Broken Arrow

You were 14 years old when you first told Katniss Everdeen you'd have her back. Of course, the promise only pertained to hunting at the time. But as you both grew older, and thus your hunting partnership began to blossom into a strong friendship, you knew that you would protect her from anything. She was so strong, but so much smaller than you. And while she had more nerve than girls twice her size, you knew that if anything bad had ever befallen her you would be at her side in no time, weapons posed to ward of anyone who would dare think of hurting her.

But, as you would find, maybe that cocoon of safety you had wrapped around her was just an illusion.

After a long day of hunting, the two of you had split up at the hole in the fence closest to the Hob. You were to trade with Greasy Sae for a few coins while she hurried home to bring her mother her much-needed medicinal herbs that only grew in the wild outside the district. She didn't really explain the urgency of getting those plants to her mother right away, but you could only assume that someone was near-dying on her dinner table that night.

You were to meet at the Hob afterwards to split your riches with her.

You exit the Hob about an hour later with your wealth. Three coins. You look at the money in the palm of your hand as you contemplate how you are supposed to split three coins between two people. You know that Katniss would want you to take the extra, knowing you have more mouths to feed. But it didn't seem fair did it? She had done half of the work, and therefore should reap half of he rewards.

You are so bothered by this that you just barely notice the choking sobs coming from the shadows.

You find her in the dirt, shaking, tears streaming down her face, and clothing all a mess. Suddenly, figuring how to split three coins between two people doesn't seem like such a problem anymore. She's too upset to tell you what had happened, but you know by the way her hair is so messed up, her clothing torn to shreds, and how she tries desperately to hug her father's old hunting jacket closer to her body what it is. You ask her, just to make sure, and your question is only met with delirious sobs.

He was a merchant boy—the one who had done it. You only find out because you hear him bragging about having defiled a Seam girl behind the old warehouse in the hallways at school the next day, going on about how tight she was and how bad she'd wanted it. And while you don't care much for the merchant class anyways, you despise this boy and always have. He's in your class, strong and broad-shouldered and cocky as hell. He's trouble, and everyone knows it. Sure, you've gotten in trouble loads of times before, but it was only because you were trying keep your family alive. But the tailor's son seemed to get a rush out of pushing boundaries, and you begin to think to yourself that he's just pushed his last one.

You want to kill him. You want to snap his fat neck right then and there for all his friends to see. But you're at school right now, there are too many witnesses around, and that means you'll have to hold off and wait outside after school to break his neck.

You don't do it, of course. Break his neck, that is. You want to, but at the same time you wouldn't look forward to the death sentencing that follows or the wrath of Katniss Everdeen. She would not want you to kill him for her, not when facing the consequences of your vengeful actions would mean being publicly executed. You fuck him up though, real good. You leave the bloody mess of a merchant kid moaning in the road, satisfied with yourself, even though you're certain that his wounds will eventually heal and he'll go right back to being the despicable human being that he is.

It's been days since you've last saw her, and even when she was around she didn't act the same. You weren't sure what to do or say that would ever make her feel any better about what had happened. So you do what makes you feel better when you're feeling down and take her out deep into the woods to hunt the day away. Maybe she can clear her mind and forget—if even just for a moment—that terrible thing that had happened to her.

She disappears sometime while you're checking the snare line. You don't panic, because Catnip knows these woods well and would never get herself lost. But then you begin to find her discarded arrows, and one by one, they lead you down the the bank of the river where she sits. Her boots have been cast-off to the side, and she lounges on side of the bank with her bare feet stuck down into the mud. Her bow and quiver are tossed carelessly into the weeds. She seems to be preoccupied with something, which is a bit concerning considering that she's out in the open where a bear or wild dog or even a lynx could kill her in no time flat.

You stare down at her questioningly for what seems like eons before she finally looks up at you.

"I'm late."

You frown, not fully understanding the seriousness of the statement at first. You don't think much about women's cycles, and it takes a few seconds for you to interpret the importance of what she's trying to tell you. The discarded wooden arrow that you're holding in your hands snaps in half when you make the connection.

Your sitting on the warped porch of the old woman's house in the Seam, watching the sun set and wishing that Catnip were watching it with you. You try not to think about what's going on behind that door right now. It had taken you three weeks to save up enough money for the procedure, as the old lady had referred to it, and even then she had taken pity on the circumstances surrounding Catnip's condition enough to give you a break in the price.

It's then that you realize that if you would've had her back that night just like you promised you always would, neither of you would be here right now. Catnip wouldn't be the broken girl that she is these days, undergoing a risky procedure that could very well end her life. You'd seen it happen before. Had heard the stories of girls who bled out afterwards from ones that had been botched and never woken up. Still you tell yourself that the old lady knows what she's doing and that the Everdeens can't afford another mouth to feed.

You could have married her, you think as you wait on that worn porch for what seems like hours. Claimed the child as your own and lived happily ever after. And maybe you would've done it for her, even if it meant raising a child that belonged to someone so disgusting. And then if he were born with the blond hair and blue eyes of his father? Well, there would be no getting around that one.

All sorts of things occupy your mind until the door opens and the old woman is standing on the porch nodding at you to inform you that everything had gone well.

You carry Catnip home in your arms that night. She's much too weak, too sick, and too depressed to move on her own right now. You can't help but to notice how light she is in your arms, like all of the liveliness she once held has slowly dwindled away over the past few weeks. She doesn't speak as you carry her back towards her home, her eyes intensely focused on something that isn't there.

You tuck her into bed and tell her mother she'd fallen from a tree and wonder if this shadow of Katniss Everdeen will ever be whole again.

It takes a year and a half for Catnip to completely stop flinching or pushing you away whenever you touch her. For her to stop having days at a time where she does nothing but lie in bed. It takes just as long for you to finally forgive yourself for letting what had happened to her happen to her. She'd never blamed you, not for a second, but you still know that you should have been there to protect her.

She laughs lightly as your lips find the toned skin of her abdomen as you both lie in a field of wildflowers outside the district. You're so familiar with every single nook and cranny of her body and how it moves and feels now. How her skin feels so soft and yielding beneath your calloused hands. The small birthmark on her hip that makes you smile just knowing about it. The way she breaks out in goosebumps every time you pepper kisses down her breasts. Or how her body arches into yours as you move inside her.

Mine, you think to yourself, and no one else's.

She smiles more now that you're with her, but sometimes you can still see the sadness in her eyes, the sadness that will probably always be there. She'd killed a part of herself that day, and although you know that she would never have been able to deal with the repercussions, she will never feel good about having done that. Catnip was still Catnip after all, and these aren't the sort of things she could ever allow herself to just forget.

He's gone now, killed off in the Hunger Games his last year of reaping age. You never believed in the ancient concept of Karma, but now you can't help yourself. The kicker for you had always been the fact that he died from a broken neck while tumbling down a ravine in the arena. You were probably the only one in the crowd smiling as that played out over the huge screen in the square.

It's almost midnight when you both walk hand-in-hand back towards the district, and Catnip's a bit nervous about returning home so late. She promised her mother that she'd be home for dinner, but the two of you got a bit preoccupied out in the meadow. Well, it happens, you think to yourself with a smirk.

"Think up a reason why we took so long," she tells you as you walk her up the steps of her porch.

"Don't worry, Catnip," you say with a smile. "I've got your back."