where i love you

2

i wake up with a start. almost immediately, i wish i hadn't.

there are a few short, blissful moments after waking up, where any thought, recognition or memory simply ceases. all that exists is the haziness from sleep and the rapidly fading recollection of a dream.
after that, i wake up for real. the tearing agony and the pain defeats any attempts ever made of coping with the horrors of the past, like an ongoing, tearing throbbing. the realization that a world without a near constant all consuming darkness is inevitable, because the day will never come where i will be completely prepared for the abrupt wave of intolerable agony that strikes me when my consciousness returns to the utter emptiness of the ripped wallpaper of the four walls that surround me.

my mind refuses to allow me to linger in the abyss of emptiness, and continues to relay images of a long since forgotten past, images i thought had been completely erased from my memories. images that fuel me with an adamant desire to burn each part of the evidence that reminds me of them.

i was eleven. it was a day i remember so vividly, so painfully clearly despite the substantial smog of coal that still seems to linger after all these years. i could scrub and wash my body until i hit bone, and still i would be covered in it. it was the morning following my fathers death. the morning after i had spent almost the entirety of the night kneeling before the obliterated mine, weeping, begging for my father to return. searching every one of their blood smeared, coal dried faces for any resemblance of the grey eyes so strikingly similar to my own. as they passed me, their families embracing them with sobs of relief, each time i wished they were him. even the one who carried half his leg in his hand. even the one who had a gash the size of my forearm on his chest. they were damaged. but still, they came back.

that morning was when i finally began to understand how deceiving this swiftly passing moment is. it's cruel, really. sleeping was an escape. a time where my father's coal stained overalls that used to hang near the door in our old house in the seam weren't dotted with dried blood. where buttercups ribs weren't visible. where families didn't return to their homes in the seam wailing on that one day particular of each year, families that walked to the square with a child, and returned without one. sleeping was a chance to forget, an extended pause from feeling like the pain inside of me was unceremoniously tearing apart every living cell in my body.

the deceiving moment occurs in the few moments is takes for you to adjust to your surroundings and come to the realization that none of the horrors occurring in your nightmares were false. this moment where you feel absolutely nothing, not emptiness, not pain, just a simple, haze induced pleasure. then shortly after, it happens, you remember.

i know of no pain worse than the simple, daily reminder of everything that i thought was safe and guarded being corrupted by the fault of my own.

the insufferable doctors in the capitol would tell me that waking up is a relief, as my slumbers are consumed with horrors consisting of blood splattered white tiles, perfume stinking white roses, faceless creatures that just keep multiplying and multiplying. waking up to me, is the realization that all of this was real.        

real or not real? it was my fault my sister died. the ruins that now complete my district, the district that surrounds the chillingly similar houses in victors village lay there as a result of actions made by me. the most innocent and loving soul i knew was robbed of himself, turned into something i will never recognize, because of my actions. my reckless behaviour. it's easy to lie to myself. to instead blame it on the forces that created the very strife that had dictated my life and my actions. but i know the truth. and the answers will always be real, real, real.

sighing heavily, i shut my eyes tightly. in attempt to comfort myself, i rub my hands up and down the arms of this velvet chair, staring at the decaying logs in the empty fireplace that hasn't had flames in it since before the second games. now, i can't even imagine seeing the blinding orange of flames again.

the girl on fire, finally burnt out.

my eyes slowly begin to close and i feel myself fading into a deep slumber, when a sudden stream of profanity comes from my mouth and i rise from the chair in an urgent leap. i immediately brace myself for an intruder, whipping my head from side to side in search of a weapon. but i soon realize that it is only numerous impatient knocks on the door.

all i want is to sink back into the comfort of the velvet, for sleep to consume me again. i know exactly who awaits my answer. i know his impatience. i know his thunderous knock. i hear his muffled voice telling me to open up. that it's serious. that i can't ignore him forever.

but i can. and i will.

i glance to the hardwood beside me, where buttercup leans against my leg, the dull orange-brown of his fur coating the material of my pants. each knock startles him and he looks up at me, those green eyes expecting some kind of response from me. i bend down towards him, lifting his lightweight into my arms. i can still feel his ribs, though he's fattened up a bit since finding his way back to victors village. the knocking continues, but i ignore it and make my way back to the chair, buttercup ultimately deciding to ignore it and instead purr like a motor in my lap.

i'm staring at the wall, willing it to stop, for him to just leave me alone like i asked him to. like he agreed to. but a forceful clash causes buttercup to scramble off my lap and into a nearby closet as insistent, heavy footsteps become louder and louder as they come closer to me. i don't bother getting up. or even looking away from the wall as i can feel his presence behind me. feel his stare of judgement.

"i don't remember handing out invitations," i mumble under my breath. "you know, the door has a lock for a reason, bastard." he breathes a cold, humourless laugh as he steps around the chair to face me. i look down, fixing my glare on the floorboards beneath his boots as to not meet his gaze of pity.

"oh joy, she's forming words." his condescending tone hits me like a ton of bricks. "almost thought i'd never have to endure that again."

haymitch.