#maybe they’ll pay for my therapy ?? at least it’s mostly remote and it’s better than nothing

[wurm-food]

lmao well I hope I have some leads on some jobs since my friend is referring me but like I’m genuinely scared what it’s going to do to me

[sanderssidesfanfiction]

If There’s a Place I Could Be - Chapter Ten

If There’s a Place I Could Be Tag

April 16th, 2000

Emile sat outside the hospital room, tears drying on his cheeks. He had used them all up, waiting to see if Alex would wake up. “Come on, Alex, please,” Emile murmured. “I’ve lost too many friends already, I don’t want to lose you too.”

Alex’s parents came over to him and they had a brief chat, mostly them thanking him for visiting Alex when he did, because otherwise...well, none of them wanted to think about what could have happened.

It stung when Alex was finally awake and Emile was immediately yelled out of the room. He had just wanted to make sure Alex was okay! He had lost too many friends to suicide that year already, he didn’t want to lose another! Still, he just hoped Alex would recover. Even if they never spoke again, Emile was just glad Alex was alive.

  November 27th, 2000

Emile felt relief flood through him as he was sitting on the outside steps of the dorms and found Remy getting out of a small sedan, looking none the worse for wear. “Rem!” Emile exclaimed, running over and hugging him. In an instant, he was holding Remy at arms length to poke and prod at him. “Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you?”

“Emile! Emile, I’m fine!” Remy exclaimed, swatting Emile’s hands away and huffing. “No need to mother hen me!”

It was then that Emile noticed the car was still parked, and Remy’s parents looking out the window. Emile pointed and said, “Are those your parents?”

Remy sighed. “Yeah. You want to meet them?”

“No, I’m okay,” Emile said. His voice dropped to a murmur as he said, “They’re making sure you call off the apartment?”

“Yeah,” Remy said at normal volume. “About the whole apartment thing...I’m not sure if I want to go through with it anymore. At least, not right now, you know? Maybe sophomore year, if we don’t have to live on campus.”

“Aw, you sure?” Emile asked. “Because if it’s a matter of rent, I got a call back from Target for an interview...”

“No, it’s not rent. I just think I want to give it until the end of freshman year,” Remy said, and Emile could see how pained he was saying those words. “You know, see if college really might be better if I...if I changed my major.”

Emile blinked and several different swears came to his mind as he realized that Remy's parents must have pressured him into doing just that if he came back. “Well, you’ve been taking general education stuff, so you don’t have to worry about not having the wrong credits,” he improvised. “What do you think your new major will be?”

Remy’s mother wasn’t remotely discreet as she looked out the window of the car, but Remy was standing just so, meaning she couldn’t see the absolute pain and heartbreak on his face as he said, “I was thinking accounting.”

Emile nodded. “Well, that certainly seems like something you would find a stable job in,” he said. “Do you want to hang out for a bit?”

“Sure. Your dorm or mine?”

“How about mine?” Emile asked.

Remy’s shoulders sagged with relief and he nodded. “Thanks for being understanding about the apartment,” he said, as they walked through the front doors to the dorms.

As soon as the door was closed and Remy’s parents were gone, Remy’s legs buckled and his eyes were filling up with tears. “I hate them,” he whispered. “I hate them I hate them I hate them.”

“Frankly? I don’t blame you,” Emile said. “Come on, let’s go to my dorm.”

Remy let himself be led to Emile’s dorm, and when they were finally there, Remy broke down crying. “They said I had to change my major if I came back, Emile,” he said. “Because clearly I wasn’t going to go anywhere with a business major. I wasn’t ‘grateful enough’ for the chance to go to college.”

“That’s bull,” Emile said. “Deciding that college isn’t for you doesn’t mean that you’re ungrateful. And who cares whether you’re grateful or not anyway? It’s not like they’re paying for it or anything!”

Remy shook as he collapsed onto the free bed in the room. “They...they’re trying to kill me Emile. I don’t know if they understand that, but they are. And you know what? They’d blame me for that too, if I went off and killed myself.”

Emile gently placed a hand on Remy’s shoulder and said with absolute firmness, “Good thing you’re a convincing liar, then.”

Remy offered a small smile. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Emile smiled back. “You know, I wasn’t lying about Target calling me back for an interview. I may get a job, one of their long-term workers is going on maternity leave and they’ll need someone who’s willing to work odd hours, because she did stocking. And I’m perfectly okay getting up in the middle of the night to go to work, so long as it gets us rent and I don’t fall asleep in class.”

“What makes you so sure that they won’t just keep on one of the holiday workers, instead?” Remy asked.

“Well, I don’t know if they’d rather keep one of the holiday workers, but I have wicked interview skills, I kinda doubt that most of the holiday workers would even expect to be held on to after the rush. And if they don’t even work like their job depends on it, that just increases my chances,” Emile said.

Remy blinked. “You’re relying on others’ poor work ethic to get a job?” he asked.

“Well, yeah,” Emile said with a shrug. “I was only ever a lifeguard before. I don’t exactly have a full resumé that they can look through.”

“That’s not a very solid plan,” Remy warned.

“I know,” Emile said. “But it’s the best plan I have.”

Remy sighed and ran his hands down his face. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” he mumbled. “Maybe I should just listen to my parents.”

“No,” Emile said. “No, don’t say that, Remy.”

“Why not? They’ll always try and control my life. Even if I try to leave them, they’ll always haunt me. What’s the use in trying if you can’t even get rid of what’s bothering you?”

“Remy, don’t say that, please,” Emile all but begged. His hands were shaking at his sides. He couldn’t lose another friend. Not again. Not again. He didn’t want to say goodbye.

“It’s true, though!” Remy exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “They’re never going to leave me alone! Not unless they don’t know where I live! And the only way they wouldn’t know that is if I cut off all communication with all of my family! Including Vanessa, including Toby! And I don’t want to stop talking to Toby! But if I keep talking to him, my parents are going to find out where I live somehow, and I! Can’t! Live! Like! This!”

Emile grabbed Remy’s hands in a desperate attempt to grab Remy’s attention. “Remy, please,” Emile begged. “Please, please. We’ll figure out a way to keep you safe. You won’t have to deal with your parents but you can talk to your brother if you want to. We’ll find a way. I’ll find a way. Just, please. Please don’t talk like there’s no hope.”

Remy yanked his hands free of Emile’s grip. “Emile, I know you’re attached to me, but you really shouldn’t be. I’m broken, I have too much baggage. It would be easier for all of us if you stopped talking to me and I did something drastic.”

Emile shook his head. “No. No, I will not let you hurt yourself, Remy. And if you insist on trying to bash your brains in or jump off a building, then I’m going to send you to the local hospital.”

“I don’t need ‘help,’ Emile!” Remy snapped.

“Yes you do!” Emile shouted back.

The whole room fell dead silent. It seemed like the world had stopped. Emile couldn’t be bothered to care. Tears were streaming down his face. Remy was glaring at him. “No. I don’t,” Remy’s voice was soft, but deadly. “And if you say I do again, then I’m calling off the move.”

Emile’s breath was ragged. “Fine. I won’t say you need help,” Emile said. “But I will say that most people don’t consider themselves broken. Most people don’t have that sort of baggage that you have. Most people don’t have their parents trying to control every last aspect of their life. Most people aren’t suicidal. Because that’s what you are, Remy. You think you’re better off dead. Even if you don’t have a plan, you’re suicidal. And...and I don’t want to lose another friend. Not again. So maybe you don’t need help. Maybe you can struggle on your own. But how much longer will you muddle through until you break? Until you decide that being dead has every benefit and being alive has none? Until you actually try to kill yourself?! Maybe you don’t need help, which I disagree with, but for the sake of your argument let’s go along with it. If you don’t need help, but you were offered help, offered a chance to let go of some of that baggage, offered a way to lighten your load, wouldn’t you want that? Wouldn’t you want to feel better?”

Remy stared at Emile a long, long time. Emile thought that Remy was finally seeing Emile’s point. Maybe he’d agree. Maybe he’d say he would at least try. Maybe he would at least back down off the ledge again. But maybes weren’t anything to base hope on. “How do I know that I’d still be me?” Remy asked. “If they pump me full of meds and make me talk about my feelings, I’ll just be a zombie. Being hurt is better than being nothing.”

Emile ran his hands through his hair. “Are you genuinely that thick?! Do you not understand what you’re doing here?! You’re killing yourself, Rem! You say college is going to kill you! You and I make a plan to fix that, at least so that you can stick around a little while longer, and then your parents come into the equation and mess everything up! You don’t have to deal with your parents if you don’t want to! Tell them a false address, tell them that you don’t want to see them ever again and kick them out, hell, file a restraining order! You don’t have to go through medication and therapy, not if you’re not ready, so long as you take the stressor out of the equation! And for the record, medication that works correctly won’t make you feel like a zombie, it’ll make you feel like a healthy person! Which, if you ask me, is way better than being hurt! You say your parents and college are trying to kill you? Well, you’re doing it to yourself as well! How can you not see that?!”

Remy stared at Emile with such betrayal in his eyes that Emile was pretty sure Remy might launch himself out of the window there and then. “I don’t need a therapist,” Remy said. “And I don’t need medication.”

“For crying out loud, Remy,” Emile said, running his hands through his hair. “You’re a classic case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder! PTSD! Do you know what PTSD is?”

“It’s that thing that soldiers get from war. But I’m not a soldier,” Remy said.

“No, but based on what I’ve gathered from your life, you grew up in a war zone,” Emile ground out. “Your parents are not good people. You have every right to hate them. But don’t let them dictate your life. If you keep repeating their rhetoric about how you don’t need a therapist, how you don’t need meds, how you’re too strong and that those things are a sign of weakness, you’re letting them win. Spite them. Admit that you sometimes need help. Maybe don’t get meds and a therapist. Maybe only get one or the other. But don’t let yourself waste away because of something said by the very people you hate in the first place.”

Remy stared at Emile again. “You genuinely care,” Remy said, sounding almost...mystified.

“Yes, Remy, I do,” Emile said.

“Why?” Remy asked.

“Because you’re my friend, idiot. I want to see you happy. Friends want to see their friends happy, and want to make sure they’re safe, and living well.” Emile shook his head. “But I’ll tell you this: no matter if you’re my friend or not, I have to take care of my own mental health first. And if you refuse help, you know what’s going to happen?”

“What?” Remy asked, tilting his chin up.

“Then I’ll cut you off,” Emile said. “If you’re going to hurt yourself, and me in the process, then we can’t be friends anymore. That’s the way this works. I’m my first priority. You should be your first priority. And because I’m my first priority, and you aren’t, then if you’re going to hurt me I won’t be able to handle you.”

Remy blinked. “You serious?” he asked. “You would...leave me out to dry?”

“You’d be doing that to yourself,” Emile said. “I’ve given you plenty of opportunities to get help. You’ve turned every last one of them down. Get help, or at least get rid of your parents. If not, and you keep spiralling, I won’t be able to catch you. You’ll hit rock bottom and have to climb your way back up on your own.”

Remy stared at Emile long and hard. Emile met his gaze. Slowly, Remy’s eyes drifted away and he sighed. “Do you know any shrinks around here who deal with that...PTS-whatever thing you talked about?”

“As a matter of fact, I have found a few from studying psychology and asking around about resources,” Emile said. “Would you want a list of different people you can try?”

“...Yeah,” Remy said. “If it means I can still be friends with you, then yeah.”

[kriscme]

One Life To Live

Thanks as always to Ronja for allowing me to write fanfic of her Hunger Games fanfic “The Chance You Didn’t Take”.  You can find it on AO3 and Fanfiction.

Chapter 30 Haymitch alternates swigs of white liquor with large bites of pizza out of a takeaway box.  I’ve mistimed my visit again, catching the last five minutes of “One Life to Live.”   “What’s Celia doing in a therapy support group?” I ask as the credits roll. Haymitch clicks the off button on the remote and the screen goes black.  “Sex addiction,” he tells me, taking another gulp from his bottle.  “She can’t keep her knickers on after what Lance did to her.” “What did Lance do?” The last time I watched this silly show, she and Lance were having a threesome with the gardener. “Made her like sex too much.  And then Anton.  And Cecil.  And 11’s wrestling team.  They’re blaming psychological issues or some such rubbish.  Fear of emotional intimacy is one theory.   Or could be she’s just a slut.” “And what about Blake?  Is he married to Ginger yet?” “He would’ve been but the baby came a few weeks early and now he wants nothing to do with her.”  I wait for more but Haymitch just helps himself to another slice of pizza. “Why?”

He quirks an eyebrow at me.   “Two people with fair skin usually have a fair skinned baby.” “Oh.”  The guy from the punk band, and the real father of Ginger’s baby, is very dark. I rather wish I had seen that episode when Ginger’s baby popped out.  The look on Blake’s face must have been priceless.  “Well, anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about “One Life to Live.”  I wanted to ask you about Cressida.” “What about her?” “Do you think she can be trusted?” Haymitch shoots me an incredulous look and laughs.  “What do you think?  She works for Plutarch, doesn’t she?” I was afraid he’d say that.   My worry must show in my face.  “Why do you ask?  You haven’t done something stupid, have you?”  When I don’t answer, he snorts and takes another drink. “That’s why no one let you make the plans.” This gets my back up.  “Like you did such a good job of it.  If you’d involved Peeta and me in your so-called plans, we’d have known not to let ourselves be separated from each other in the first place. And then he wouldn’t have been captured, and he wouldn’t now – “ “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he says, raising a hand. “We’ve been over this before and I’m not in the mood to have my face gouged again. It’s bad enough that I had to go through it again with Peeta.” Johanna told me that Peeta got mad at Haymitch when those memories came back.  Preoccupied as I often am with my own guilt over Peeta, I sometimes forget that Haymitch is carrying his share of it too and my anger subsides.  Besides, my bitten down fingernails could barely impact a mosquito bite.  I should make time to visit the salon to have those fake things put on again.   “How is Peeta?” I ask.  “Have you talked to him?”  A week has passed since Peeta and I last spoke.  I’d called around the following day to thank him for the cake but he wasn’t home so I made do with a note under his door.   I haven’t seen him leave or return home from the bakery although I know from Johanna that he’s working regular hours. The only visible evidence I have that he’s still in the Village is that the primrose bushes have been pruned recently. Not through all our ups and downs has Peeta neglected the bushes.  Obviously, he did it when I wasn’t around to see it.   He seems to be avoiding me and I don’t know why.  I can’t think of anything I’ve done to upset him.   Before he answers, Haymitch takes a moment to toss the empty pizza box in the general vicinity of a pile of discarded food containers by the window.  Even from this distance, I can see a trail of ants making their way down the wall possibly in anticipation of yet another feast.  In less than an hour they’ll be swarming over the box, picking over the remnants and transporting them back to their nest.   Perhaps this is Haymitch’s idea of cleaning.  Have the ants do it.   “Saw him the day before yesterday.  Had dinner after watching the tape.  Johanna cooked.  I wish she’d let Peeta do it.   He’s a much better cook, but she insisted.  She fusses over him like a mother hen and I think it’s starting to get on his nerves.    But he’s fine, all things considered.  Just very down.  Stares into space when he thinks no one’s looking. But no flashbacks or signs of serious depression.  Keeping busy and sticking to a routine has helped.” I let this sink in.  My initial reaction is to feel hurt that I wasn’t invited to have dinner with them.  It’s irrational,of course.   I’m the one who distanced myself.  And I was busy this weekend anyway.  But I do miss it.  All of us together.   “He’s keeping up with the tapes, then?” “Yeah, although it’s going over old territory if you ask me.  Mostly it’s promotional footage, Capitol parties, various interviews.”  That could explain why I haven’t seen him.  Maybe it’s Cressida and media attention he wants to avoid.  The camera crew are everywhere.  I even saw one of them filming the Village, for no particular reason that I could make out, and paying extra attention to Peeta’s house and mine.   Haymitch drains the last of his bottle and reaches for another beside his chair and gives the top a twist.  “He showed interest in one of them.  The start of the Victory Tour – when you came running out of your house to push him into the snow.” “Ha ha.” I say caustically, giving Haymitch’s joke the response it deserves.   I think back to that day.  Making the most of my remaining hours of freedom: in the woods checking the snare lines; a change of clothes at my old house in the Seam; a visit to Hazelle; and lastly, calling in on Haymitch.    I’d promised to wake him an hour before the cameras came.  It seemed that he’d also asked Peeta, because he showed up at the same time.  To say it was chilly between us is putting it mildly.  Peeta barely looked at me.  When I got home President Snow was waiting for me with his threats.  Convince the districts, convince me that Peeta and I were madly in love, or Gale was dead, with others to follow.  There was no way to warn Peeta, but I was sure he’d perform well anyway.  And he did. Our first kiss in months and no one could have guessed that he was acting – not even me if I hadn’t known better. I ask “Did he remember it?” “Parts of it.  The cameras, falling in the snow, some of what we discussed before Effie and the prep teams arrived.” “You and Peeta?”  I feel a flash of resentment that they had had this discussion without me, but then remember that I walked out soon after Peeta got there. Haymitch probably wanted to talk to us both.  “What about?” “That he needed to change his attitude. Reminded him that the romance was his idea.  That you kept him alive and would’ve died with him, rather than take the victory for yourself.  How imperative it was to keep up the act or people would die.”

It fits.  On the train journey to 11, Peeta apologised to me, acknowledged my actions had kept us alive, and that we should try being friends.   

“That’s what he remembered,” continues Haymitch.  “What he forgot was what I said about you being in a different place than him.  That he had this crush long before the Games even started, whereas for you the romance was a strategy that the two of us cooked up.  And from where I was sitting, I saw a boy who was head-over-heels and a girl who was getting there.  That all she needed was time and patience but if he continued to sulk – “ A conversation between Haymitch and me just before Peeta and I reunited on stage after winning the Games.  About convincing everyone that the trick with the berries was motivated by love.   “Did you tell Peeta this?” “Don’t have to. He’s already there.”  “But you think I’m not?” So that’s what Haymitch meant.   He knew before I did.  Finnick too.   I interrupt. “What did he say?” “That he wished he had known.  That’s all.”  Haymitch gazes thoughtfully down at his bottle.  “It occurred to me that maybe, if this memory was distorted or erased – “ “He’d believe I hadn’t loved him but it was important for us to be friends,” I say, finishing the thought for him.  There’s some logic to it.  I can imagine the half-memory sticking up like a tree root waiting to trip Peeta up.  And then skewing every memory, and every thought he’s had about me since. “It’s a wild guess, but not impossible.  And it’s not like there’s any other ideas.  I should run it past Aurelius.  See what he thinks.” “Do it,” I say.  “At the very least, it can’t hurt.”   The more information Dr Aurelius has the better he can help Peeta. It won’t help me though.  Peeta wouldn’t be mourning the loss of Lace if he didn’t love her.  Or make him love me. Haymitch nods, takes a drink from his bottle, and then goes back to contemplating its depths as if somehow the answers can be found there.  I take this as a signal that the conversation is over and start to rise from the couch when his voice freezes me in place. “So, what’s the stupid thing you’ve done that’s made you worry about Cressida?” I hoped he’d forgotten about that.  Because the “stupid thing” is something I definitely can’t confide in Haymitch about.   “I haven’t done anything,” I say, scowling at him.  “It’s just that I wanted your advice on whether I should be on my guard.  She tried to involve me in the interviews with Marcus. Like I’d be standing well to the side and then she’d ask me a question, and then the cameras would swing over to me. She says she won’t use it but after what happened to Johanna . . .” “If that’s all there is, you’ll be OK.   Even if they do use it and the public wants more, there’s nothing either Cressida or Plutarch can do about it.  No one could say you deliberately set out to draw attention to yourself.  You were just doing a job.   That’s where Johanna went wrong.  She was trying to attract publicity.  And there’s no scandal attached to you and Marcus either – that’s another way they can get around it.  They’ll say they’re reporting on him and you’re merely collateral damage.  So, unless you get caught with your pants down, you haven’t a thing to worry about.”  Haymitch regards me with amusement.  “Or have you? Been caught with your pants down, that is?” “Of course not!” I splutter indignantly. My face burns and it must surely be a bright shade of red.  “I’d never – “ “Calm down, sweetheart.  It was only a joke,” he says, shaking his head.  And then to show how funny he thinks he is; he breaks out laughing.  I judge it to be a good time to leave.   I wander around the Village for a little while.  I want to talk to Johanna.  She’d understand.  But Peeta might come to the door and then how to get Johanna alone without being rude. At home, Marcus has his own worry and I don’t want to add to it by talking about it.   Eventually, I take refuge in my favourite thinking spot; my front porch. And I then I try as hard as I can to reassure myself that I’m worrying over nothing but without much success.   How could we have been so careless? I hadn’t seen much of Cressida during the week.  She’d been busy working on a separate feature on 12’s recovery from the war. She even visited the school.  Mr Matson obligingly gave her a tour and allowed the cameras into the classrooms.  Max made sure to get his face on camera, of course.  When I saw them heading in the direction of my classroom, I locked the door and pulled down the blind.  “Shh,” I said to the kids, “let’s pretend we’re not here.” They thought it was a great game. For the new national park, she wanted to interview Marcus in a series of locations similar to what she did of Gale and me when we returned to bombed-out 12 for some unscripted interviews.   In this case, we’d be following the new trails Marcus had surveyed ending with the lake.  But, because it was unlikely that we would get back before nightfall, it was decided to camp at the lake overnight and return to town the next day.   I was hesitant to go.  I knew it was in my best interests to stay as far from the cameras as possible.  But Marcus said it didn’t feel right for me not to be there since I had played such a large part in it.  And because Marcus and I don’t have much time left together and Cressida had assured me that the attention would be on Marcus anyway, I allowed myself to be persuaded.    Marcus led the way.  Our first stop was at the top of a ridge which Marcus has designated for a lookout. It was a welcome relief to drop my heavy pack to the ground after the long climb and have a long cool drink while Cressida conducted the interview.  The blackberry bushes were heavy with fruit and I positioned myself in front of them.  From there I was away from the cameras but could still watch and gorge myself on berries at the same time.   “Katniss, close by is the very spot where I interviewed you and your hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne, as part of a feature we did on District 12 not long after it was destroyed by enemy bombs.  I got the impression that these woods are very special to you.   What are your feelings about it becoming a national park?” Suddenly all eyes and two camera lenses were on me.  I tried to hide by retreating backwards but was met by a wall of prickles from the blackberry bushes.  Cressida waited expectantly. “Ah, well, you know, times change. I guess from a personal standpoint it’s a big adjustment, but if it ensures that the woods will be protected it’s all worthwhile.” Cressida nodded and turned back to Marcus to continue her questions.  Messalina, her assistant, scribbled something in her notebook.   From there it was easy walking along the ridge and my mind wandered to other times I’d come this way - with my father, by myself, with Gale, and most recently with Marcus.  Before long many feet will trace these same steps and I was overcome by sadness that my beloved woods would no longer be mine.  Even with just these five people, it feels like a violation.   The woods have been my sanctuary.  Would I ever find another? “A coin for your thoughts.”  Startled, my head jerked towards the sound.  Cressida was beside me.  Last time I looked; she had been walking up front with Marcus.  She must have hung back and waited for me.   I didn’t really know what to make of Cressida.   In 13, I had admired her calmness under pressure and the pride she took in her work. It reminded me of Cinna and I thought that if she and I were in the arena together, I would pick her as an ally. But that was before Prim was killed. I can’t be sure, but I suspect she informed Plutarch of our whereabouts that day.  If Snow was telling the truth that Plutarch was behind the bombing that killed Prim, then that makes her complicit in some way.  Maybe not intentionally, but she played a part in much the same way as Gale did.   At the very least it proved to me that Cressida’s loyalty isn’t to me, but to Plutarch and the story she’s chasing.  And then there’s Johanna.  Was it really an accident that Plutarch got hold of that interview? “I was just thinking of how things have changed,” I answered.  There, honest but not too revealing.   Nothing that Cressida could take much from.  I was wrong. “Since we last came this way?” she asked, looking down at the ground. “This must be very difficult for you, more or less following the same route we did for the interviews that day – dredging up memories of times and people lost.” She hesitated for a moment, as if pondering the wisdom of her next words.   “I’m sorry if my relationship with Gale has added to that in any way.  I – “ “It doesn’t,” I interjected before she could say more.  “Gale and I weren’t meant to be together.  I’m happy for you both.  Truly.” Her face cleared.  “That’s what Gale said.  But I wondered . . .” I said nothing because there was nothing to say.   I was a little miffed that Gale had dismissed me so easily.  I thought he should at least have some regret for what could have been.  I was glad that I hadn’t wasted my time fretting over him. “Peeta, then?” “Huh?” The question took me by surprise. “I wasn’t actually thinking about him.” “It would be understandable if you were.  I know I can’t help thinking of that time and of our purpose here.  Do you remember the appeal you made to him from where his parents’ bakery once stood?  If I were asked to choose one propo above the rest, that would be it.   The carnage, the desolation, the utterly incomprehensible loss of life was encapsulated in that short piece.” “Yeah, I guess.”  Personally, I thought they were all awful but perhaps Cressida takes a film maker’s view of things and she judges the artistic merit.   “They still speak of you in the Districts, you know.  You and Peeta.  You haven’t been forgotten.” I shrugged in response.  How could we be forgotten when some of our fellow victors have pursued a life in the public gaze? Our very absence would give rise to speculation – rather like those shows you sometimes see on TV “where are they now?”  At least we’re spared media attention.  That’s something to be grateful for. Cressida went on.  “Your love story struck a chord with the public consciousness that shows no sign of abating.  It represents so many things to people.  How love and hope endure.  Rebirth instead of destruction.  The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses.  That it can be good again.  It – “ “Does it?” I asked, cutting her off. “Well, if they want to keep on believing in that nonsense, I can’t stop them.  I need to take a toilet break.  Excuse me.” Ignoring Cressida’s shocked expression I left her to go in search of a tree.  Why did she have to tell me that?  It’s everything that Peeta’s love would have meant to me too.   And I’m so tired of people and their expectations.  Peeta and I represent nothing.  Nothing! Except maybe that nothing lasts and hope is a stupid illusion for stupid people.   I went through the motions of relieving myself although I didn’t really need to, but it gave me time to calm myself before I rejoined the others.   When we stopped for lunch, I made sure to sit next to Pollux.  We exchanged smiles but that was the end of any kind of conversation.  An avox, Pollux can’t talk and that suited me just fine.  Marcus sent a smile my way and then went back to talking to Cressida.   Messalina was occupied with her notebook.  The remaining member of our party, Remus, was making adjustments to his insect shell – the name I gave the camera equipment that wraps around the bodies of the camera crew.  I disliked Remus on sight with his small shifting eyes that seem to take in everything.   He was the one I saw filming the Village. It was late afternoon when we arrived at the lake but there was still sufficient light for Cressida to do her interview.  I overheard her tell Pollux and Remus she’d like some additional film of the lake the following morning but otherwise we were done.  I would’ve liked to have taken a walk with Marcus around the lake but we were supposed to appear as if our relationship was strictly a working one. He didn’t want the same thing that happened with Johanna to happen to us.  So, when we gathered around the campfire that night for supper, we sat opposite each other.  And when we retired for the night in the concrete house our sleeping mats were as far apart as we could make them.  Not that there was any chance of us getting close – not with Cressida and Messalina there too. Pollux and Remus shared a tent just outside the house.  One of them snored like a chainsaw which Messalina complained about incessantly.   I don’t know who kept me awake the longest – Messalina or the snorer. When the first thin rays of sunlight fell across the concrete house, Cressida and Messalina were dead to the world.  Marcus was already up, dressed and putting on his boots.  He put his finger to his lips and pointed to the door.   I nodded and wiggled out of my sleeping bag.  It took only a minute to find my trousers, shirt and boots and join him outside.  It was my favorite time of the day: the sun just peeking over the horizon; birds caroling the new day; the air so fresh and clean.   The tent was zipped shut; loud snores rumbled from within.  Carefully, we walked past until we were out of earshot.  “Why don’t I search for firewood while you fetch water from the spring?” said Marcus.   “Ok,” I replied, intrigued.  There were logs stacked behind the house and we had brought water in with us.  Nevertheless, I took a couple of empty water bottles and started out for the spring.  It was familiar to us both as Marcus had noted it as a feature on one of the walking tracks and I had long used it as a water source.   It was only about six minutes’ walk away; five, if you don’t count the short stop behind a rhododendron bush to attend to nature.  The spring gushes from the side of a foothill into a brook that feeds into the lake. It’s the sweetest water imaginable and I helped myself to a long cool draught.   And then I waited . . . and waited.  I was about to give up when I caught a glimpse of his khaki shirt through the underbrush.

“What’s this about?  Aren’t we supposed – “ I began.   His answer was to pull me hard against him and capture my lips in a kiss.  It took me by surprise after everything he had said about the importance of maintaining appearances.    But after that first shock, I took fire and answered him in kind, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing into him, straining to get closer. His belt buckle dug painfully into my ribs.  It had to go.  While I struggled with it, he reached beneath my shirt with one hand to fondle my breast.  My feet started to lose traction and I realized he was pushing me backwards and upwards until I was elevated slightly, my back against a large oak, my feet resting precariously on a root flare.   The belt taken care of, I started on the button and zipper on his trousers.  He did the same with mine, pulling down trousers and underwear in one swift motion.  And then we were both free, his hardness nudging between my legs. “I’m sorry, I can’t – “I panted.  My feet were shackled by my clothes and I was unable to spread my legs wide enough to allow him entry.   Frantically, a boot was unlaced, tossed aside and a trouser leg pulled down over my foot.   Unhampered now, I hooked a leg around his waist and with one smooth powerful thrust he was all the way inside, one hand on my breast, the other braced against the tree, his mouth covering mine.   It felt so, so good.  I could have stayed impaled against that tree forever.  That is, until he started pounding his hips into me.  The rough bark of the oak stabbed into my lower back with each thrust.  It was lucky my shirt tail covered my naked behind or splinters might have been a problem too.  Marcus enjoyed himself though.  I could tell from his breathing that he was close.  But then it happened.   A loud snap.  It was unmistakable.  We both heard it.  Even Marcus, occupied as he was.  Our heads spun trying to locate the source of the sound.  But there was nothing to see; only trees and low bushes. “It was probably just a falling branch,” said Marcus.  He didn’t sound confident. “Yeah, probably,” I agreed, even though a falling branch would also have made a crashing sound as it hit the ground.       Neither of us were at ease and the moment was lost.  Marcus slipped out of me and we put our clothes back in order.  I retrieved the full water bottles and headed back to camp. Marcus returned separately with the bundle of firewood he’d collected before he joined me at the spring. Our fellow campers were as we had left them. Cressida, laid out like a starfish on her back.  Messalina, huddled under her sleeping bag.   The tent still zippered up, the snorer still snoring.  But by the lake, in full insect shell, was Remus with his camera trained on an ibis feeding in the shallows in the early light.  On my approach, he gave a small wave before he returned to his work.  But on his face, was a small, but undeniable smirk.