ghosts that we knew: A mockingjay fanfiction

chapter 9

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 9

Katniss

I have grown sick of morning sickness.

The chemical imbalance inside of me-daily dosages of hormones and medicines to keep the baby growing healthily combatting with my body's defenses against them brought on by my own stress and anxiety -churns my stomach into a tizzy that sends me to the waste basin routinely throughout the day. The morning, right as I wake up from a fitful night of very little sleep, is usually the worst. I suppose it is my punishment for not experiencing regular morning sickness due to being comatose during that stage in my pregnancy. Pitifully sitting in the corner of my room, on my knees and coughing into the waste basin, is a daily reminder that there is no aspect of my life that can be made easier.

Prim worriedly wrings her hands together behind me, cold cloth readily draped over her shoulder. "Katniss? Need any help?" she asks innocently. I wipe a sweaty strand of hair from my eyes and shake my head into the basin, lips pursed in disgust. Bodily fluid of any kind does not faze my unwavering, stoic younger sister. The sight of my own secretions brings on urges within me to dry-heave the contents of my stomach, which are barely there after the previous purge.

Truth be told, I do need help. But what I need, and who I need, is something my sister cannot provide. I yearn for Peeta's careful hands holding back my hair, his soothing whispers coaxing me out of my sickness, his unwavering presence at my side.

"No, Little Duck. I'm fine," I lie, choking back oncoming waves of nausea. Prim wordlessly hands me the rag, a sign of her quiet acceptance, and takes a few steps back.

"Ok. Well, if you need anything at all, you know where to find me. Feel better, Katniss," she barely whispers before gathering her things quietly so as not to disturb my retching before she moseys off to work.

I sigh, slowly lifting myself from the ground and gripping onto the bedpost for balance. Physically, no, I am far from fine. A seventeen-year-old's body is not designed to carry a child and a rebellion all at once. My inability to hold down a meal coupled with my fatigue indicates that my body is deteriorating at a time when it needs to be at its physical prime, which is enough to worry anyone about their health. And then, of course, there is the fear of the unknown concerning Peeta that eats away at me more so than any amount of acid in my stomach could. There have been plenty of mornings where I want nothing more than to lay in bed all day long, for fear that my lack of equilibrium or the thought of Peeta would send me to the waste basin permanently. The need to fulfill my duties as Mockingjay and keep everyone, including myself, this child, and its father, alive was what forced me to sit up straight every morning. The fear of crashing and burning and subsequently failing keeps me running on autopilot.

Mentally, I was not fine, either. The exhaustion in my body received no reprieve due to my lack of sleep. My nightmares were far worse than they had ever been before: me, standing in battle and going up into flames while Snow laughed and looked on, Peeta being publicly executed, Gale receiving another whipping, Prim being carried off by a Capitol hovercraft, Coin's icy eyes as she tells me that I have failed her. These nightmares I now have to face alone, without the comfort of waking up in Peeta's secure embrace.

The most detailed, realistic, and graphic nightmare was a fairly new installment to my program of terrors. In it, a small, frail figure with wild slate eyes and tousled blonde locks is being chased by someone, something-a mutt. Her tiny legs barely propel her through the thick forest, but she pants and pushes her way through anyway, constantly just making it out of the mutt's reach. She encounters a dead end, a willow tree, and screams. The sound is piercing.