hopeful bones} day 1.5 - petunia

Back when I was real small, when the grass would tickle my legs like little fingers, I had a doggy about the size of a watermelon named Scotch. Scotch had grain-yellow fur and sky-blue eyes, and his smile seemed to be as big as the moon itself. 

"Come 'ere Scotchie." I'd Chirp for hours on end, chasing the happy-go-lucky fella around the farm house's backyard until the blisters on my feet begged me to stop. We were best friends, and I used to tell both momma and daddy-- when daddy would listen-- about how Ripred put me on this soil just to protect the little critters like Scotch. 

They'd usually just giggle real light and give me a kiss right on the tippy-top of my head in that way that says "how cute." They didn't take it very serious, but I never cared-- not one bit. Momma and daddy were busy folk, and just I had my Ripred-given duty, they had theirs. I was just grateful that Scotchie was happy and loved; his doggy grin was all the payment I could've ever asked for anyhow. 

Momma told me once that life was finite. "Finite," she'd said, "means not forever." It had been during one of those lessons we'd done at home after I stopped goin' to school. I didn't really understand much of what momma had done taught me that day, especially not her little finite spiel, but she told me it wasn't a word we used real often, so I didn't worry myself none about it.

But I never did forget about it, either. Finite. Like not forever. I wrote about it in the journal I kept strapped to the underneath of my desk, the words scrawled hastily into the yellowed parchment like the engravin's of a tombstone. I'd need it one day, I figured. 

I was right. 

In the middle of autumn not even a couple a years back, little Scotchie came whimperin' into the shed with his left paw strung up against his body like a chicken wing. He looked in pain, and I ran as fast as I could to his side to see what was wrong. Momma just sat there, lookin' like she saw a ghost; her face was pale and her eyes were watery. "Petunia, honey," she choked out. "Go fetch daddy. I'll watch Scotchie-dear." But I cried out in a fit of protest, refusing to leave my buddy's side. Caving in, momma told me to sit put and went herself.

By the time he got there, I had managed to move Scotch out to in front of the shed, his body having slumped to the ground, pressure put on his right side so we could focus on his left. His blonde fur was matted down by blood and saliva, and as daddy looked real hard at the area, he turned to momma and said one word. 

Coyotes. 

My heart hurt in a way that I'd never felt, in my stomach like a sickness, and I held poor Scotchie tight at his middle to try and make both of our pains go away. But daddy said he wasn't goin' to "recover". I just cried into my best friend's shoulder until momma and daddy and aunt daisy and all of my cousins managed to drag me off almost three hours later. 

I learned what momma meant that day way back when, when she had said that life was finite. Scotch didn't live forever; I'm not gonna live forever. That day, I swore that I'd do everything I could to keep from feelin' that way ever again. Finite as finite may be, I would avoid it as best I could. 

After the reaping, I thought of Scotch. I thought about how he must've felt goin' up against all of those evil coyotes that ended up takin' his life and how he must have been so scared. What if I can't fight off the evil coyotes that'll be headin' my way in the arena? I hadn't done a very good job of wardin' off the finite with where I was goin', I guess. 

In the training center, I held my ground, trying to avoid the bared teeth of the elite. Boys of the likes of Volkner left me trembling in my booties, but I knew I had to stay strong for my momma and all of my folks back home. I knew I'd have to fight hard, but I was one of Ripred's angels. I was made to fight hard.

But no amount of "fighting hard" could have prepared me for the bloodbath. The finite I was runnin' from had caught up to me in the exact way I had hoped it wouldn't, and I found myself frozen, just trying to process it all in the best way I could. These were people. We were kids killing kids, and suddenly that hurt I'd experienced with my best friend was back. 

I was terrified. 

All I could wish for was to be back home, away from this unfamiliar terrain, and when I made my escape from the sticky, sinful air of the bloodbath, I found a quiet spot to pray. This is what momma would've done, I found myself thinking as I folded  my hands together and brought my head down into a bow. 

"Ripred," I began, voice shaky and tears falling from the corners of my eyes. "Please forgive me for what I'm gonna be doin' in this here arena. I know angels are supposed to protect... that's--- that's what my momma told me at least, but I can't leave my folks back home all sad like that." I pause to take a deep breath after ending my sentence with a strained hiccup, and when I open my mouth to continue my prayer, I--

BANG. 

The ripple of a cannon blasts through the air, and my hands shoot from their spot on my forehead to my ears to try and muffle the sound. At first, I think I've gone deaf, but then it hits me; someone's life has been taken back at the cornucopia. 

One of the children I'd eaten dinner with, spent two weeks training with, was dead. 

My shoulders lurch forward with a sob as I'm forced to battle with the reality of where I am. I can't keep pretendin' that I'm gonna be back at home with momma and daddy and all the rest of my family soon because that's just not how stuff like this works. I'm finite, and everyone else in this arena is finite, too. 

I spend a long time sittin' in that same spot, the knife I had collected from the cornucopia clutched tight in my right hand and my knees pulled up to my chest in comfort down below. I focus on the beat of my angel wings against bone and flesh to try and calm me down, and it works for the most part.

I'm nearly asleep by the time anything out of the ordinary happens-- no more cannons fire and no children approach me in either friendship nor aggression, but a quiet beep beep beep begins from above my head, becomin' louder and louder with each second that passes.

I realise quickly what is happenin', and I jump up, cringin' at the pain that shoots through my legs with such an unexpected movement. The box is small and silver, its procession nothin' but a small, flickerin' red light with a grey parachute to match. "A sponsorship!" I whisper to myself as a smile spreads across my face. Inside of the box sits a lightweight, folded backpack, an empty canteen, and a medical box filled with healing items to use in a pinch. My brain spins as I think of who could have sent this my way, but I decide to take advantage of their kindness rather than dwell on why. 

I remember hearin' the rush of a river nearby during my earlier sprint, so as soon as I have the medkit packed away in the safety of my new backpack, I set off to the east with my knife in one hand and my canteen in the other. The grass is soft underneath the feet of my onesie, and I simultaneously remind myself to stay alert while tryin' to forget where exactly I am.

By the time I reach the creek, the sun has begun to set underneath the line of the trees and the sky lights itself up in the same warm, glowy way that it does back home. While I work on fillin' up my canteen up, I think about all the things momma could be doin' right now. Maybe she's watchin' me right now, or maybe she's sleepin'. Either way, I just hope that she's proud. 

Eventually, I decide to set up camp in a gap between three trees that had grown in a space that seems impossible for three trees to grow in. It feels safe, and as I rearrange my things and backpack in the way that feels most right, I listen to the Capitol music play from up in the sky. I could get used to this, I find myself thinkin', even though I shouldn't.

That night, my dreams are full of Scotch and momma and the coyotes that I know are to come.