Writer Games: Never Forgive, Never Forget

When It's All Over: Honeysuckle Winter Vyne

“I thought nothing could make me hate the Gamemakers more after they dragged my father into the arena.  But then they made that announcement.”

The girl tribute this year is a polite one, no more than seventeen at the oldest.  She pulls the blanket tightly around her shoulders and sips the hot chocoloate from the cup in her hands.  I am tempted to tell her to get used to the cold now but I let her be.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Miss Honeysuckle.” 

I grimace at the sound of the old name.  “Don’t call me that. Please. It holds too many bad memories now.  Call me Winter.  And I want to. For both of our sake’s.  You need to be prepared for what pain the Gamemakers can cause. And I haven’t told the story before.”

I sound like an old lady.  Eighteen years old, and I sound like I belong in a nursing home.  A bitter laugh almost leaves my mouth, but I contain it in time.  No one likes it when I laugh.  Makes me look like a madwoman, I guess.  In some ways, I am.

“It may have been two years ago, but I remember it perfectly. 

My initial reaction was confusion.  For a few seconds, all I could do was blink and stare.  My father was the one to-he spoke first. 

‘Well that’s that,’ he said.

For a horrible dark moment, I thought he intended to kill me.  I stumbled backward and fell onto the dirt that felt like a thousand knives.  Though maybe it wasn’t the dirt.  Maybe it was only the world around me that compressed and threatened to a point a blade would be almost a relief.

“Honeysuckle,” my father said.  I realized it was hurt I saw on his face of what I had feared he would do.

And then of course I felt ashamed, for not wishing I would be the one to die. 

I should have, shouldn’t I?  Tried to kill myself that very second so that my father would be certain to survive.

The thought occurred to me.  I was too much of a coward to go through with it.

You know, I wish I could say I did something.  Anything.  But I’m the worst kind of coward, and in the moment when action was needed most I curled up on the ground and cried.  I was pathetic. 

All I could think of was how I couldn’t take it anymore.  All the lying, the cheating, the backstabbing.   The loss and sacrifice, the Games themselves.

 I only wanted it all to be over.  I wanted to be done with the pain, and yet I didn’t want to be done with life.

I told you I was a coward.

The worst part, I think, was that my father comforted me.  My whole life, he had never been one for much affection, and his parenting styles erred more on the side of tough love.  Yet now, he hugged me and whispered words of comfort in my ear. 

See, he knew the Gamemakers had won.  The goal of the Games is to break the tributes.  That is what the Gamemakers all want.  He knew that the Gamemakers had succeeded with this twist.  My father could see they had broken me. 

I was never entirely clear on how he’d done it.  One minute his arm was around me it seemed, the next he lay on the ground with something sticking out of his chest.  I never truly knew what it was. 

The moment the thought that he was dead entered my mind, I screamed. 

I’ll admit that I didn’t deserve to win. I wouldn’t have if I wasn’t a pathetic coward.  I would love to say I was fighting to the end, that I had been determined to sacrifice myself for my father, but that would be a lie.

The one and only reason I won was that all the other tributes were brave and let themselves die for the ones they loved, while I was a coward who let the one I love die for me.”

Not a single tear have I shed.  When I first won and found myself unable to cry anymore over all I have been through, I was surprised and confused.  But then I figured it out. 

If there’s one good thing about being broken, it’s that it can only happen once.  You can’t be broken twice.  I cried myself out in the arena, so I have no more tears to shed now. 

It could be worse, I suppose.  I don’t cry, but I also don’t wake up screaming from nightmares.  I’ve reached my breaking point, so nightmares don’t taunt me like they do the others.

After a long pause Serena breaks her own silence.  “Will it be that bad?  If I-if I make it to the end?”

“Maybe not the Games themselves.  They might be gorier or bloodier, but the Gamemakers won’t do the same torture twice.  But afterward…it’ll be bad.  If you live, it’ll be bad.”

Her eyes are deep in thought.  “Is it worth it to win?  Or should I just step off my plate on the first minute?”

When they told me I had to mentor the girl this year, I didn’t expect she would ask a question like that.  But honestly, I don’t expect a lot of things these days.

I have to think for a long time about my answer.  “It depends,” I say finally.  “In my case, I don’t think it was.  I lost the person I loved most and took scars I’ll carry for the rest of my life.  In my mind, I was Honeysuckle before the arena, Six during the Games, and Winter after.  I liked Honeysuckle the best, but I can never go back to being her.  I wish I could.  But you still have people to go back to.  People to win for.”

Serena gives a relieved sigh, and I realize she was afraid I would tell her to kill herself.  She wants to live. 

“What should I do if they do pull the same trick?” She asks.  “I don’t want to let them make me kill anyone, but I don’t want to- to go horribly...”

This girl asks the most morbid questions, but I find myself taking a liking to her.  Not good.  I tell myself that she’ll probably die in two weeks, but I can’t help it.

“There’s a berry called nightlock.  It’s found in a lot of arena if you know how to look for it.  Eat just one, and it’ll give you a quick, clean, painless death,” I tell her, under my breath so that a passing Capitol attendant won’t hear.

Serena nods, her face as solemn as a gravestone.  “I’ll look for some as soon as I get into the arena.  That way if I find myself facing a painful end, I’ll have a kinder way out.”

To her credit, she does not tremble or flinch when she says the words.  She’s stronger than I was at sixteen. 

There’s more I wish I could tell her, but there’s no way to say it.  How could I explain how the worst wounds are given to yourself?  I could never explain to this girl how if there were one wish I could grant for myself other than bringing my father back, I would wish I could forgive myself for my own survival.