Wishes

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I claim to own, The Hunger Games.

Katniss' can't scramble up the Cornucopia in time. She's too battered and its golden shell burns through her fingers. I reach down to grab her by the wrist, but it's too late. The muttations, ferocious wolves that are shadows of the Tributes they came from, snap at her limbs, tearing her apart.

I awake, only to be greeted by darkness and the low hum of the train moving along its tracks. My heart beats quickly against my chest, as if it no longer wants to be contained in my body. I inhale and exhale; each breath is a deliberate attempt to force myself to calm down.

Katniss stirs next to me.

She lived. We were at the Cornucopia, and we lived. Both of us. I remind myself of this and wrap my arm tighter around her. I rest my face against the back of her hair. She always smells like earth before the rain, even after she's been scrubbed and manicured and waxed. Maybe it's just my imagination filling in details.

Sometimes I believe all of this—all of it, but most of all the brand new target the Capitol has painted on Katniss' back because of her stunt with the berry—is my fault. It's because I'm selfish. That's a ridiculous thing to think, but it still eats at me from the corners of my mind, a secret tucked away forever.

When Katniss volunteered for her sister, I thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Effie Trinket picked out my name. I imagined myself saving her life or giving my own for hers. Maybe even confessing my love to her with my dying breath. I'd be forever drawn into the landscape of her heart. I can't believe I could even fantasize about something as gruesome as the Hunger Games. People in the Capitol watch children kill each other for sport, and I was thinking about looking good in front of a girl I had a crush on? A girl who didn't even know I existed except for, perhaps, a boy who treated her like his family pig—a thing to throw bread at.

But when Effie said, "Peeta Mellark," I felt chastened. I could hear my father's soft voice: "Be careful what you wish for."

If it hadn't been my name, if it had been any of the other boys in District 12, Katniss would have won outright. She wouldn't have tried the gambit with the berries. There would have been no star-crossed lover bit, even if she'd entered the games with Gale. She wouldn't have been public enemy number one, specifically sought out by President Snow.

And that awful part of me keeps insisting it's my fault.

Katniss whimpers and thrashes a bit. I loosen my hold on her, hoping my tight embrace isn't inspiring a dream of suffocation. My eyes have adjusted to the light now, and I prop myself up to see her face. She's facing the wall, but I can make out a her tears.

I roll over and open a small drawer on her nightstand. I retrieve a handkerchief from it, one I know she's never seen. She's more likely to chuck the nightstand at a wall then open the drawer. I wipe away her tears. There aren't many of them, but I don't want her to know she's been crying in her sleep. She's been crying less frequently now. I replace the handkerchief and turn back to Katniss.

Beautiful. I swallow hard and fight back the ache in my chest. Watching her sleep is both precious and terrifying. The strong facade she wears throughout the day melts like glass made from sugar as she falls to sleep. Her face distorts into a grimace, and I imagine what she's dreaming about. Probably the games we won. Or maybe she's dreaming of a future altercation with President Snow. Or maybe she's dreaming of a fight with Gale. Suddenly, I feel like an intruder, watching her like this, and I settle back down with only her hair in my view.

I curl my arm around her once more. I know she thinks she's using me to allow her to sleep, but I need her just as much.

And maybe it's me who's using her more. Because in these moments, these darkest hours of the night that seem like they could be bottled up and kept forever, I can pretend. I can pretend we've made our marriage vows, just as the Capitol expects. But on our terms, without having to worry that our children could be Reaped.

Most of all, I can pretend that her love mirrors mine. That Katniss' affection wasn't dependent on the need to survive. That it is the kind of love you read in storybooks, but actually real.

But it isn't. Because every moment we spend together will be haunted by the games. Because she never loved me the way I love her.

And ultimately, it's because I wasn't careful about what I wished for.