camera doesn't look all that upset. Confused mostly. Very confused. There's a crease between her brows, grey eyes lost in contemplation. This is a lot, the most she's spoken since arriving here. Perhaps the most she's spoken since filming one of District 13's propos. But the Mockingjay refuses to lose her voice again. There are stories that have to be told, that need to be remembered.

She thinks Peeta would be proud of her. Dr. Aurelian, too.]

I guess the point of all this is that this week, I came back to life. I died, but it didn't last. And - and I'm sorry if I worried anyone. I know what it's like to lose the people you love. A year ago, this week, despite everything I did to protect her, Prim died.

[It's been five days since asking Peeta to spend the nights in her room again. In her bed. With arms wrapped around her tight at night. Words to comfort her when she wakes screaming in the night. It hasn't kept the nightmares away. Not completely. But they've been tamer. Not nearly as gruesome. Survivable. It's like the time spent on the Victory Tour all over again. Managing the darkness together. But this time, there's no Effie to disapprove.

And if it's not enough for Peeta, he doesn't say anything. Doesn't bring up loving her again. The star-crossed lovers of District Twelve. There's no mention of the facade they lived to appease Snow or the Capitol. And no mention of their recent hijacking. But still, sometimes, late at night, she can hear Haymitch's words. Telling her that she could do a whole lot worse. She shoves them away. Ignoring the advice. Whether anyone agrees or disagrees, this is a game. They're trapped in a game. And that's no time to dwell on feelings.

Morning comes. Six days after the end of the hijacking, the most recent shift - game. Whatever you want to call it. And like most mornings, it's spent in the woods. From the crack of dawn till noon, she's out in the woods despite the rainfall. Hunting and harvesting. She comes back, showers. And notices, with a slight grin, how she's gained some weight back. Small steps. But maybe Doctor Aurelius was right. Go through the motions, keep busy.



Today, when she enters the town proper, she doesn't bother covering up with a jacket. Doesn't care if the scars on her arms and hands show. Let them stare. She makes her way to the library without an umbrella. Wanders the aisles until finding the books she's looking for. Then she sets up camp at a table. The stack of books on one end, a pile of carefully obtained leaves and berries, flowers and roots on another. And in the middle sits her family's plant book.

If something is to happen to her, she doesn't want Peeta and Rue to have to depend on the food in the stores. Someone has to record these strange plants, mark whether they're edible or poisonous. Whether they have any medicinal uses. And what better place to record the information than within her plant book?

After a while, a thought occurs to her and she pauses. Takes out the journal. And in careful, neat handwriting, poses a question:]

Does anyone have a camera I could borrow?