The silence of the barren home resounds around me. My hands, having nothing better to do, swirl the last dregs of tea leaves about in the long-chilled mug.
The musty shack lets the dust thickly frost abandoned washbins and counters. The table where Prim once laid out my Reaping Day breakfast has warped, from an unattended leak in the ceiling.
I should take better care of this place, I know. If anything were to happen to me, my mother and sister will need to move back here. A shudder runs through me, at the thought.
It was proven to be more of a possibility than anyone had let us know, during our Victory Speech in District Two several months ago.
The memory of shots ringing out, of Peeta slumping to the cobblestone floor haunt my already troubled dreams.
The sob choked out of my chest, my panic and tears doing nothing to allay his injury. Faintest, shallow breaths escaping his lips before Peacekeepers dragged me away from him.
Peeta still has the scars on his chest and arms, bitter reminders as achingly hard for me to see as his offset leg. The fear of loss, of all my work to keep him safe,
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