Disclaimer: I'm not Suzanne Collins. While that accomplishment is still on my bucket list, I have yet to fulfill it. All rights belong to her genius.
One. Two. Three.
My feet clang against the metallic floor, and each footstep I take progresses me in the direction of nowhere in particular.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Each step is louder than the last, and I find the need to count faster, so I can somehow reach my destination sooner.
Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen.
This isn't my first procession of the train. In fact, it's become a nightly routine since District 11. I couldn't tell you what District we're in now—frankly, it doesn't matter much to me anymore. All I see is the heartbreak reflected in the eyes of the dead tributes' family members, the anger of the crowd members, and the cold image of President Snow's eyes haunt me.
Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four.
Ever since I heard the gunshots of those innocent people where our tour began, the dreams have haunted me. Walking the train seems to help, although I still see the old, wizened man's head getting blown off…
Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two.
Deep breathes.
You can't think like that, Peeta, I scold myself. So I continue to count. It seems to be the only thing that works anymore.
Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight . Fifty-nine.
It's not until somewhere around 100 that I hear the screams. At first I think they're the ones in my head, the ones from the haunting nightmares pursuing me, but the screams just get louder like my footsteps, and I know they're emitting from a different source.
One-twenty-four. One-twenty-five. One-twenty-six.
I run to the location the screams are coming from, and find the same path my steps have taken me past an innumerable amount of times until I get to her door. I push it open, not stopping to knock with the screams projecting from a voice I can't fight my instinct to protect. Instead I rush inside, seeing her body flail on the bed, no doubt her mind filled with the same images that have plagued me on a nightly basis. I climb up next to her, calling out her name, but she doesn't respond. I rub my hands up and down her arms, trying to soothe her thrashing movements, but its futile. It's not like this is the first time this has happened, but it always feels like the end of the world in the moment. Which isn't being too irrational when you think about it.
"Shh. It's okay," I tell her, although who am I to promise that anything is okay? With the hell we've both been through, it'd be a miracle to have that absolute reassurance. But I say it anyway, because it's a lie I hope to believe. Her screams have subsided, but her eyes are still squeezed shut, and I begin to count the seconds that her eyes remain closed.
One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
Rewardingly, her eyes finally flutter open, seeking comfort in my gaze. She breathes in deeply.
Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
I just continue to hold her while she calms down.
Twenty. Twenty one. Twenty two.
"Peeta?" The vulnerability in her voice makes my heart stop, and for a moment, I can't count it's beats.
"Yes?" I croak, the many emotions spilling out of my voice. The seconds go by before she answers.
One. Two. Three.
"Will you...stay here, with me? I don't want to face the nightmares alone anymore," she stammers.
Before I answer her question, (because we both know I will comply) I stare deep into her gaze, enthralled by the expression she wears. I've only really seen it once before, when we were young, and she was slowly starving to death right before my eyes, glancing my way when I threw her those loaves of bread that she somehow associates with salvation.
Desperation. Need. Vulnerability.
And with that look, I realize, in this moment, that I have never been more in love with Katniss Everdeen.
Instead of responding verbally to her plea, I simply lie down next to her, opening my arms as her small form melts against mine. She leans against my chest, frantically clutching me for comfort, for safety, for a piece of mind. It isn't until I hear her lulled breathes of slumber that I notice something is wrong. Something's off. But what? Katniss is here, asleep in my arms, away from harm. What is it then?
That's when I realize. It's the quiet. The quite inside my mind. It makes sense now. Katniss keeps the nightmares away. And, lying there in the darkness, with her chest rising and falling with every breath, I realize something else.
With Katniss here, I no longer need to count.