A/N: Characters belong to the wonderful Suzanne Collins
Prim's name echoes around my head as I wake with a start, gasping for breath. I can still see her clearly, her image burned into my retinas, although I'm staring intensely at the quilt I must have kicked off during the night. Forehead pounding and sweat beading on my upper lip, I stumble into the bathroom and flick on the light.
The instant the cold water touched my face I feel absolute relief. Already, the shock of having to see her so vividly again is beginning to fade. But then, when I look up in the mirror, the dripping wet face isn't mine-it's Prim's. With a startled yelp, I bolt for the stairs and run down to the kitchen, where I sit in a chair-the only chair-at the huge, empty dining table.
My fingers find my temples and I press hard against them until my head aches. I look out of the window to the moonlit, snow-covered yard. A small shadow sits on the bench Prim and I used to doze on in those lazy afternoons before the Quarter Quell.
Prim-Prim's everywhere. I tear my gaze from the outside and try to look around the kitchen, my eyes finally settling on the most neutral thing: the stove. It's only a matter of seconds before a memory of Prim making pudding surfaces. I swear I can almost hear the clank of the stirring spoon against the pot as I see her in a pretty yellow dress, blond hair cascading down her back, making sure none of the desert burns.
No, I can't stand this. And then Prim's sitting on the table next to me, smiling, looking so real that I reach a hand out to touch her and her being dissipates like a fine mist. Then I lose it and scream my head off.
I burst out of the front door into a blizzard of white flakes and sprint flat out across the yards to Peeta's house, where I ring the doorbell insistently and only stop after punching the button at least a dozen times. The nightgown sticks to my skin as the snow begins to melt, slowly soaking me to the bone. A feeling of immense selfishness overcomes me and I remember it has to be extremely late at night-possibly early morning hours, even. Maybe it would be better if I faced my nightmares alone.
But then, right as I am about to turn around and leave, I hear the pounding of Peeta hurrying down the stairs; the porch light turns on. A second later the door swings open and there's Peeta, hair a mess and dark circles under his eyes. He's dressed in a plain shirt and shorts, and I can't help but stare at his prosthetic leg, distracted, and think how maybe I could have prevented that from happening.
"Katniss?" I don't look up from the contraption that replaces his leg, but I do attempt to say his name in reply, failing miserably. Between the biting cold making my teeth chatter and my voice threatening to crack, all I can choke out is a strangled cry and throw myself into his arms. They're warm and welcoming and I can't help but feel safe, if only for a moment.
"Oh, Katniss," he says, and holds my head to his chest as he shuts the door against the cold. He leads me into the small living room, which is illuminated by a soft red glow given off by the heater, and holds me as I calm myself down until my breathing is normal, shallow, and my eyelids are drooping. Then I realize Peeta's already fallen asleep, and I simply curl up with my head in the crook of his arm and wander into a land of dreamless sleep.