The Story

The creak of the floorboards has blown my cover. I open the door and shake the snow from my hunting jacket. Two blue eyes peep at me from behind the staircase. The lights are dim but you can see his eyes so clearly.

“What are you doing hiding there?” I say, somewhat amused.

The small boy with dark hair emerges from the shadows. My son. Just twelve years of age. He longs to be like me, but he is too gentle and too kind, like his mother; born into a safer world that I was. He will never be trained as a Peacekeeper here in District 2. “Mother said you weren’t to go hunting in the winter, Father,” he says quietly. He looks at the game hanging from my belt. “Would you like me to take them into the kitchen for you?”

I hand the two birds to him and he carries them into the kitchen. I stash my weapons into the highest of cupboards so the two little girls wouldn’t find them. The wife is forever going on about the safety of our children. I strip off the jacket and hang up my boots. I think of Katniss.

The fire is crackling softly when my son comes to me with a tray of cookies and hot chocolate. Luxury food back in my day. The cookies have intricate designs on them. I think of Peeta. The last time I heard, their little boy was born.

I don’t know why I said it, but I did. “You know that girl there?” I point at the picture I keep of Katniss Everdeen. The younger version, when she was just twelve years old; fierce and bold because she had lost her father and nothing in the world mattered anymore. My wife knows her; she knows me. She loves me. I am here and not there; that is all that matters apparently.

“Who is she?”

“A very dear friend,” I tell him.

He sips his hot chocolate. “Just a dear friend, Father?” He looks at my eagerly. “Tell me the story. What happened?”

Of course. It’s only a story to my children. Their father’s first proper love. How did you come to marrying Mother then if you loved Katniss so much, Father? Is it a fairytale? No. It was hardly the kind of romance any person would want. But what does it matter? The reality is Father married Mother – not Katniss. Katniss has her own life with Peeta and their two children.

I take a deep breath. “She chose the baker,” I say simply.

My son’s brows knit together into a frown like he’s trying to work something very hard out. “But...why? Why would she choose a baker, when she could have chosen you?”

I shrug. “Maybe it’s because he’s a painter as well. He can turn words into a beautiful painting.”

“You can’t eat paintings,” he says grumpily.

I laugh. “Well, I married your mother and had you and your sisters. What more can a man want? Say, where did you get these cookies from?”

He takes a bite out of one before he answers. “Found them in the kitchen. They were in a box to you.”

“From who?”

“Mr and Mrs Mellark, I think.”

“Of course.”