In Peeta's Eyes CF 17: ...Of Rebellion

There is enough.  Not a lot, but enough for my intention.

     The first three minutes of my session are spent mixing the remaining paints into just the right shades.  The morphlings do not use white, preferring the more vibrant colors, and there are enough dye materials to stain the white the hues I want.  The Gamemakers sit up in their little balcony, eating and drinking merrily behind their force field.  Of course they are bored by this time, but unlike last year, I am thankful that they only glance at me as I work.

     Once the paints are just right, I move into the center of the room with the jars in my arms.  I kneel on the cold floor, set the jars and paintbrushes beside me, and picture it in my mind.  Small body, wild hair, peaceful face, gray spear, violet, yellow, and white flowers.  I never spoke to Rue before her death, but I remember her vividly, the little shadow that followed Katniss around the Training Center.  They showed her death in the recap of the Games last year - they even let Katniss sing her to sleep.  They cut out her bed of flowers, however, because what Katniss did was a slap in the face for the Capitol.  But Katniss once spent a sleepless night on a train telling me everything.  Even the exact colors of the flowers she had used to decorate Rue’s body.

     Dipping a large brush into a jar of black paint, I begin creating my little act of rebellion.  The floor’s center is soon holding a small body in black pants and jacket atop it; a gray spear appears, stuck deep into the abdomen.  Blood in pools and streams.  Hands and a pretty face the color of chocolate.  Hair darker brown and curly, with long, sweeping eyelashes to match.

     The flowers are the hardest.  It is like there is some force around me trying to keep me from painting them into Rue’s hair and around her wound.  The speckles of violet, white, and yellow shine in the lights hanging from the ceiling.

     I stand to admire my work, but something inside me breaks as I look down at the portrait I have drawn.  I want to sink to my knees and weep, realizing how horrible it all was.  I wonder how Katniss dealt with it, and then I remember that she hasn’t.  Not really.  Rue didn’t mean anything to me last year, but seeing her portrait on the floor of the Training Center, looking so real, I feel an unbearable sadness.  As if I have lost someone important.  I feel as if I am actually standing over Rue as she lies dead in the arena.  As if I am there with Katniss after she placed the flowers for the little girl from District 11.  And I fully understand the beauty and rebellion of it.

     Turning to the Gamemakers, who are still not paying much attention to me, I walk forward until I stand almost directly below their balcony.  They are at ease, sure that no one can hurt them behind their force field.  One finally notices me – a man with pointed ears and green hair like ropes – and then sees the painting I made for them.  He gapes at it, perhaps not recognizing the little girl and the spear and the flowers because it was not shown in the recap of the last Games.  But he still pulls on some of his companions and points it out to them.

     I stand motionless, staring up at them all, as they examine my skill.  From this distance, I am sure that they have to look twice, make sure that it is only a painting that lies buried in flowers on their floor and not a real little girl.  I doubt most of them realize that once, that little girl stood in this very spot and showed them that she could fly.  Each Gamemaker meets my eyes, one at a time, and I hold the different colors easily, my hands clasped tightly behind my back.

     Finally, Plutarch Havensbee calls for attendants.  “Clean up this… this…”  He cannot find a single word in his vast vocabulary to describe what I have done.
From doors behind me, a dozen Capitol attendants rush in with mops and buckets of cleaner, hastily begin scrubbing at my masterpiece.  I turn and watch them, refusing to move from my spot.  They scrape away Rue’s face first, the most horrible part, and then continue down her body.  My heart wobbles in my chest.  I feel tears building, but I push them back and force my knees to lock, holding me up.

     I am aware of someone addressing me, calling my name, but I do not acknowledge it until Rue is gone.  Completely gone.  Her still damp grave covered up with a large mat.  Then I give my attention to the rest of the world.  The man who saw my act of rebellion first waves a hand at me as soon as I look at him.

     “Get out,” he says gruffly, refusing to meet my eyes now.

     I dip into a low bow.  “You’re welcome,” I say simply, quietly.  And then I remember Katniss’ words and speak louder.  “Thanks for your consideration.”

     I do not wait to see the looks on their faces; I stride out of the room in what I hope appears to be a confident manner, but inside, I am barely holding it together.  I find myself longing for Katniss and her arms, for our cave, for home, and for the possibility of a life beyond these foul Games.  The only desire I will ever be granted is Katniss.  I hold onto the thought of holding her tonight, of falling apart in her arms, as I stumble my way to the elevators and into our penthouse.  My bed has never felt so wonderful.