The Sound of Falling Snow | A Hunger Games Fanfiction

Chapter 3

Midnight

Thoughts swirl around my mind, blending together in spectacular colors and shades. Silhouettes dance, flames flicker, taking flight in a world where nothing exists but my imagination.

In dreams, anything is possible. In dreams, I don't have to worry about the future. In dreams, there are no boundaries.

But they come with a consequence. When you emerge from your dream, blinking in the sudden light, you are faced with the disappointment of knowing that none of it was real. Or in a nightmare, you are just waiting, hoping that it will be over, unable to escape from the cage of it.

Holding on to a dream is like trying to catch falling raindrops in your cupped hands. The tiny tear-shaped bead of water seems so tangible, so easy to keep. But the moment it hits your palm, it disperses, leaving only the residue of wetness there, as it slowly evaporates, becoming a gas that is impossible to contain, and your hand is not able to grasp it anymore. A dream feels genuine in the moment, and you are never uncertain of it. It's only after you wake up that you realize that it isn't reality, that it could never actually happen. You spend countless minutes wishing that the good ones were true, but they aren't, and no matter how much time you spend trying to relive them, trying to find a glimpse of a chance that they might not be just a dream, it can never become your reality. You are stuck in the never ending cycle of wishes that will never be granted.

All the same, a dream isn't always bad. In dreams, at least, you are free.

—

Tonight, my sleep is not calm. I toss and turn, trying to find sleep, although I am unsuccessful every time. Each hour I wake up, drenched in cold sweat, reminding myself that my nightmares haven't been made real — not yet, at least. I finally give up trying and instead roam the near-empty house. We had once lived an easy life in the president's mansion, my mother, father, sister, and me, but the building belongs to President Coin, after my grandfather was killed and the war finished. There's a certain incompleteness, not just because of the place that we were recently relocated to.

My father died on the battle line. A noble death, he would have called it. After all, what could be more honorable than dying fighting for your country and beliefs?

My sister, Alana, died unexpectedly. My mother had sent her out on an urgent errand, since the alarms had blared and the emergency broadcast called all Capitol citizens to evacuate just before. She hurried back, of course, but the flow of people hampered her pace greatly, and she only made it to just beyond the gates. The children had been told that they would be provided with supplies — food, medicine, and garments — as well as a promise that they would be given shelter at the mansion. Only they weren't. They sent parachutes down, and the desperate, starving children clutched them tightly, clinging to the hope of survival.

That's when they went off, the bombs quickly destroying everything in their paths, not to mention the lives of all who had made it in, as well as the lives of the medics who rushed in to save the broken children who had been victims of the attack. We didn't find out for several agonizing hours of wondering where she had gone, panicking. I was furious when I found out, thinking, like everyone else, that my grandfather had been responsible for sending in the bombs which caused Alana's murder. Who could possibly be so cruel and coldhearted to want to kill their own granddaughter?

I've heard rumors, though, that it was all the pain of the rebels to end the war. They lost a lot of people, too. I heard that Katniss's younger sister died trying to bring medical help to the children of the Capitol when the second set of bombs exploded. She was just my age when she was killed. And Alana was still only fifteen. They were all so young...So much life gone, never to exist again. It was never meant to happen. There was never supposed to be a war. I never supported the Hunger Games, but I'm paying over and over for being too big of a coward to want change. No, too big of a coward to be the change.

Oh, well. There's no use in dwelling on the past when the future I fear is creeping closer and closer with every breath I take.

—

I carefully braid my long, chestnut-blond hair — but not in my usual Katniss one. It's a simple plait that is twirled and bunned up at the back of my head.

My eyes fall upon a single white rose on the dresser and I remember something I had told my grandfather while watching the Seventy-fifth Hunger Games. He had commented on my hair, and I had responded saying like it was entirely common knowledge that almost everyone would put it up like that, after the spectacular success of the 74th Games.

My words from what seems like such a distant lifetime ago are coming back to haunt me. Perhaps if I'd been more openly rebellious, they would have spared my life. Not that it matters. I'd have wound up dead anyway.

In dim light, I can just make out the faint silhouette of my mockingjay pin, which glimmers as I hold it up to the brightness. How could someone fight so hard for the Games to stop, only to reinstate it with their enemy's children? I had thought, like Coin said, that this was the beginning of a new era, one where we were all united. A new generation of peace and equality. A cornucopia for every citizen. I pocket the mockingjay with a precision you wouldn't expect for someone handling the symbol of an enemy about to kill them. Enemy. Is Katniss my enemy? I'm still hoping that she isn't, that she'll have a change of heart and realize that this isn't right. Wishing that she'll realize that justice is not the same as revenge.

—

With the reaping only a few days away, I start to consider strategies that may be of use to me in the Games. Hide, I guess. I'm no good with weapons and not particularly fast, so finding a place to hide will likely be my best bet. Making allies will also be crucial to my survival. But who can I trust? The entire Games is to turn us on our own. How can I guarantee that they are trying to help and not hurt me? And what if I encounter another tribute? Would I really sacrifice all my morals, everything I believe in, purely driven to save my own life? Even then, it's still unlikely. The new Gamemakers are undoubtedly planning my death right at this moment. The odds are most definitely not in my favor.