Entry tags:
(no subject)
You've reached the... voicemail... of Katniss Everdeen.
Entry tags:
(no subject)
Mail for Katniss Everdeen. Technically, she can also be reached at mockingjay@dmail.com, messages for which should be left here as well, but don't expect any kind of prompt response.
Entry tags:
keep the world at bay, keep your secrets and your scars
I don't really know what's happened.
What I remember is this: sitting down next to Prim, the world slowing down as she told me her story, and being lost in a mess of feelings after that, anger that threatens to overtake me, outweighed only by sadness and, more than that, guilt. It's the latter that keeps me from staying put. As much as I want little else than to be with my sister right now, I can't bear to look at her, knowing about what happened to her and that it was my fault, that, after all I did, in the end, I even failed at protecting her, the only real thing I set out to do in the first place. All the blood I had on my hands already, I can't justify it anymore, either. The people who died for me, who followed me into a cause — there was never one in the first place. I volunteered so Prim wouldn't die in the Arena. I kept up the façade for my family, used that to keep me going when nothing else could. I always knew I never should have been the figurehead for the revolution, but now, I think about all the people who were killed, all the damage done, because I wanted to keep Prim alive and I wanted to get home to her, and I can't stand it, so I can't stay where I am.
How I get to Harley's door, though, I'm not sure, except he's the only person nearby. I considered briefly just taking my bow and going out into the woods, but however cathartic shooting might be, I don't think I have it in me to kill anything right now, not even a squirrel in a tree. Still, I have to do something, practically shaking with a desperate nervousness, more thrown by this than I want to consider. If only for a little while, I need to put it out of my head, to get rid of the emotions weighing me down too completely. I have to, if I'm going to be able to look my sister in the eye again.
So I lift my hand to knock, hoping he's in, even if I don't know what I'm going to say. Not what really brought me over here, but apart from that, I'm at a loss. Maybe I just won't say anything at all.
What I remember is this: sitting down next to Prim, the world slowing down as she told me her story, and being lost in a mess of feelings after that, anger that threatens to overtake me, outweighed only by sadness and, more than that, guilt. It's the latter that keeps me from staying put. As much as I want little else than to be with my sister right now, I can't bear to look at her, knowing about what happened to her and that it was my fault, that, after all I did, in the end, I even failed at protecting her, the only real thing I set out to do in the first place. All the blood I had on my hands already, I can't justify it anymore, either. The people who died for me, who followed me into a cause — there was never one in the first place. I volunteered so Prim wouldn't die in the Arena. I kept up the façade for my family, used that to keep me going when nothing else could. I always knew I never should have been the figurehead for the revolution, but now, I think about all the people who were killed, all the damage done, because I wanted to keep Prim alive and I wanted to get home to her, and I can't stand it, so I can't stay where I am.
How I get to Harley's door, though, I'm not sure, except he's the only person nearby. I considered briefly just taking my bow and going out into the woods, but however cathartic shooting might be, I don't think I have it in me to kill anything right now, not even a squirrel in a tree. Still, I have to do something, practically shaking with a desperate nervousness, more thrown by this than I want to consider. If only for a little while, I need to put it out of my head, to get rid of the emotions weighing me down too completely. I have to, if I'm going to be able to look my sister in the eye again.
So I lift my hand to knock, hoping he's in, even if I don't know what I'm going to say. Not what really brought me over here, but apart from that, I'm at a loss. Maybe I just won't say anything at all.
Entry tags:
'til it lights the way back home
It's not the first time since I showed up here that nightmares have woken me up. It's just the first time I've decided to do anything about it.
For the most part, I've started to get used to trying to hide it, muffling screams into pillows and staying as quiet as I can, because even if she'd understand, I don't want to upset Prim. She already has more on her shoulders than she should ever have had to, and worrying about me doesn't need to be added to that list. And it's not like I don't get by, because I do. A lot of the time, I do so without getting a lot of sleep, but I'm fine, or I tell myself I'm fine, that I can handle it. I've gotten through worse, and I've gotten used to this, too, as much as anyone ever can. After everything, I'm pretty sure it's normal.
There is one thing that's always helped, though. I don't know why it's taken me this long to let myself think about that, or about the key Peeta gave me — he had to have had this in mind, right? There's no way he didn't know. All I've got is that I was too proud to consider it, or at least do so seriously, and though I'm not entirely surprised by that being the case, I've got to give it up eventually. A night like this seems the best time for it, when I've spent I don't know how long seeing the dead come back and blame me for what happened to them, haunted by twisted visions of all I've seen and done. I wonder sometimes if it will ever go away; I think about Haymitch with his drinking, and the morphlings, and I know it won't.
In the dark of the apartment, the sheet from my bed wrapped around my shoulders, I make my way to the door quietly, though not before finding Peeta's key, slinking out into and down the hall. I don't want to wake anyone, least of all Prim. I don't even want to wake Peeta before I have to, opening his door without knocking and trying to make as little noise as possible. The apartments are all alike, at least, which helps me find my way to his bed, but I'd get there anyway. I've had to look much harder for him before.
Only when I've gotten there do I dare speak, feeling unspeakably, painfully young, more shaken than I should be. "Peeta," I say, quiet but not overly so, mostly to mask the way my voice breaks. Leaving my sheet on the floor, I slowly crawl into bed beside him, just like we used to do before the Capitol took him from me. I've got him back, now. I don't intend to waste that chance. "It's me."
For the most part, I've started to get used to trying to hide it, muffling screams into pillows and staying as quiet as I can, because even if she'd understand, I don't want to upset Prim. She already has more on her shoulders than she should ever have had to, and worrying about me doesn't need to be added to that list. And it's not like I don't get by, because I do. A lot of the time, I do so without getting a lot of sleep, but I'm fine, or I tell myself I'm fine, that I can handle it. I've gotten through worse, and I've gotten used to this, too, as much as anyone ever can. After everything, I'm pretty sure it's normal.
There is one thing that's always helped, though. I don't know why it's taken me this long to let myself think about that, or about the key Peeta gave me — he had to have had this in mind, right? There's no way he didn't know. All I've got is that I was too proud to consider it, or at least do so seriously, and though I'm not entirely surprised by that being the case, I've got to give it up eventually. A night like this seems the best time for it, when I've spent I don't know how long seeing the dead come back and blame me for what happened to them, haunted by twisted visions of all I've seen and done. I wonder sometimes if it will ever go away; I think about Haymitch with his drinking, and the morphlings, and I know it won't.
In the dark of the apartment, the sheet from my bed wrapped around my shoulders, I make my way to the door quietly, though not before finding Peeta's key, slinking out into and down the hall. I don't want to wake anyone, least of all Prim. I don't even want to wake Peeta before I have to, opening his door without knocking and trying to make as little noise as possible. The apartments are all alike, at least, which helps me find my way to his bed, but I'd get there anyway. I've had to look much harder for him before.
Only when I've gotten there do I dare speak, feeling unspeakably, painfully young, more shaken than I should be. "Peeta," I say, quiet but not overly so, mostly to mask the way my voice breaks. Leaving my sheet on the floor, I slowly crawl into bed beside him, just like we used to do before the Capitol took him from me. I've got him back, now. I don't intend to waste that chance. "It's me."