The memories of her from back then are fuzzy. Even though I wanted to follow her every footstep, I still barely remember those times. I vaguely remember a carefree laugh and lithe feet as I would dance with her, continuously stepping on her toes. The most prominent memories are when she and Father sang together and the entire world fell silent, taking in the beauty of their voices.

Looking back at the hard times is easier. Terror made everything just a little clearer, although I was very young. Tears were on all of our faces, although she was angry too. She was angry at the mine which had brought death, she was angry with Mother for falling into herself and not taking care of us. Thinking about it now, I think she was angry at herself for a long time too. Because I was hungry, she was hungry and she couldn't think of a way to save us.

Until she held that bow. She had hunted with Father before, I knew. They had taken me once, perhaps twice, but I was so little. I couldn't keep up. And on top of that, I hated the killing. I knew it was essential, but I hated watching it. I was always like that though. I was soft, like Mother, while she had strength that may have come from Father, but also came from a place all her own. But I saw her change, little by little. She would come home a little better every night, the freedom of the forest seeped into her spirit. And when she met him and truly discovered the woods and how to take care of herself and me, she was truly happy.

The day of my first reaping is branded into my mind. She was fresh from the woods, fresh from the calmness that he seemed to bring to her spirit. She called me 'Little Duck' and assured me. And I was assured. She had escaped the reaping for years. Surely one little paper couldn't do any harm. I knew she would not get picked. Somewhere, I knew that the woman with the crazy hair and high voice would not pick her name. I remember every year thinking this, and I hadn't been wrong yet. So when I heard my name on that stage, my heart stopped. But I accepted my fate. Then her words changed everything.

There had never been a volunteer before. There had never been a person picked that had someone out there that loved them so much that their own life was worth the sacrifice. She loved me that much. I didn't want her to go. But no matter what I screamed at her, no matter what I tried to do, she was going into the arena and nothing I could do would stop her. She just held me tight one last time and promised to try. And I knew she would. If she would walk into that arena for me, I knew she would try for me.

Watching her, on the television screen was hell. Watching the terror in her eyes. Seeing the other tributes bloody themselves without a care. Watching the death toll tick. I would drive myself crazy at school. I would get sympathetic looks when I broke down crying in the middle of class, but no one could offer me words of comfort. How could they? She was out there fighting for her life against people twice her size. I had to have faith. If I believed in her, if I loved her enough, she would come home. My one source of comfort was not my mother; it was not even seeing her on the television screen because I knew that not everything was shown live. It was the baker. He came over with parcels full of goodies we never could have afforded. He never said much, and I'm not sure why he did it, but every time he came before he left he would say one thing 'she'll come home'. He had more faith in her than he did in his son. This both elated and crushed me.

I was in school when the television flickered to life. I saw her standing there, facing the baker's son. The final two. I knew she was stronger than he was. She was coming home. But, something was wrong. She was not killing him. She was giving him the poison berries that had sent my mother into hysterics the day she had first picked them up. The berries were going toward her mouth and his. My heart was dead in my chest. She had promised to try. She had promised to come home! Then there was the announcer's voice filling the classroom. Despite there being two of them the games were over. She was coming home.

The time between seeing her on the screen in my classroom and when she stepped off the train is a total blank. I know she must have done interviews. I know I must have watched it, but there is no memory of that. There is only the memory of my arms around her, of her arms around me with the elation of District 12 in the background. I can remember saying 'I was so scared' and her reply 'I made a promise to you, little duck' and she had tugged on my untucked shirt. My ducktail.

She was different after the games. I had expected her to be the same but that was foolish of me. Her anger, which had still burned hot at my mother before the games, was gone. Her nights of peaceful sleep were also gone. I could hear her, late at night, screaming in her new bedroom of her large house, before she would get up and pace like a caged animal until light. When light came, she was outside. Half the time, I think she escaped through the window. She went to the woods, not only to help feed his family, but to get away. I wish I could have comforted her, but she scared me a little. The conflicting images of a little girl who sang, to a starving angry girl who found solace in hunting with a boy whose spirit was close to her own, to the vicious woman in the arena to the fractured person who returned confused me.

Seeing her on television for her trip to the Districts nearly drove me mad. In front of me I could see that she was smiling with the baker's son, her mentor in the background. I could see that she looked safe and sound, though I knew that nightmares were still plaguing her. I could see the pretty dresses and the parties. But I kept expecting it. I kept expecting a threat on her life to emerge. I expected to see her on that screen bloodied and hunting people, while people were hunting her. Whenever someone moved on the television I expected them to be holding a weapon. I was even expecting the pink haired woman who was stuck with our district to club her to death while smiling. I would never be confident in her safety again.

When we found out that she was going back she lost her mind. I knew that part of her was still trekking through the woods of that first round, holding the little girl while she died, and murdering her self. I knew that it was taking all she had to hold on to her sanity right now. When she fled, screaming and crying, I knew that if she came out of there a second time, that's what she would be like. She would not be the strong huntress; she would be more like the child whose heart was filled with anger. But she would not be angry, she would be broken. And I didn't know if I could stand seeing her broken.

The second round was madness. The entire time she was in there, I didn't know what to do with myself. I was on autopilot, an eye or an ear always trained on the television, waiting for broadcasts and updates. The night she was taken from the arena and hell broke loose is lost to me. It was like the time of her winning and coming home. The time between seeing her on the television screen and then in District 13 was just gone. But she was starved, body and mind. I could see that she was always fighting invisible demons. I had lost her to her own mind. I tried to be myself around her. I couldn't let her disappear completely. Because I loved her and she loved me. I let her hold me at night when she needed to, and let her whisper her fears.

When she officially became the face of the rebellion, I was proud. She had done so much to change this world into a better place and now she could do more. I could see that her mind was still broken, but she had a goal now. She had always fought and now someone had given her something to fight against. She was ready to find the pieces of herself and transform them. When she set out on that last mission, I was filled with the same feeling I had all those years at the reapings. No matter what, she would be safe.

I didn't expect it. The bombs in those little silver parachutes that always signified hope. I did expect her to be there though. Because when I needed to be protected, where was she? She was always right there. I knew that it was my time to go. I could feel it. I wanted to stay with her for so much longer, to be her little duck. I remember hearing her call my name over the chaos. I remember looking over to see her before the pain. I remember that she was framed in fire. And though I knew I was about to die, I wasn't afraid. She would protect me, my memory. There was also a bit of peace in me, because the war was going to be over, because I was going to be okay, because Panem was going to be okay. Why? Because this was her mission, her reason all along. Because she is a fighter, she is the Mockingjay, the face of the rebellion. She is Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire.

She is my sister.

Just a quick idea. I hope I lived up to the Hunger Games.

~TLL~