The Weak One

Sometimes I stare at him, in some combination of shock, horror and confusion. Sometimes, most of the time really, he catches me staring, and he cocks his head in his own kind of confusion and offers me a small smile and goes back to his bread or his paintings or his happiness.

But why shouldn't I be shocked and horrified and confused? How could Peeta, my sweet, shy, innocent boy with the bread have moved on?

Surely, surely he knows what we've done. Death clings to us, follows us, ever since the Reaping all those days ago. And maybe I've killed more than he has, but it's in my nature, it's my survival instinct, I'm a hunter.

But Peeta, he's a baker. He always has been, he always will be, at least in some way. Bakers have no need for survival instincts, have no need to hunt and kill. I find no fault in that, except in moments like these, when he smiles at me from his kitchen.

It's a comforting smile, warm like his bread, and happy like our children. It's that smile he shares when he sees that I am shaking, that I am reliving the terror of war and games. Peeta understands that there are some days that I can't leave bed, some days that I won't tear myself away from the big window in the dining room.

I just don't understand his smile. He never breaks, Peeta never breaks. His tortured, traumatized self might break down, but never my Peeta. I want him to shake too. I want him to wake up screaming like me, I want to have to smile for him. I don't want him to be over this disaster already, I don't want him to be stronger than me.

When he looks back at me, concern piercing into me, I can't take it anymore. I jerk up and I grab my bow and arrows and hunting jacket. I slam the door as I leave, and I go to hunt for our dinner.

I don't have to be the weak one, I tell myself. Peeta can't always be the strong one. I'm the Mockingjay. I can survive and get over this like he did, if not for myself, than for Peeta and for our children.