I wake up again to the sound of screaming. After 17 years you'd think I'd be used to it. But every time I hear my Mum's cries and pleas for help in the middle of the night it sends a shiver down my spine and the same pool of dread begins to bubble deep inside of me. She's always told me "don't worry, they're just bad dreams" or "another silly nightmare", with a small smile on her face that doesn't quite reach into her troubled grey eyes.
There's the familiar knock on my bedroom door and it slowly opens to reveal two sets of innocent eyes staring at me expectantly.
"Willow?", Brooke calls out in a small voice, "can we come and sit with you?". I open my arms to my youngest brother and sister and hold them tightly to my chest as they rush into them.
"Is Mum having another nightmare?", Kolton asks and they both look up at me expectantly.
"Yes, everything is going to be fine", I answer in a reassuring voice.
I pull them both under the blankets and stroke their soft blonde curls until they are both sound asleep, unaware of the continued cries from the next room. A tear rolls silently down my face; at the age of nine I would have lay alone listening to the screams. No one would hold me as I cried myself to sleep worrying about Mummy and Daddy. Brooke and Kolton are so innocent, maybe because they've always had me to lean on, me to be strong for them.
Another knock sounds on my door and I sigh.
"Come in" I answer, "but beware I'm cranky". Dad laughs; the sobs from the next room have finished and Mum is at peace (for tonight at least). He ventures into the room, limping on his false leg and sits next to me, his eyes on the twins. I run my eyes over the three of them, taking in the striking similarities between my Dad and them. They both inherited his ashen blonde hair and pale complexion. Brooke took his bright blue eyes but Kolton has Mum's stormy grey ones.
Dad focuses his attention on me. "Your mum had some more bad dreams sweetie" he informs me.
"Yeah, I heard", I answer in a sarcastic tone.
"Don't be like that", he replies and reaches out a hand to ruffle my hair. "Now lie down, you should be asleep."
I lay my head down on the pillow and snuggle in close to the twins, letting the darkness swallow me up.
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"Willow! Willow! Time to wake up!", Brooke shakes me violently her voice loud in my ear. I open my eyes and stifle a yawn, the early morning sun clouds my view.
"Race you downstairs", I grin at my younger sister, a challenge in my voice. She giggles and rushes out the room before I have chance to start. I leap of the bed and hurry out the door in my soft green pyjamas, my feet barely making a sound on the wood panelled floor. Without thinking, I throw myself over the banister and land gracefully on my feet halfway down the stairs and just in front of my sister. I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder and run into the kitchen for breakfast.
My Mum is sat with Kolton perched on her lap, thin arms wrapped tightly around his torso. Her thick brown hair has been loosely braided and twisted up into a big, messy bun held in place by pins. I can see dark circles under her troubled eyes and lines set deep into her face. Despite her age of 47 years she is still physically fit supported by her slim but sturdy frame.
"Morningl", she greets me, her face breaking into a smile.
"Morning Mum", I reply. "Something smells good".
"Your Dad was up early this morning making some fresh bread", she says rolling her eyes.
Right on cue Dad enters, carrying a tray covered in freshly baked rolls. The smell wafts up my nostrils causing my mouth to water and my stomach to growl in anticipation. I snatch a roll from the tray and slather a thick layer of strawberry jam inside. It tastes like heaven, smooth and golden, no one in the whole of District 12 can bake the way my Dad does.
Rye enters, obviously following the unmistakable fragrance of Dad's baking. I don't really call him my 'little' brother anymore, considering he towers an astounding 6"8 to my 5"2, and weighs a great deal more than me. Rye gained my Dads stocky but firm build, his large shoulders, and thick head of blonde curls. The only feature of my Mothers present are her eyes and olive skin.
He plonks himself down next to me and helps himself to five sizeable rolls smothered in jam and butter, before slurping down his glass of milk.
"Stop being such a pig", I tease poking him in the ribs.
"Oh be quiet little Lolo", he replies in a sing song voice the way he did when he was four years old.
"Lolo! Lolo!", Brooke and Kolton begin to chant repeating his words, Rye smirks and reaches out a hand to tickle Kolton under the chin.
"Oh be quiet", my Mum lectures us, but with a small smile playing on her lips.
I help her clear away the breakfast things. Everyone seems to be in good spirits as I begin to hum an old tune that my teacher taught us in music class. Rye takes the twins out to the yard as I begin to tap my feet and let the music envelope my body, dancing is my passion and I just love to move to the familiar sounds. Mum's ears pick up the tune and she looks up at me from the sink where she is washing the dishes, a look of horror crosses her face. The plate in her hand drops to the floor with a crash and I rush forward to stop her from following it.
Dad runs in from the lounge, taking in the broken crockery and my Mum's shaking figure in my arms.
"Willow? What happened?", he asked me, an unfamiliar sharpness to his tone, as if he was accusing me of starting her off.
"I was just humming, I didn't to anything", I reply. "Its just a song from music class, the Hanging Tree?".
At those words Mum covers her ears and sinks to the floor, she begins to slowly rock; forwards and back like a small child. I'm confused. What have I done wrong?
"Don't hurt her! She's only a child!", Mum calls out in desperation and begins to rock more frantically. She starts to tear at her hair and clothes muttering a single word under her breath again and again. The word is "Prim". Dad wraps his arms around her in an attempt to comfort Mum.
"Don't worry Katniss,everything is going to be okay", he whispers to her, planting a small kiss on her sweaty forehead.
I exit through the lounge and collapse at the bottom of the stairs. I've never seen an episode of this magnitude from either Mum or Dad. Mum sometimes can't control her emotions and small, insignificant things cause her to break down into tears or say things that don't make sense. One example is last summer, when I took Brooke out into the woods. We found a thorny bush covered in beautiful, red blooms with velvety petals; roses. We picked handfuls and took them back to our house under the illusion that Mum would like them. However she snatched them from Brooke's hands and threw them onto the fire before throwing a colossal fit. After the hysterics were over she'd lay in her bed, unreachable for two days.
Dad is an altogether different story. Every so often he'll begin to blink in confusion as if he doesn't recognise any of us or his surroundings. His eyes fill with hate towards Mum and she has to remind him that "none of its real" and "remember who he is".
I wish I had a remedy for their disturbances, but I don't. The local doctor can heal wounds and physical illnesses but there isn't a medicine that can fix what's wrong with my parents.
