Chapter Text
The steady ticking of the clock next to me reminds me of a bomb right before it detonates.
But an explosion would hardly shake me at this point.
To think I believed our world was safe now. I told myself that lie over and over until it became the truth. I lowered all of my defenses, went so far as to allow myself to think of a future with Peeta and our child. Life seemed perfect, a dreamy utopia that proved to be dangerous.
When things can't get any better, they can only get worse. And that is exactly what happened. It started with those ambiguous threats from the stranger I once called friend. I pushed them aside, because Gale couldn't hate me enough to want to ruin my life, right? Even if our friendship is long dead, buried by bitterness, he wouldn't be so petty as to destroy all I hold dear. He couldn't.
That's where I went wrong, misremembering my former best friend as a good man, one who governed himself by a moral compass. I underestimated his cruelty and just how deep his animosity ran. I never imagined the lengths he'd go to get his revenge.
He came back, offering one more chance to run off with him, and try to love him. He promised I'd be happy with him, even though I've only ever really been happy with Peeta. My refusal proved to be my greatest offense. Now, Gale is the president, in a position of utmost power, where he can do anything he wants.
And that's exactly what he's done. Abusing that power to bring my worst nightmares back to life. He chose to bring back the hunger games and pretty much guaranteed any child of mine a place in the arena.
And so, this takes me back to where I currently lay, at 11:58 pm, January 3rd, trembling in Peeta's warm, strong arms. It is in this space where I feel most secure, but that doesn't mean that I feel safe.
My unborn daughter shifts around in her position, as if in response to my thoughts. That's when I feel a sharp pain in my gut. This isn't the first time that I've felt it; it has persisted throughout the day. I figured that it was some sort of stomach virus when I vomited after dinner. Or maybe just the stress catching up to me. I gave the former as my excuse to Peeta. Now, I wonder if it is something more.
Peeta lies there, oblivious to my thoughts as I shift slightly. His arms tighten around me for a moment, but he loosens them again. Guarding me even while he sleeps.
I remember my mom telling me to count the minutes that pass between contractions, and while I'm not sure if the pain is contractions, I decide to time it just in case. Five minutes later, the pain comes again.
Just as I'm debating whether I should tell Peeta or not, I feel a slow trickle of liquid signaling that my water has broken.
"Peeta," I whisper softly, turning over and nudging him.
"Five more minutes," he mutters under his breath, but I shove him more forcefully. "I'm up!" he says loudly, looking startled. Then he relaxes when he sees me. His eyes soften, looking at me tenderly, though there's a question painted on his face. "Is everything okay?" he whispers.
"I think my water broke," I tell him bluntly.
For a moment, Peeta just looks confused. But I watch as his blue eyes widen, and he glances down at my bulging belly before looking up at my face again. "Are you serious?" I nod, and I can see the panic seep into his expression. He stands up abruptly, mumbling so quickly I can't make out a word. He begins to pace the room, and I watch in amusement. I have to stifle my laughter at the sight of him so disconcerted. But then I feel a more defined pain, and it lasts longer. I take a sharp intake of breath, and this moves Peeta out of his stupor.
"Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?" he asks gently.
I nod and say, "Yeah, but the baby's not going to stay in here for long."
He helps me stand up and places the plastic cover that my mother bought over the bed while simultaneously removing the covers. Then, he runs out to wake up my mom from where she is sleeping in the guest room. I wince as I feel another contraction. My mom and Peeta's footsteps become audible, Peeta's easily decipherable with his limp.
Without another word, my mother enters her healer mindset. Nothing shakes her when she is in this state. I am ordered to get back into my bed. She asks me some questions and tells me to just try and relax.
Even with the pain, I manage to fall into a half-sleeping state. It is mixed with both dreams and reality, the two sometimes becoming muddled and confused. I come back into consciousness when I feel a wave of agony. I gasp loudly and can feel Peeta's hand squeeze mine. Or maybe I'm the one squeezing his hand.
My mom looks at me and says, "Are you ready to start pushing?"
I nod, unsure how else to respond. How can a person ever be ready to bring a life into the world, especially this one?
At her signal, I start to push.
I would have thought that I was used to pain. After all, I had been through two arenas, a major war, and survived a bombing. My injuries spanned from stings, burns, cuts, bruises, breaks, and blisters, but all of that pain combined is nothing compared to the pain of labor.
Part of me wants to escape into the darkness and peace of unconsciousness, but my brain does not allow me to ease out. Peeta massages my shoulders while I take shuddery breaths. I feel him lower his lips to my moist forehead, whispering reassuring words and sweet nothings. The feeling of his lips fluttering against my skin helps me to keep going.
I clutch Peeta's hand so tightly, I'm surprised nothing fractures. I scream all sorts of profanities, some directed at him, even though all he's trying to do is comfort me.
The anguish continues for what feels like an eternity. It could have been hours, days, weeks. I would not have been able to tell the difference. But finally, after a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, I feel the pressure in my gut ease. I barely get a glance at my daughter before my mother whisks her out of the room to clean her. I wearily turn toward Peeta's beaming face. Just this movement exhausts me. At the moment, I want nothing more than to sleep for a whole week. But the crying coming from outside reminds me that sleep will not be something that comes easily for a while.
My mother comes back with her, a smile lighting up her face. "It's a girl." A girl. I should be happy, proud even. But how can I be proud of sentencing my kid to death? "What are you going to name her?"
Peeta and I share a quick glance, and he speaks for me. "Her name is Willow." I can see his eagerness and adoration for our daughter, Willow, but I manage to speak up.
"Don't you dare, Peeta." My voice is raspy and hoarse, but I continue, "I'm the one who carried her for 41 long weeks, and I'm the one who just delivered her, so I'm going to be the first to hold her." They both laugh, and my mother lowers Willow into my tired arms.
All of the pain and exhaustion from the last hours disappears as her tiny figure is placed in my hold. I am overwhelmed by sheer love and the determination to protect her. But even this elation is shadowed by my despair. I know that I can't protect her from the horror of the hunger games. I try not to think about this, but instead, observe every aspect of her. Her button nose, wispy dark hair, and plump face. When her eyes open, I notice that they are the gray of charcoal, but I know enough from my mother to be aware that their color may change later on. My mom instructs me on how to feed her, and then I hand her off to Peeta.
I collapse back onto the pillows and watch groggily as Peeta talks softly to her. My mother is sitting in the rocking chair, and I can see her nodding off. Her night has been nearly as long as mine.
Peeta turns around so that I can see his beaming face, and Willow bundled up, asleep in his arms. Safe, as safe as I always feel with him.
But as Willow's features come into view again, all I can think of is how unsafe she is. I imagine that same face shining in the sky, with District 12 printed beneath her name.
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The Rules and Outline of the Hunger Games
Every ten years, there will be a quell with a special twist.
Tributes will be picked from a pool of 12 to 18-year-olds. Each district will offer one male and one female tribute.
There will be a week between the reaping and entering the arena.
The day after the reaping, the tributes will be prepped and styled by their stylists for the chariot rides later in the day.
Five days will be devoted for the tributes to train, the fifth day being the private sessions, before they are interviewed and sent into the arena.
Training scores can earn between 1 and 12 points.
The second to last day will be devoted to training for the interviews, followed by the interviews in the evening.
The following day is when all tributes will be released into the arena.
Each tribute will need to remain on their pedestal for 60 seconds or else they will trigger the land mines surrounding their podium.
After the timer goes off, tributes will fight to the death until only one remains. This can continue for an indefinite amount of time.
Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor...