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The day had been long and hard to get through. Not only had the games left a long lasting effect on my mental psyche, but being paraded around everywhere after days of recovering wasn’t great. It was hard to get a handle on this leg. Harder to get a handle being alone in such a big house. There was a freshly baked loaf of bread sitting on the table in front of me, a decadent meal there as well. Goat cheese, fruits, and various dishes I’d enjoyed before. It all felt hollow. The only thing my eyes lingered on for more than a minute was the loaf of bread.
So perfect in its shape, no burns, no dents. But when I cut into it, something wasn’t right. It hadn’t risen properly, or maybe I just didn’t remember how many things I was supposed to put into it. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. Maybe I worked it too hard. Whatever the case, it’d been a complete and utter failure of a loaf. I lean back into the wooden chair I sat in, shutting my eyes and trying to breathe.
What hurt the most wasn’t my new leg, not the places where I could remember scars being, but the disregard Katniss had for everything. The utter lack of feeling that came from her voice as she uttered the words, “I don’t know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get.” There probably was some feeling there, in hindsight, but I’d have been too worked up to even really notice. Everything I’d been working towards for the past weeks- everything we shared. It was all an act for her .
Her uneasiness during interviews, the way Haymitch was trying his hardest to keep us separate. She was doing it for her survival even after the fact. Everything was for her survival. The ever flawed Katniss in my mind, the one who was so perfect to me, could be so selfish, I realize.
Anger was an emotion I would feel off an on- but it was mainly sadness. A mix of agony I’d never experienced and pain worse than when Cato cut me. It was genuinely like she’d twisted a dagger into my heart in those moments outside of the train. Like that was the return for picking her flowers. Every little thing would resurface in my brain as I went to my room on that train. Refusing to speak to her or really anyone. Unless it was necessary. I just laid in bed, thinking.
Had she really risked her life at the feast because she was thinking of the audience? Got so caught up in nursing me back to health for her own personal gain? Only come to me after the rules changed in order to assure someone to look after her? It didn’t really make sense, in my head. But I guess it never would. The world would never make sense again.
Most of all, I won’t understand why she tried to kill herself with me. I would’ve let her walk away as the victor, but she… Did she do it to stand up to the capitol, like she told me they thought? To trick my heart once again and let me live, believing the lies she spoke? Was it to make herself look better? To show she wasn’t going to let me go so easily, not for the audience’s sake?
When I opened my eyes again, they lingered on the bread. The set table for a meal- really one probably fit for two. I wasn’t hungry, not anymore. That sick, grief feeling was in my stomach again, threatening to make me sick. I can’t remember when I’d eaten last, maybe an apple on the train or two. Maybe not. The days were running together, and I couldn’t even remember when I’d gotten back.
My hand reached for the inadequate loaf half anyways, the crust a bit hard. How long had I been sitting here? I couldn’t tell if it was just the quality of the bread or simply the wait of it being out in the air. Whatever the case, I was used to eating bad bread. Maybe tomorrow I could refresh my mind about recipes. There had been more important things to think about other than bread the past month or so. A lot more important things. And just as my mind was trying to focus on something else, the image of Katniss reappeared in my head. She’d always been there before– why would she leave now?
The moment I took a bite of bread was when I realized I’d started crying– just tears. This happened on the train, too. In my room, all alone, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I would wonder about everything I could’ve possibly done. Everything I could have said differently, or all the times I could have said something before my name was drawn. I sobbed then, silently.
I sob now.