It’s mid fall when Johanna appears in District Twelve. I almost convince myself I was seeing ghosts when I spot her trading in the market one afternoon.
“You don’t pick up the phone.”
I don’t. I don’t want anybody’s company. Especially not hers. I did break her promise.
“What are you doing here?”
“Been here for weeks, you’re not very attentive.”
She insults, as she does. Her hair has grown out, cut back into a shag, like it was when I first met her. She looks good, better. I wonder what she’s been up to this last year but I don’t think I have the privilege to ask. I was the one who never picked up the phone after all.
“Where have you been staying?”
“Haymitch gave me his keys.”
They must have met up in Seven. I wonder if he sent her to look after me like I sent him to look after Peeta. I wonder if she knows.
We’re not ones for exchanging small talk or pleasantries. Walking in silence back to the houses in the Victor’s Village, renamed to just the Village. Like renaming the place changes anything. I’d burn all the houses down and start from scratch. But waste not. I consider asking if she wants to come in but she turns away and disappears into Haymitch’s house.
I don’t go to her. She doesn’t come to me. We see each other in the market and walk home together. Usually in silence. I don’t see her on the days when it rains but when she’s back, she acts like nothing is different. I wish we’d stop acting.
I fall into another episode of mine. Like routine, Greasy Sae would come and make me meals, making sure I ate though I felt like my body was not mine. One day, the door opens and it’s not Greasy Sae. It’s her. She doesn’t leave my side. I have no energy to yell at her to leave so I let her stay. She cooks, she picks up after me, and by the time night falls she returns across the way to that other house. I wish she’d stay. Though I am consumed by sleep throughout the day, the nights without her in the house are harder.
One night I find myself unable to sleep, haunted by the ghosts of my nightmares, the ghosts of this district. I don’t really notice when it happens but somehow I find myself at his doorstep– her doorstep. I find the strength to knock. A minute passes. Then another. Then another. And I don’t think she’s coming. But the door opens as I’m about to leave.
“Katniss what the fuck! Where are your shoes? How long have you been standing out here?” A bombardment of questions, none of which I have the answer to. She ushers me in while scolding my recklessness. Ironic coming from her. When I pass the threshold I am hit with a wall of the stench of liquor. I wonder if the scent is just permanently baked into the walls from when Haymitch was around or if Johanna was also drinking herself into oblivion. I wouldn’t blame her. I don’t blame him.
She guides me to a bed upstairs and wipes off my feet. I ignore the part of my brain blaring at how much the sheets smell like her. She sits at the edge of the bed till I fall asleep. She’s gone by the time I wake in the morning. Dreamless. I find her on the couch in the living room, bathed in sunlight from the window. I think I should leave. Go back to my own house. But I don’t want the door to wake her, so I sit in the kitchen. Has she always looked so pretty? I swallow a lump in my throat and push that thought aside.
She doesn’t leave me again at night. Though she insisted on sleeping on the couch or in a different room. I don’t understand why, we had shared a bed before, in Thirteen. I don’t see why this is different. It’s another month before I convince her to share the bed. We don’t touch, she sleeps at the edge, like she wants to get away from me.
“Johanna?”
“Yeah, brainless.”
“Are you afraid of me?”
“Ha! Why would I ever be afraid of you?”
“You always sleep at the edge of the bed, near the door. Like you’re prepared to bolt.” I do a terrible job of disguising the shakiness in my voice. She turns to me, almost offended.
“What? You want me to hold you?”
“No, not necessarily. How do I prove to you that there’s nothing to be afraid of?”
I must have misspoke. Or misunderstood her. I tend to do that. She rolls her eyes and wraps her body around mine, setting her head on my chest. I feel my heart jump when she does. Maybe I’m the one who’s afraid, but of what?
She doesn’t ever sleep at the edge of the bed again. We go about this routine for weeks and she slowly migrates her few things over from Haymitch’s. Settled into a routine, more domestic than either of us expected of each other. What a sight. I think if Finnick was around to see this, he’d get a good laugh. During the times we’re both functioning humans, I’d hunt and she’d craft. She’s quite good at carpentry and slowly, the capitol furniture in the house gets replaced with Johanna Mason originals. They’re beautiful and simple and radiate from her touch.
Who knew such destructive hands had been meant for creation?
We trade at the market almost daily, the townsfolk had started associating us together, asking one about what the other had to trade that day. I don’t know what they think of us. The woodworker and the hunter. She felled trees on her bad days, when she needed to take her frustrations out on something. I would take the firelogs with my haul to trade.
There are nights when neither of us sleep. Too afraid from the visions that plague our dreams. We would both lie there, minds running amok, pretending to be asleep so the other person wouldn’t worry. Though I knew she wasn’t, and I’m not much of an actor either. She holds me in a way that makes me think of Peeta. I wish I didn’t have those associations. It wasn’t a fair comparison. She makes me nervous in a way he never did. I’m still not sure what the nervousness means. I trust her with my life. Maybe I’m scared of losing her. Maybe I’m scared that she’s growing attached to me.
She’s teaching the local kids at the new community home a new game. Making faces, like she does. I wonder if Johanna ever had siblings. She doesn’t tell me a lot about her past. Says there’s no point in dwelling. But I don’t think that’s true, I think there’s things she still doesn’t trust me with. I don’t pry. That’s not my place. Though I wish she’d let me in.
My fault for breaking her trust time and time again. But she’s still here. Still sleeps in my bed at night. I wonder if she had ever considered anything more. I remember a conversation we had once when we were in Thirteen in the dead of night, contemplating what our lives could have been like after the war. Neither of us had really expected to make it this far. Some days I still wish I hadn’t.
Winter comes and I feel myself slipping. The emptiness is back. There are weeks where I don’t leave the house, refuse to move. She yells at me but words fall on deaf ears. On the days I feel enough like a person, she forces me to go on walks. Says I need to get more sunlight. My feet trudge forward but I’m not present. They carry me on autopilot through the woods, through to the meadow and the frozen over lake. My eyes fixate on the lake and my mind is lost on all the memories out here with my dad. Him teaching me which plants were edible. Teaching me to swim. Us feeding the ducks… Ducks… Prim. I’m clawing away at my skin again, trying to get the pain to stop. My gaze remains on the water. Frozen over. I think about sinking deep into the murky waters where the light doesn’t quite reach.
I don’t know how long I was out there. By the time my mind has returned to my body, I’m back in the house, sitting on the tile floor of the bathroom, wrapped in blankets. She’s running a bath and I can see her tremble. The water still gets to her. I wonder why she’s doing that but then I notice I can’t really feel my extremities. Oh.
She wordlessly hoists me up, peels the layers off my body and gently lowers me into the tub. I can’t make myself look at her. The warm water stings like nothing else and I bite down on my lip to not yelp. I notice her unsteady breathing as she works to pour the warm water on my upper body. It isn’t till I feel her shakiness that I let the tears fall.
“Sorry.” I whisper through chattering teeth. I’m not sure which part I’m apologizing for. God knows I owe her an endless string of them. Perhaps it’s the making her worry. Perhaps it’s the making her search for me and collect me from the cold. Perhaps it’s the making her suffer through the water because I almost froze to death.
“Shhhh.” Is all I get in return. I can’t tell if she’s mad or not. If she is, she’s gotten better at hiding it. She ends up refilling the tub with warm water twice. The second time, she has to leave the room while the water was on.
I think I imagine it but after she drains the tub, I feel her plant a kiss on the top of my head. A gesture so unlike Johanna. Perhaps I don’t really know her at all. She wraps me in a towel, ”Next time when you go on one of your walks, I’m going with you.” And I cry again because there’s no animosity in her words and I’ve never known her to be gentle.
Spring comes and as the snow melts, the rainy season begins. She spends most of these days inside. Some days are worse than others. Her bad days look different than mine. They’re not always the same either. Sometimes she is a ball of fury, destructive, trampling everything in her wake. I usually stay out of her way and let her destroy as much of the house as she needs to, the house we can always fix. I only step in when she’s about to hurt herself, and she does, often. I can’t tell if that was her intention all along and the rest of it just collateral. She fights back, of course. But I’d rather she hurt me than herself.
Sometimes she hides, in the nooks and crannies of the house, under the bed, in the closet. I am familiar with this too. Most of those days I try to find her and stay with her, out of sight but nearby in case she needs me. She doesn’t most of the time, but I stay nonetheless.
And we are this back and forth, push and pull of hurt and trauma. Lucky when the bad days only have a hold on one of us at a time. But that would be too much to ask for.
We argue and yell about trivial things. Words which have lost all meaning. I think maybe both of us just need to scream at something, someone. It’s all turmoil and pointless and we find ourselves in the same bed each night all the same.
She’s been here almost an entire year by the time she brings up his name. “What happened to you and Peeta?” It’s a cool summer night and we’re on the roof gazing at the stars.
“He left.” He did leave. We were amicable for months, he seemed like he was mostly back to his old self and I would love him because it’s what he deserved. I almost managed to convince myself that I would be okay with living the rest of my life with him, loving him as he wanted me to. After all he’s been through, I could be that for him. I could try. I did try. Sometimes I would catch him fighting with himself, not aloud but he would shut his eyes and tighten his fist and I knew. He would never be able to be around me and not be conflicted in his feelings towards me. And I don’t think my acting could ever convince him I loved him as much as he used to love me.
I knew my words didn’t always reach my eyes. I knew he could see it too. I tried. I would have tried anything for him. But one day, after we had slept together for the fourth or fifth time, he told me he was leaving. I should have seen it coming. The selfish part of me didn’t want to let him go, but like always, he was the better person. We could pretend to be happy all we wanted but I would always be the source of his pain, and I didn’t want to admit it to myself that he wasn’t what I wanted.
“He went to see the other districts. To figure out where to go next. I sent Haymitch to look out for him till he settled somewhere.” I don’t tell her that Haymitch and I had a giant argument about it before he gave in to my requests.
I had hoped she wouldn’t ask more questions.
“So they just left you here alone?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Katniss, you were alone when I showed up.”
I don’t want to discuss this with her. Partly because I miss them, partly because it reminds me of all the ways in which I failed him. And the other part of me doesn’t want to tell her about it all because it will open another can of worms that I don’t think I’m ready to discuss with her. I’m comfortable with everything the way it is.
Sure there are stolen glances, I catch myself tracing the lines of her face, memorizing the curve of her jaw when she’s not looking. I feel my heart race more when she jokingly makes her flirtatious advances. There’s a warmth that creeps up inside me when she holds me at night, when I watch her working with her hands, when I catch her staring at me when I’m working.
But words, words make things difficult. Words drove Peeta away. I was never very good with words.
I climb back into the bedroom leaving her on the roof. I don’t know why her accusations make me so angry. Maybe it’s cause they point out my flaws more than theirs, how I’m manipulative and selfish and–
“Katniss?” She’s sitting on the windowsill. Glowing by the light of the moon, her features obscured in shadow and I can’t really read her expression but her voice wavers. “I think you need to let Peeta go.”
“I have. He’s gone.” I’m confused. Didn’t I just tell her he left?
She shakes her head and repeats herself. “I think you have to let him go.”
And her words finally reach me. It’s true, I am still holding on to the part of me that needed Peeta. I am holding on to what I was trying to convince myself I felt for him because the alternative seemed more frightening. He was doing me a favour by leaving. He was setting himself free but he was also setting me free.
She hops down from the windowsill and slowly approaches me. My heart is beating in my chest and I think I finally understand the fear. She stops halfway to me. I can make out her features now. She looks… scared. I wonder if she was scared for the same reasons as me.
I take a step towards her, then another, then another. I am letting him go. I am letting myself move forward. I am letting myself want.
I am close enough to hear her breathing. There’s some part of me that wants to run for it. Run from her. There’s too much history and too much we’ve left unspoken. But I take a page from her book and say Fuck it.
And then I close the gap between us. Her lips on mine, hesitant and wanting. I feel her lips tremble as I go to kiss her deeper. I feel a weight lifted when she reciprocates and it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt. This was so different from the kisses before with the boys. I’m drinking her in under the moonlight and I want more of her. I want every part of her. I’ve never felt this type of hunger for another person and it terrifies me.
We break apart and we’re both panting, gasping for air. She’s laughing, heartily. I’m not sure what’s so funny but her laughter is contagious and I join in.
“Finally figured it out huh brainless?”
“Shut up.” She’s not one to obey orders but I don’t give her a chance to talk back as I surge forwards and meet her lips. The desire is making me dizzy and I wonder if this is what an addiction feels like. She pushes me up against the open window and the night breeze blows against my back. I pull back for a second, wanting to just drink in the sight of her. Memorize every feature on her face in this moment.
“What”
“Nothing. I just wanted to look at you.” I feel myself blushing. How embarrassing, I’m so head over heels for her that I just wanted a break to just look at her face. See how she’s looking at me.
“Yeah? You like what you see?”
All I can do is nod like an idiot. Here we were clothes still on and I’m already like putty in her hands.
She guides me to the bed. It’s not like we haven’t seen each other naked before but I’m all nerves nonetheless. Our bodies littered with scars and memories of things we’d rather forget. But she was so beautiful.
“You’re so beautiful.” I can’t help it. The words tumble from my mouth. She doesn’t miss the opportunity to tease me with a chuckle.
“You’re not so bad yourself.” She’s grinning now. I can’t tell if it’s from my incompetence or maybe she’s just… Happy. She grabs my hands and guides them to her body, granting me permission to touch her as she captures my lips in hers again. I happily oblige, tracing my fingers across every inch of her. She makes a small moan into my mouth which reverberates through my body and I am reminded how out of my element I am here. I stop my movements all too abruptly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I. Sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Don’t tell me you’re still a virgin.”
“I’m not.” It comes out a little too combative. “I’ve only ever had sex with Peeta.”
She rolls her eyes. Of course she does.
“Well, it’s kinda the same thing. Whatever makes you feel good, you can use your hands or your mouth or both or… whatever else.”
I must still have confusion written across my face because her joking tone shifts.
“Please tell me you’ve had an orgasm before.”
I hesitate. Whatever we did usually felt… nice. We only slept together a few times and I think once during I felt something more.
“Yes? I think so. I don’t know.”
“Katniss… you don’t know?”
My cheeks feel flushed. That was the wrong answer. I shake my head.
I expect more mockery. But she doesn’t jest. “Okay. We can take things slow, I’m in no rush. You tell me if you want to stop.”
Her kisses feel like confirmation. Gentle. Guiding. Her hands move across my body, in fluid motions like I’m one of her creations. She touches me in all the right ways till I am seeing stars. My whole body tenses up and I swear this is what it felt like to die. I felt a release in more ways than one. She kisses her way back up my body and meets my mouth. The taste is new but not unpleasant and all I want to do is make her feel the same way.
“That, Everdeen, is an orgasm.”
She tells me I’m a fast learner and we take turns exploring each others’ bodies till the sun comes up and we are exhausted. I can’t get enough of her and it feels like I’m drunk.
She falls asleep and I am struggling to keep my eyes open, but I don’t want to lose sight of her. I think about how sex with her was nothing like sex with him and I feel like that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me. It was so formulaic and felt like routine. But her, it was all give and take and want and devotion. And I felt like I could finally let the Idea of my old life go.
She’s spitfire and she’s rage and she’s everything that feels like a sunrise.
A new dawn.
The sun bleeds through the still open window and the room is painted in a red glow, she looks like she’s bathed in fire and I smile at the old moniker. I may have been the girl on fire but she is my fire. Maybe this will end in mutually assured destruction but for now she keeps me alive, she makes me feel alive again.