The Little Mockingjay

Fool's Gold

Song: Fool's Gold by Fitz & The Tantrums

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Flint's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. He must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our parents. Sure enough, as I stretch out my limbs and lazily roll out of bed, I hear his footsteps tapping down the hall into his bedroom, the one right next to mine. He hardly sleeps in there, always claiming to have bad dreams and switching back and forth between my bed and our parents'. My mom jokes that she must have passed on the "nightmare" gene to him, though he never shrieks like she does. I don't know the cause of her terrors, only that I wake up at night to her cries. I don't know why Dad sometimes freezes up and clenches his fists as his eyes go from blue to a murky grey, only that Flint and I have developed a habit of clinging to him while this happens as mom talks to him in a voice that does not reflect the image of her body, tensed and ready to fight. I'm impossibly curious about their past, but they refuse to share the details. It can't be that bad, could it be? Whatever it is, it's made them famous enough for people to recognize my last name when I tell them. Teacher's eyes widen on the first day of every year when they call off, "Nadia Mellark," from the attendance sheet.

"You're the Mellark girl?" they ask.

"You look just like your mother," they tell me.

I guess I do. Same olive skin and dark hair, which I braid off to the side of my head just like hers. It's the only way I know, and it's out of my face.

Every year I ask why they know who my parents are. Every year I get no answer. No one will talk about it. I can't tell if people despise them or admire them, but from what I've been able to deduce in my sixteen years of life, it seems like admiration. I do know one thing. Two words that seem to be the key to my parents past. We learn about it in history class, but never anything more than a few simple facts. 75 years. 1,794 deaths. Two words. Hunger. Games.

The words gnaw at the back of my thoughts and I don't know why. Maybe I'm curious because it's a part of my family history. It's a part of my parents. Does that make it a part of me? For some reason, I find myself hoping that the answer is no. As I walk across my room, brushing my hair, I find that my feet carry me to the bottom drawer of my desk. I let my hands pull it open and, once again, I gently take out the one piece of history that my parents have given me. They say it's all that's left of their past. I run my hands across the smooth cover of the old, worn out book that contains my mother's words and my father's drawings. I flip through subconsciously, skimming through pages of plants and animals, stopping only on the faces. Faces that I know belonged to people who are now dead. Many are my age, some are older, but the ones that always grab my attention are the two little girls. I've memorized their faces and their names. Rue and Prim. I know they're dead and that they died young. I just can't imagine losing Flint, my little brother. They look about his age, maybe even younger. I'd be torn apart. These children were someone's family! I can't imagine the feeling that must come with losing them...

I'm shaken out of my daze by the sound of Mom's voice.

"Nadia, sweetie! Breakfast!"

I return the book to the drawer and quickly braid my hair. I pull on my favorite pair of jeans and a blue sweater as I grab my black Chuck Taylors and race down the stairs. By the time I swing into my seat at the counter, Flint is already half done with his pancakes. I sit next to him and watch as Dad finishes flipping mine, Mom sitting on the counter swinging her legs as she sips her coffee right next to him. They're never far apart. Dad slides me my plate and plants a kiss on my head as I start to eat my breakfast in huge mouthfuls. I finish at the same time as Flint, just in time to leave for school. We say goodbye to our parents, pull our coats on, and walk out the door.