After breakfast Peeta and I went out to look at the primrose branches he had planted. They looked unhealthy, but appearances can be deceiving and I knew that the life inside the plants would show sooner or later. For something to do, we checked on Haymitch.
He was asleep, as usual, with his hand on his knife and his head on the table. Peeta removed the knife before shaking Haymitch awake. He woke with a throwing motion of his knife hand then focused on Peeta.
"Peeta! Glad you're back! Now you can help me watch Katniss," he slurred.
"I can take care of myself," I said sullenly. It had become my habit to resist appearing helpless, though my voice lacked conviction. No one contradicted me. They knew that I was aware of my weakness. This knowledge should have fired me with a determination to regain my strength, but it only added to my apathy.
The days that followed were mostly a blur. Every day, Peeta came over. Sometimes I remembered it and sometimes I didn't. Some days I rocked in my chair for 12 hours, imagining myself in a boat in the middle of an endless ocean. Some days I sat in front of Peeta's bakery, watching mundane village activity with an interest that defied reason. On really good days, I went for walks. I was still weak from months of inactivity, and couldn't go far. Sometimes Peeta went with me, and sometimes I went alone.
Whether he was with me or not, I spent a good part of my day thinking about Peeta. When we were together, we found conversation difficult. Since most of our shared life had been filled with horrific events, every subject we might have discussed had the potential to drown us in agonizing memories. Talking about my mother inevitably led to thoughts about Prim which led to replaying her fiery death over and over in my mind. Talking about Johanna led to memories of Wiress and Finnick. Talking about Delly Cartwright usually led to flashbacks of torture for Peeta. We couldn't talk about my prep team without remembering Portia and Cinna and what they had suffered for us. Peeta wasn't interested in discussing his dead family. Neither of us was interested in discussing Gale.
The only people we could safely talk about were Haymitch and Greasy Sae. Their doings, no matter how boring, provided most of the food for our conversations. We also discussed village happenings, Peeta's baking, and our modest gardening projects. We did not exchange views on Snow, Coin, Paylor, Plutarch Heavensbee or anything political. Though we both had frequent sessions with Dr. Aurelius we never referred to them. We also avoided any mention of or relationship, its past or its future.
When Peeta was absent, I spent a lot of time worrying about our relationship. There was no question that his return had given me whatever small desire I had for leaving my rocking chair. I sensed that Peeta would be central to any sort of fuller life that was awaiting me, but I could not imagine how we could grow back together. The intimate past we had shared highlighted our current distance. I knew that he still suffered from nightmares and I often saw his bedroom lights on when I awoke from my own terrors; yet we always slept in our own houses. I would have felt safer with Peeta closer, but wasn't sure how to ask him to stay. The thought that he might not want to stay kept me from broaching the subject. He never attempted to hug me or touch me in any way. My body was equally indifferent to his presence, but I somehow knew that I needed physical contact with someone. If Peeta was not that someone, I didn't know who it was. Most of all, I longed for the loving acceptance he had always lavished on my before his capture. He was still accepting, but in a less affectionate way. If he wanted anything more than calm companionship, it was not obvious to me.
Still, Peeta was around and he gave me something to think about besides the meaninglessness of my empty life. During one of my phone sessions with Dr. Aurelius, I was once again wallowing in survivor guilt.
"I have nothing to give," I said. "I eat and sleep and take up space. How many people died in fear and agony for my worthless existence?"
Usually, Dr. Aurelius just listened, but this time he said, "So what do you plan to do about it?"
"What?" How could I do anything about it? They were dead and I was alive and nothing could change it.
"Well, you have only two choices at this point. You can either go on living or not. What are you going to choose?"
I sat in bewildered silence for five minutes as I pondered the decision before me. He was right. My only choices were to go on living or not, though it seemed he didn't care what I chose.
"Well, since I don't want to kill myself," I said sarcastically, "I guess I'll go on living."
"Good," said Dr. Aurelius. "Since you've decided to go on living, I would like to make a suggestion. Make a routine for yourself. Sometimes it takes less effort to go through the motions of a normal life than to try to decide if you have enough strength for every little activity."
He was right. I was wasting my energy on the basics. Perhaps if I devoted less thought to them, I wouldn't be too tired to tackle more important things.
At first it was a challenge to make myself follow a plan. I had always hated and resisted my schedule in District 13, but my increasing disgust for my aimless life made me want to try to change.
In time, it became easier. Most days I showered and dressed in clean clothes. I ate regular meals three times a day. I exercised a little. I spent the night in my bed wearing pajamas unless it was a very bad night. I soon added short hunting trips to my schedule. When I couldn't sleep at night I wove my hair into elaborate braids instead of rocking next to the fire.
As my body grew stronger from better nutrition and more regular activity, my mind began to clear a little. I no longer spent hours wondering whether to eat lunch of not. This left me free to think about other things, like Peeta.
Since his return, he seemed to be a shadow of his former self. He still did the things he used to: baking, painting, helping neighbors, talking to me, but without enthusiasm. I began to see that, like mine, his personality was struggling to break through all of the scars left by a traumatic couple of years. Without warning, he sometimes lapsed into catatonia for minutes or hours. Nothing I said or did could bring him back to the present.
I wished I could do something to help us to a better life than a dogged pursuit of normalcy in between nightmares and flashbacks.
One fine day in June, I found that help for us. This day had been particularly bad. I'd spent most of the night pacing and braiding my hair in attempt to forget the nightmares that had woken me almost as soon as I went to bed. It was Finnick's death that was replaying itself in my dreams that night. I had witnessed so many gruesome deaths, but the image of his perfect body being torn apart by the lizard mutts terrified me more than the others. His screams, the darkness and odor of the sewers all came back vividly and repeatedly. Once I began to dream about Finnick, I rarely slept again for many hours. The fear of reliving that moment kept sleep at bay.
The next day I was exhausted and jittery. Peeta came to breakfast and stared in surprise as he took in the combination of the arresting braided sculpture atop my head and my heavy eyes and bloodless complexion. He asked a few gentle questions, but I could only shake my head. He left for the bakery and I slung my bow over my arm to avoid a day in the dreaded rocking chair.
Though the day was beautiful, the cheerful sun and singing birds grated on my nerves. I could not free myself from thoughts of Finnick. He had given himself for me when his life was finally worth living. He ought to have gone back home to father the child he would never see. I was completely undeserving of his sacrifice.
I sat under a tree and tried to still my thoughts. I stayed perfectly motionless until I could hear all the noises of the forest. These sounds were so familiar to me and I knew what they all meant. I knew all of the plants around my feet, except...
There was a plant growing next to a small bush a few meters to my left. It looked like an herb my mother gathered during the summer for seasoning soups. It was difficult to find, so I had rarely gathered it myself, but the memory of its taste made my mouth water. With the breakdown of the Capitol system, our diet contained little variety, and any new flavor would be a welcome change. I picked the few leaves that the little plant could afford and stuffed them in my game bag. I stayed in the woods until I had game to bring home. The herbs should not be wasted on canned meat.
On my way home I began to worry that I had mistaken the plant. My mother had always gathered that particular herb in another part of the woods. As miserable as my life was, I didn't fancy the thought of poisoning myself and possibly Peeta. I would just have to check my mother's plant book.
Except I couldn't. My mother had it with her in District four. I dug the herbs out of my bag and tossed them on the ground.
After lunch, I sat in the room my mother used for an office. I was still trying not to sleep, hoping that something interesting and absorbing would occur to drag my mind out of replays of Finnick's death. But nothing occurred and the terror and the guilt returned as I failed to keep the memories at bay. It was so sad that I could not replace this never-ending loop of Finnick's last moments with something better. If only I could dream about my first meeting with him, or his playful antics in the water during the quarter quell, or his dance with Annie at their wedding. Those memories were the real Finnick.
That's when I had the idea: I would write down good memories the dead. Like my mother's herb book, it would be a record of the those things about them that should not be forgotten. It would help me honor the people who gave so much for me and the rest of Panem.
