This story starts on page 380 of Mockingjay, after Katniss' trial and return to District 12. This is my first fanfiction work, so I'd greatly appreciate any constructive feedback. Thank you!

CHAPTER 1

I'm curled up in a rocking chair in my house in the Victor's Village. Through the window, I see the charred remains of District 12. I watch people I knew in a different lifetime trying to put things back to normal. They're sweeping ashes, laying foundations for new buildings, planting crops in the meadow, and burying the dead. I know I should help them, but I can't move from my spot.

The irony of my life isn't lost on me. Two years ago I volunteered at the reaping to take my sister's place. To keep her alive when it meant certain death for me. I had no ulterior motives, no grand plans for saving humanity; I just needed to protect my sister. And now she's dead because of me. Because of the games everyone played with me. Because I was turned into the Mockingjay, the face of the rebellion. The worst part is that it's not just her, thousands of people are dead because of my actions.

If I had only known what was going to happen, I never would've pulled out those berries in the arena. Would I have killed Peeta? Probably not. Would I have killed myself? Maybe. Then Prim would still be here. And Gale would make sure that she and my mother had enough to eat. They would all be fine right now. Instead, I've been sitting here alone and in irreparable despair for weeks.

I hear the front door open and assume it's Greasy Sae or Haymitch bringing me more food I won't touch. Heavy footsteps move down the hallway, but I refuse to turn away from the window. I just want to be left alone.

"Katniss" says an unmistakable voice.

Apparently my survival instinct is still intact because I'm on my feet faster than I thought possible given my complete lack of mobility for weeks. My eyes dart across the room looking for my bow, but it's nowhere to be found. I rush to the left putting the table between me and the visitor. I scan the room again looking for something, anything, that can be used as a weapon since I know I won't stand a chance in hand-to-hand battle with him.

"Want me to grab your bow for you? I saw it by the door," he says with a chuckle.

The sound of his laugh breaks my concentration. It's so familiar, so not what I was expecting. I slowly move my eyes up to meet his and gasp when the realization hits. His easy laughter, his kind eyes, his relaxed face—this is the old Peeta, the boy with the bread.

"Peeta," I whisper.

"Hey. I'm home," he says with a smile.

"You really are," I say in astonishment. "What happened? How did they fix you?"

"Turns out the capitol has Tracker Jacker antivenom. Once Paylor took over, she made sure I received the best care possible."

"And just like that you're back to your old self?" I ask suspiciously.

"Well, I wouldn't say just like that," he grimaces. "It was pretty hard. The antivenom was a thousand times more painful than the initial Tracker Jacker stings. And, I had to go through hypnosis and relive every minute of both of our games."

"But now you clearly remember what happened?"

"Yes. And, as painful as it was to go back to the arena in my mind, it was nothing compared to the distorted reality Snow had fed me."

"Do you remember everything that happened between us?" I ask nervously.

He looks to the floor and nods. Clearly this isn't a topic either of us wants to discuss right now.

I stand staring at him, and I'm not sure what to do. Part of me longs to be in his arms. He's the only one who has ever been able to comfort me. The only one who can stop my nightmares. The only one who has some understanding of the demons I face in my head every single day. But as much as he helps me, I know it hurts him because he wants more from me than I can give. I can't stand the thought of hurting him again after everything he's been through.

Suddenly my head hurts. Too much has happened—things that I may never get over, things that I haven't even begun to process. The thought of adding on the Peeta issue is just too overwhelming. I need to be alone.

"Have you seen Haymitch yet? I'm sure he'd love to catch up with you," I say tersely as I walk towards the front door.

He follows me but pauses at the threshold. He reaches over and gently touches my arm. "Katniss, I was hoping we could talk. We've both been through a lot these last few months and I know I could really use a…" he pauses for a moment.

"Yes, that's always been our problem hasn't it?" I lash out at him, although I'm not sure where the anger is coming from. I should be happy. It's Peeta. He's back to normal and in District 12. I should be happy, right? But the words pour out of me anyway.

"We don't quite know what to call each other, do we? Friends? Lovers? Spouses? Enemies? We've been forced into all those relationships by people around us. So, what is it now? Who's going tell us how to act now?" I scream at him.

Immediately I can see the pain I've caused him. His jaw clenches and sadness fills his eyes. I feel terrible. It's not his fault we were forced into certain things. And, it's not his fault I'm so angry. Who am I angry with? I'm not entirely sure, but I do know that Snow, Coin, Gale, and myself are on that list because we're all responsible for Prim's death. But Peeta certainly isn't. There's no reason for me to be mad at him.

Peeta takes a step backwards and says, "Well, I just wanted to say sorry for the way I treated you in District 13."

"I'm sorry, Peeta. I didn't mean it," I mumble, tears threatening to spill onto my cheeks, my lips quivering. I know my words aren't enough, though.

He nods and starts to turn. I can't leave it like this. After everything we've been through, how can I do this to him? I reach out and wrap my arms around his neck, leaning my head against his chest. Placing one hand on my back and the other just above my braid, he pulls me closer. The effect is immediate. I feel my defenses break down and the tears turn into sobs. I don't remember crying once since Prim died, and suddenly all of my emotions are surfacing. My whole body trembles as I give in to my complete and utter sadness.

Peeta gently lifts me into his arms and carries me to my bed. He doesn't try to talk. He just holds me tightly in his arms for hours. When my tears subside, he tenderly pushes the hair out my face. When the sobbing commences again, he pulls me in closer and kisses the top of my head. I know the dangerous slope I'm heading down by allowing Peeta to comfort me, by getting close to him again, but I can't force myself to stop because it's exactly what I need. I feel myself succumbing to the intense exhaustion that has been worsened by the emotional turmoil of the evening. I'm afraid he'll leave me during the night, and I'll be forced to face the nightmares again.

"Please don't leave," I say with a hoarse voice from all the crying.

"Never," he says softly and then pulls me closer. I feel the heat from his body spill into mine and wonder how I'll ever sleep again without Peeta by my side.

In the morning, I wake to a comforting aroma filling my room. It's the smell of dry, course bread made from the grain rations we received before I became a victor. Funny how that can be comforting—at the time, I longed for days when we weren't under the Capitol's oppression, but now all I want is one more day like that. One more day where I can sit with Prim on our old, worn-out hearth braiding each other's hair and talking about all the great things we could accomplish when we grew up. But that will never happen. I feel my throat constrict and know I'm on the verge of another breakdown. I force myself to think about something else, anything else until the attack subsides.

And that's when I see it, the dry, withered rose on my nightstand. It's the one I saw at the start of the rebellion when Plutarch brought me back so I could see the devastation caused by the Capitol. I can smell it too. Gone is the fresh, yeasty aroma, replaced by the overwhelming sweet scent mixed with the copper-tinged smell of blood. I'm gagging now and know I need to destroy the rose immediately. I grab it, run into the kitchen, and throw it forcefully into the fire. The glass vase shatters loudly into a hundred pieces and the rose is instantly engulfed in blue flames. I take a deep breath, allowing the smell of bread to fill my nostrils, pushing out the scent and memory of President Snow.

"Everything okay?"

I turn to find Peeta, covered in flour, watching me. No doubt he's wondering what new evil I'm seeing in my mind.

"Just a bad memory I needed to get rid of," I say evasively.

He nods as though everything he just witnessed makes perfect sense. Of course he does. This is Peeta. Nice, kind Peeta who is always trying to save me and never does or says anything to upset me.

"I made some bread if you're hungry," he says, interrupting my thoughts. "Unfortunately, you didn't have much in the way of food so I had to make do with the course grain."

"It smells great," I assure him and reach for a roll before sitting down at the table.

He joins me and watches as I bite off large chunks of bread. I don't remember eating for at least a few days and quickly realize that I'm starving. Peeta grabs two more rolls and places them in front of me. He watches me, but says nothing. That's one of the nice things about Peeta—he never forces me to talk, and we are both completely comfortable with silence.

When I start on my third roll, he reaches over to pull a large notebook and pencil from a bag on the floor. He opens up the notebook and his brow furrows as he concentrates on the page. Curiosity gets the better of me after a few moments, so I move around to his side of the table. As soon as I see the picture, I feel bad. It reminds me that I'm not the only one who has lost something. While I was crying my heart out last night, Peeta was silently dealing with his own grief. I didn't do anything to help him. How can I be so cold and selfish?

I sit down close to Peeta so our bodies are touching. I stare at the page as his hand quickly draws in accents and shadows bringing the picture of his dad to life.

"It looks just like him," I say.

"This is how I want to remember him. Happy and strong, always with a smile on his face. "

"Don't forget kind… just like you."

Peeta's hand stops moving and he turns to me. "Thanks." After a few moments, he continues, "This is my way of dealing with everything that's happened. I want to make sure everyone I lost is remembered. So it won't seem like it was all for nothing."

Reflexively I reach for his free hand and wrap my fingers tightly around his.

"You know," he says, "I have you to thank for this. It's your plant book that gave me the idea."

"This is way better than the plant book. Who else have you drawn?" I ask reaching for it.

"Only a few people so far."

I flip the page to see his oldest brother. I turn another page and gasp at the face staring at me. It's Prim.

"I'm sorry," he says quickly, almost as if he's embarrassed. "I shouldn't have drawn her. She's your memory and I don't want to take that away." He closes the book and starts to put it away.

But I grab it from him and open it back up to Prim's page. She's beautiful. I've been worried that I wouldn't remember her. That over time I would lose the image of her and the memories of what a caring and thoughtful person she was. But Peeta has captured all of that in his drawing. I touch her cheek and can almost feel her soft skin beneath my fingers.

"It's perfect," I say.

"You're not mad?" he asks.

"How could I be mad? Every day I feel my memories of her slipping away. This will stay with me… " I quickly realize the problem with what I'm saying. This is Peeta's drawing. If I think it's staying with me the rest of my life then that means I think I'm staying with Peeta the rest of my life. And, that's not a commitment I can make to him.

"It's just perfect," I finish absently.

After that, our days fall into a pattern. In the mornings, Peeta bakes and I go hunting. During my own personal Dark Days, as I like to call the time between Prim's death and Peeta's arrival, I never thought I would hunt again. I couldn't imagine being out in the woods—a place that had always brought me such pleasure—when life is so full of tragedy. Why would I ever want to see beautiful flowers or hear melodious songbirds? It didn't seem fair to be happy in a world where so many people had died because of me.

But once I ventured out of the house, I realized that despite destroying the Capitol, food was still a scarce commodity in District 12. The crops wouldn't be ready for months and not many people were willing to go into the forest to hunt even though it was now completely legal.

And since we no longer receive victor paychecks, Peeta and I had to come up with a plan for survival. Between my hunting and Peeta's baking, we're able to feed ourselves and trade for most everything else we need. So, getting back into the forest was out of necessity, just like it was after my father died.

Afternoons are the time of day I enjoy most. This is when we work on the memory book. Peeta draws their faces and I write our memories. In the beginning it was painful and brought us both to tears. But with each passing day it gets a little easier and we find ourselves relishing in the memories and capturing the true essence of each person. One of our favorite entries in the book is Finnick's. I made Peeta draw Finnick in nothing but his underwear as he struck that provocative pose for Boggs and me. Working on that was the first time I laughed since my Dark Days. That was the moment when I realized that with Peeta's help, I may get through this.

Our evenings are always the same. We lay intertwined in each other's arms, sometimes talking about the demons that haunt us, sometimes saying nothing at all. We often talk about how responsible we feel for the thousands of people who died. We morbidly laugh at our absurd naivety the night before the first games. Peeta said he didn't want to be a piece in their games and that's exactly what the two of us became. We were both pieces in the game whether we were controlled by Snow or Coin. Every rebellious act we did trying to be true to ourselves just put us more under their control. While we know we'll never get over what happened, we force ourselves to look at the positive changes for the country. But, it doesn't stop us from wishing we'd been able to make things proceed in a more peaceful manner—that we could have kept more people alive.

Overall, it's a simple existence that seems to suit us both just fine. We live in the present, doing exactly what we need to do to survive, without thinking about the future. It's just easier that way.

About six months after Peeta's arrival, I'm lacing up my leather boots one morning and wondering why I don't hear pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. Something's wrong.