The Hunger Games: Continued

Clean Slate

Katniss' POV

New Year's

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne..."

A song my father used to sing at Christmas and New Year. Old, older than Panem itself. A song I sing out of tradition, not meaning — because my acquaintances, my dead, will never be forgotten. They can't be.

Still, the melody stirs me. Nostalgia. A longing that makes me want to laugh and cry all at once.

Peeta says his family sang it too, though not the same way. His father hummed it in English; mine sang it in what he called old Scots. I like it that way best.

The fire sparks and crackles in our living room. It's warm, safe. Peaceful. We thought about inviting others — Effie, Annie, even Gale — but decided against it. Better this way: just Peeta, Haymitch, and me. Haymitch drinks, Peeta bakes, I sing.

And I love them both. Even Haymitch, with his whiskey breath and crooked grin. He doesn't replace my father, never could, but he fills a space only he can. And Peeta—my lover, my best friend, my everything.

I like New Year. The idea of a clean start. A new beginning. At least, that's what Peeta once told me.

⸻

That year, snow blanketed the rooftops. I'd slipped outside to be alone, but of course Peeta found me. He sat down quietly, arm around my shoulders.

"Happy New Year. You don't seem happy."

"I don't like New Year," I'd muttered.

"Why not? It's a clean slate."

"But what if I don't want a clean slate? What if I like the picture I already drew?"

He'd held me tighter. "Then draw a new one. Every year. You might like the next picture even better. And you can always sketch me back in — and Haymitch, even Buttercup."

We'd laughed. And I realised: beginnings don't erase what came before. They build on them. Each year can still hold us.

Peeta — always with the words. Always making me fall in love with him all over again.

⸻

Haymitch stays until midnight. He and Peeta clink glasses of whiskey; I sip water. At the stroke of twelve, we cheer, Haymitch stumbles home, and Peeta and I insist he call so we know he's safe.

Later, Peeta and I lie in bed. Silence, soft breathing, the comfort of blankets. Then:

"I wonder what will happen this year," he says.

"What do you want to happen?"

He hesitates. "How do you feel about... children?"

It's not the first time, so I'm not surprised. My answer is the same.

"You know how I feel." My tone is plain, but I soften it for his sake. "I can't. I'm scared."

"Katniss..." He whines, almost boyish.

"Quit acting like a child." I laugh, though I mean every word.

He buries his head in my neck. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. And I know you want kids so badly. Maybe one year. But not this one. Probably not the next. Just know how much I love you. How much I want you to be happy."

"I love you too," he murmurs, already drifting to sleep.

I lie awake, replaying it.

⸻

Being born into a hollow home is easier than being born into one full of warmth. The Seam was poor, but it was happy — until my father died. Then my mother collapsed, my sister starved, my ribs showed through my skin. And then the Games. Then war. Then Prim, gone.

I survived, but I lost.

Do I really want to bring a child into a world like that?