Those Missing Moments
The golden ring, smooth and flawless in my fingers. Wings spread wide, the songbird grasping the arrow with its needle-like beak in the centre. When Madge had given me this pin, I would never have thought it would be the symbol of rebellion. The symbol that was linked with my name since the moment I entered the arena – Katniss Everdeen.
My name is Katniss Everdeen, I am seventeen years old. I was in The Hunger Games. I was taken from the Quarter Quell to District Thirteen. Peeta was hijacked. The rebellion fought The Capitol. President Snow is dead. There are no more games. I am safe. For now.
I have to keep myself together these days, for Greasy Sae. She's been taking care of me ever since I arrived back in twelve – which was about two months ago. Every day is the same: get out of bed, eat, be washed, sit on my bed, eat, sit on my bed again, eat, and sleep. Then I wake up in my sleep, because that's when the nightmares attack. Images of my precious Prim being blown into a human firework scar my mind permanently – whether I'm awake or not. Prim wasn't even fourteen years old.
Peeta seems to be doing fine – he's not set up a bakery, probably reminded him too much of his now dead family. I know he does a lot of painting, I see people going to his house to buy paintings sometimes. I never see them when people carry them home – normally a white sheet protects the pieces. I miss his paintings.
I place my pin on the wooden table next to my bed. It must be the middle of the day, yet I have just woken up. Greasy Sae's daughter has caught the flu, so Sae has been forced to care for her – so I'm expected to feed myself and wash myself for the next few days.
I sit up, debating whether I should change out of my sleepwear or not. Deciding not to, I plod down the stairs clumsily inside my lonely house. At least, I thought it was lonely.
Peeta is stood in the doorway, pulling a navy jacket off his broad shoulders. I stop from shock – he'd been hijacked. He wasn't my boy with the bread. He wouldn't ever be that boy who threw the bread to me in the rain, he wouldn't ever be that fearless sixteen year old, confessing his love for me to the whole of Panem. He would only be that weak, pained boy who would dig his wrists into his shackles to stop himself turning into a mutt. So why was he here?
Hanging the coat on a hook drilled into the wall, Peeta gave me a weak smile. My expression was still displaying shock,
"Hello, Katniss," he said clearly, with a slight tone of sadness lingering in his greeting. I wasn't sure what to do – so I nervously stuck my hand up and waved. A small chuckle escaped his chapped lips. Peeta never went outside, yet I knew the old him enough to know why his lips were that way. Always sleeping with his windows open.
I continued walking down the stairs, not sure what else I could do. This moment was as awkward as it could get – I couldn't tell if he wanted to strangle me again or not,
"Greasy Sae requested I look after you, if that's alright," Peeta took a step towards me, looking straight into my grey eyes. His own eyes were still a beautiful shade of blue, but not his own. Something was missing from them – I couldn't quite identify what. They just weren't his.
I nodded my head, remembering that I was "mentally disorientated". Greasy Sae probably didn't trust me being alone in the house,
"Oh," I mumbled, the first thing I utter to him. He nods, then walks towards the kitchen. I swear I see him give a dirty look at the table – the exact same one Gale had been placed on when he'd almost been whipped to death. Hang on, did that mean he was still jealous about that moment, even though he wasn't the same Peeta?
"Do you hear from Gale?" Peeta questions. That's when I know he remembers.
Fiddling with the bottom of my pyjama shirt, I enter the kitchen,
"No," I answer simply, wondering what Peeta wants to do. It's not the first time we've spoken since we came back to District 12, yet it feels like it. The first time he had an episode since he came back, he had built a wall between us, refused to speak to me until now. He'd had a month and a half to recover.
Peeta nods, then begins looking through the cupboards until he finds a large mixing bowl. I find it hard to stop a smile tugging at my lips, since I know what he's going to do,
"You love my cheese buns, real or not real?" Peeta smiles, taking out a fresh slice of cheese from the refrigerator. Now I know why Greasy Sae had bought some,
"Real," I realise I've only been giving him one syllable answers – which might irritate him. Unfortunately, Peeta is better at starting conversation's than I am, so I just stood there wondering what else I could say.
Peeta seems to know my house pretty well, which surprises me. It doesn't take him long to find all the ingredients he needs – since Greasy Sae seemed to have mysteriously bought them all... – and begin stirring up the mixture into a big, cheesy mess. My bare feet don't make a sound on the wooden floor as I creep over, then lean over the counter to watch what he's doing. Looking up for a second, he gives me another small smile, then continues mixing.
I remember Peeta giving me a similar smile, back in the arena, when we were announced as victors. It took a while for it to sink in, before he gave me a genuine smile. One showing hope, that we could be together when we got back home. If I hadn't said I was doing it all for the games, would we be in this position right now?
Shaking the thought out of my head, I notice Peeta is staring at me. I re-enter reality, abruptly shaking my head,
"What?" I ask, wondering why he's staring. Peeta lifts the bowl,
"Want to help me place there on a tray? I've forgotten where you put them since..." He trails off, and I know the hijacking made him forget some things. Walking towards the oven, I pull open a draw to reveal some metal trays and grease-proof paper. Peeta taps the counter behind me,
"I remember they were there now," he comments, and as I turn around I see he's ruffling his blonde hair. It's been getting a little darker recently – no longer the golden blonde curls, but slightly dirty blonde and a little more straight. I wonder if it's from stress, or just lack of washing, as I place the tray down and leave him to place the paper down,
"You still remember the recipe for those," I say, trying to start a conversation. I return to where I was stood behind the counter,
"I've actually been making them a lot recently, they remind me of you," Peeta hands me a wooden spoon, "Makes me remember everything that happened between us,"
Whilst he scoops a large blob of the mixture on to the tray, I stood paralysed for a second, feeling something strange after what he said. He sounded like my Peeta, the boy who threw the bread in the rain, the fearless sixteen year old confessing his love for me to the whole of Panem. That's when I think – did he ever leave? Was he just hiding inside a thick shell? It suddenly dawns on me how much I missed Peeta's presence.
Peeta has scooped four blobs on to the paper, waiting for me to do mine, which stops me from thinking so much. Not as neatly as Peeta, and a lot less rapidly, I smear the mixture on to the paper. A waft of cheese enters my nose – making my mouth water slightly. I don't think I've eaten cheese buns for over nine months, way before the Quarter Quell.
Peeta places the tray carefully in the oven, slamming the door shut and setting a timer for twenty minutes. I find it remarkable how he remembers the small things like this, and not the things I want him to remember so badly, like our times in the arena, when he'd keep my nightmares away and the kiss on the beach in the Quarter Quell. The Capitol ruined him, and he'll always be damaged somehow,
"What do you want to do now?" Peeta leans over the counter with me, his shoulder presses against mine. I decide there and then, I want to bring the old Peeta back. So naturally, I ask the first thing that came to mind when I think of him,
"Peeta, do you still love me?" I had to force myself to say it, regretting I had when the words tumbled from my lips. I feel Peeta's muscles tense next to me, his eyes looking anywhere around the room that isn't near me. Convinced he won't reply, I begin walking out of the room,
"Wait – Katniss," Peeta grabs my wrist, though I don't turn to look at him. The tone of his voice sounds apologetic – I know what he's going to say. I hate to admit it, but it hurts knowing it's not true anymore,
"I know," I whisper, pulling my arm away from his grasp,
"That isn't fair, you aren't listening," Peeta steps in front of me, hesitantly placing his hands on my shoulders. I make eye contact, which makes me feel ridiculously uncomfortable, so I let my eyes wander around. Peeta begins to speak,
"Katniss, I don't know what's real and what's not real. Every night I lay in my bed wondering what's what and what's not, and I start to just know what isn't real. It's all shiny, like I said. Then when an episode comes along, I lose track," He strokes my shoulders with his thumbs, which are rough from his years of baking, "If I'm honest, I do but I don't, I need more time to heal,"
I stare into his eyes – seeing a little shimmer of the Peeta hiding inside the shell, and I know he's being honest,
"I miss you," I mumble, pulling him into a hug. It's the most contact we've made since the time I kissed him in The Capitol streets, which I doubt he even remembers. His strong arms are warm against my back, his breath tickling my neck. I smile – the first real smile in years.