I've been staring at the black and white pattern on our kitchen floor, pretending it's a chess board, for far too long now, and Peeta has finally noticed.
"Hey, Katniss, what you thinking about?"
"Johanna. She's all on her own. She said so herself in the Quell. There's no one left that she cares about." I say, knowing how she must feel.
My father was taken from me by death. My mother wasn't dead, but she may have well been, since she was in an unaccessible void, trapped in her own head. My sister was also taken by death, and with her, she took a piece of my heart, never to be filled. Peeta was also taken from me, and used against me in the hopes it would drive me insane. Which it pretty much did. It really is the things we love the most that destroy us.
"Peeta, can you come with me tomorrow to the woods?"
"Umm... I guess." He says, anxiously.
He really doesn't like the woods. I do like his company, but to be honest, he scares away all the game, so it's much easier with out him, but tomorrow, I won't be going hunting. I jump up, and rummage around in one of our cupboards. I finally find what I was looking for. I pull out a smallish, square of linen.
"What's that for?" Peeta asks, tilting his head to the side like a confused puppy.
"Back in the rebellion, I gave Johanna some pine needles to remind her of district 7, and that... she wasn't alone."
I never really had any friends, except madge. Johanna is very prickly, but I do like her. I guess I see many similarities between us. I wanted to remind her that she wasn't alone, and that she had me. I was her friend. I remember the look on her face when she saw all my mementos on my bedside in the hospital after I got shot. They were all things of my family, or connected to them. The black pearl that Peeta gave me on the beach, the photo of my father, the medallion with the pictures of my mother, Gale, and Prim... All wrapped in a silver parachute from the quell. That little pouch of pine needles was all she had to remind her of home, even if they weren't from there. With that little pouch, I gave her memorabilia, friendship, and trust. I trust her, and I never really trusted anyone. That was until the rebellion, and I had to trust them all with my life. I felt like a trapeze artist, throwing myself into the arms of the people I trusted. But I was hanging my life on a metaphorical line, that could snap with misplaced trust.