Windgrass (A Hunger Games Fan Fiction)

Eighteen: Relief

“Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve been to the Dark Days and back,” Tally said, the first words I actually made sense of.

I erupted in a flurry of jumbled sounds, the word coming out faster than my mouth could form them. I managed to get out a few concrete ones, though: “Dad” “C” “explosion” “uncertain” “worried” “Mom” and “help.”

My knees went weak and crumbled beneath me. I found myself sitting on the floor, clutching my arm so tightly my nails drew blood, and fighting back vicious hot tears. My hands moved to my head, and I started screaming in such a high pitch I couldn’t hear it. I could feel my throat vibrate from the screams, but heard nothing. I’m sure some dog somewhere was wondering what was going on.

I scream when I cry. Most people make that strange hiccup-choking-sobbing sound. I don’t make that sound; I scream.

When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting in a chair and Tally was dabbing at my face with a piece of cloth. I had trouble breathing and my vision was blurred my another onslaught of tears that felt like acid running down my cheeks. Tally talked to me… no, not to me… at me… more. I couldn’t make sense of the words, but her tone was concerned. Smaller versions of Tally and someone who could only be assumed to be her husband wandered in and out of my line of sight; her children, most likely. I’ve seen them at school, here and there. I’m older than all of them, so we don’t run into one another much. One brings Tally a clean cloth and takes the one dampened by my tears and spotted with blood away. One of the smaller ones comes up and hugs me. I blindly put my arm around the child’s shoulders.

I start making sense of Tally’s words. “Everyone’s doing what they can. Anyone who knows how to apply a bandage is tending to the wounded. As soon as things get organized we’ll know what happened. Everyone with connections to C is just as distraught and upset as you are.”

“I know… I know, but…” I blubber like a fool, dissolving into another acid-tear fit. I scrunch up my fists into little balls and push them into my eyes, as far as they’ll go. I can feel the fresh cuts on my arms start bleeding again, from the sudden movement.

Tally blots my arms and face again, wiping my hands clean and taking care not to irritate the wounded-but-healing one.

“Here,” someone said. I recognize the person as Aidan, whom I’ve seen at school more than the others because we’re only a few years apart. In one hand, he’s holding out a mug of something steaming and delicious smelling; the other is handing his mom the same thing.

I took it and studied the contents: a thick red liquid with small black flecks floating in it. I glanced up stupidly; I didn’t know what it was.

“It’s tomato soup,” he said awkwardly. “I helped make it. It’s really good.”

I take a small sip; he’s right, the concoction is delicious. Tomatoes, along with nearly everything else in Nine, are a rare commodity. I’ve never had one until now. I’ve never had a lot of things: tomatoes, sweets, beef, lamb (I’ve heard people eat the darling things… how ghastly), cucumbers, bananas, pineapple (whatever that is… some say it’s a bright yellow fruit, others say it’s prickly and brown), mango (an orange, green and red thing), lemons, some brown goop I heard our sole Victor Reoan Grenier call ‘chocolate’ one time… and so many other things. I basically live off bread, eggs, corn, occasionally chicken, nuts, berries, and whatever I can glean from the Grove without depleting the supply, like mushrooms (stupid things grow everywhere).

More comforting words were exchanged, along with the guarantee that the goods will be ready by the end of the week, and I was sent on my way. I felt better, though, which was a good thing. My belly was wonderfully full for once, and the warmth of the tomato soup seeped into my bones. I had a thermos full for my mom and Rye, and a small box of the bright red orbs of deliciousness.

After fighting the front door again, I set my tomato-y gifts on the kitchen counter. Mom had fallen asleep on the couch, a dusting rag hanging from her limp fingers. She snored lightly. I snickered to myself at the sight; she was always so prim and perfect and composed during the day, so seeing her with her hair frizzed out, clothing rumpled, and snoring was quite a sight.

Half of Rye’s body was hanging out one of the windows at the back of the house. He snored loudly, the window vibrating slightly. I hauled him inside and dragged him to his room. Just as I was about to open the door, someone knocked at the front door.

I fought it open. “May I help you?” Both parents always harped on politeness. It must’ve been seared into my brain.

“Hello, is Rosemarie Cairbre here?” the speaker, a woman whose features were hard to make out in the crummy lighting, asked.

My heart clenched. “My name is Fiore Cairbre, I’m her daughter. Who are you?” I should’ve asked that shortly after opening the door. I heard my mother stir in the den. The mention of her name triggered it. Teachers always know when someone’s talking about them. It’s kinda creepy.

“My name is Frida Salk and I work in the Central Lab. We set up a hospital there after the explosion in C. I was told by one of my patients, Adair Cairbre, to come here and inform you that he is alive.”

My knees crumbled again. I clung to the door frame for support.

“Please, come in!” my mother said hastily, prying me off the ground and gesturing inside at our stark hallway in which the only decorations are a coat hanger, a table with a drawer, and a family photo taken years ago, with a smaller one stuck inside the frame that was taken a few months before Aisling’s reaping.

I snuck away to wake Rye, who was lying haphazardly in front of his room. His eyes shot open and he grabbed my shoulders, sending me backwards onto my butt.

“What happened? Anything?! Is he alright?!” he grilled me frantically. His dark brown eyes are so wide I thought they’d pop out of his skull. His bandana came loose and his hair hung in messy black clumps, making his face seem even paler than normal.

“Yeah, someone from the emergency hospital that was set up just showed up and said he was alive,” I replied, feeling abnormally calm. Shouldn’t I be happy, or crying in relief?

“Thank God…” he struggled with the words, like they were choking him. “Oh… thank God…”

He hugged me, something rare for him. He smells like fresh grain and handled wood. He stands, still holding me. He used to carry me like this when I was little. I’m surprised at first that he can pick me up now, but then remembered that I’ve been losing weight due to the poor diet everyone’s on. Maybe Tally’s tomato soup could fatten us up a bit. I draped my arms lazily around his shoulders as he walked to the kitchen, where my mother was talking excitedly to Frida the Central Lab worker.

“He’s been badly burned, but if we can prevent infections he should be alright. It’ll take some time for his skin to heal, and he might need skin grafts, but he’s alive and doing better than when we first found him,” Frida explained, her tone showing that my mom asked the question that the response was aimed at more than once.

“I have to go…” I said distantly. Rye set me down and I bolted for the door.

“Fiore?!” Mom calls after me.

“I’m going to Élysée’s place, to tell her the good news!” I squeak, spinning around in little circles as I try to talk to my mother, who’s behind me, and run for the front door at the same time. My coat snags on the coat hanger and it clatters to the floor in my wake, the front door banging behind me.

I can’t help feeling a small thorn of dread jabbing somewhere inside me. Something inside me doubts my father’s condition, and I can’t explain why. Frida just said he was alive. Maybe not well, but alive at the very least. He is alive, he’ll be alright now. I repeat the sentence over and over in my head…

But I have trouble believing it completely.