The Sound of Falling Snow | A Hunger Games Fanfiction

Chapter 4

Noon

It's too hard to sit still in the house, so when my mother asks me to go out and find some plants in our new garden, I don't argue. Ever since the Quarter Quell, we've all been required to grow or make some of our own food because of the scarcity in the Capitol. I've always been fond of plants, so it was only natural that we start planting our own vegetables.

Ordinarily, this would be no different than any time she told me to do a chore, but I don't miss how she barely can look me in the eye as she says this. Nor do I miss that she turned around as soon as she could, her mouth in a tight line as if she was trying not to cry. I don't question it either. The announcement came so soon after the bombs fell, and the pain of Alana's death, not to mention my father's, is fresh and has cut deep. It's as if each time we start to heal, the world has another tragedy in store for us, ripping the wound open again, making sure to keep each horror immediate, one after another.

Without another word, I hurry to the back, keeping my head down.

Sowing and taking care of the plants is time-consuming, but it's worth every ounce of effort you put into it. Especially at this time, when all I need is something to distract myself and something that I can busy myself with so that I can live the rest of whatever's remaining of my life to the fullest, and not have to worry about how I'm going to die, when, or just the arena. To be myself without the threat of the future hanging over me. The activity can be monotonous at first, but it's actually quite freeing, if you fall into a rhythm of it.

I let my mind wander while picking the best of our crops, straying far away from the present, trying hard to focus on the good memories of the past.

A while later, my basket is filled to the brim with roots and leaves. I wipe the sweat that has beaded on my forehead in the bright afternoon sun away with my hand, and start making my way back home.

A bird sings a mournful tune in the distance, which echoes across the woodlands.

A mockingjay, I realize. It's become something of a metaphor for the rebels. It started with a single call, a single voice, which has been carried far, repeated by more and more until the entire forest is alive with the song, which has become a song of rebellion, of determination. It has become a song of hope. A song of freedom, a song that is sung by not one but many.

There was a chance for them. Maybe there's still one for me.

—

I never entirely appreciated the beauty of nature until the day Coin made the speech telling us of the reaping that will soon be taking place, the day that my life turned around. I used to spend my time inside the mansion, but in these past few days, the outdoors have become my escape.

It's funny how Katniss and my place have pretty much switched, each one of us living the other's previous life. I used to be a pampered Capitol girl who everyone was fond of while she was hoping to survive. Now it's the opposite. Now I am being put in a reaping that is most definitely rigged against me, waiting out the days that I will still have the privilege of doing things on my own terms, not on anyone else's. During the Quarter Quell, I had looked up to her. I had wanted to be her. I never had the strength to oppose my family, who had become the perfect image of what a Capitol family should look like. While I was shrouding my opinions, my thoughts of rebellion in fear, there she was, a girl from District Twelve, the least of all the districts, who had the bravery to show the Capitol that she was still her own person, that they didn't own her. That's what I'm going to do when I'm in the arena. They still can't control me. They can take everything else away from me – my life, my freedom – but they can't take who I am, no matter how hard they try.

It reminds me of a song that I heard once many years ago. My mother sang it to me while I was laying in bed, feverish. She told me that I mustn't tell anyone that she had told it to me, since my grandfather wasn't fond of the song. She told me that it was our secret.

It was a song from years, decades before. A song that told of all the things that could be taken, but how nothing would be worth it to the people who took them.

It's how I feel. No matter what they try and take from me, it won't mean anything. None of it will be valuable to them. They can take my home away from me, my family, my life, but what will they do with any of it? It's only meant to hurt me. And they can't hurt me if I don't let them. They can't break me unless I give into them. I won't. I won't be broken by them. There are things to be broken over, and things not to be. This is one of the ones where you don't. This is one of the things that you choose to stay strong through, even when the storm blows you so hard you want to fall over. You stand your ground. You stay when they tell you to move.

You look them in the eye. You let your every word and silence brim with defiance. This is how the rebels won. This is how I will win, too.