The night is all encompassing. It drowns out what I know to be real, that I know that I am safe, that I am home. It flashes the faces of loved ones I couldn't save and strangers whose blood still stain my hands. I moved in to the guest room of my Victor house, closing the doors to my room, my mother's, and Prim's had not been open since I arrived back in District 12. I couldn't even bring myself to walk down that hallway.

The primrose bushes that Peeta planted started blooming two days ago. Although I had graduated looking at them, I still could not touch the small colorful flowers. The thought of them dying in the cold winter or the delicate petals falling put of my hands and to the ground bring the feeling of fire over my still healing body.

Tonight is no different. I sit at the kitchen table a frigid cup of tea in my hands. I am in the same spot that Greasy Sae left me in. I have not moved or even attempted to bring the liquid to my lips. I felt lost and empty. Numb to the world around me. The only light in the house is the moon fighting it's way between the curtains. Out of the corner of my eye I see movement, not daring to look, my body tenses with the history of violence it has seen and done, I see the flick of Buttercups tail over the top of the table edge and I relax.

I let my eyes wonder back and forth over the scenery of the kitchen stopping immediately on the plate of cheese rolls on the counter. I had not spoken to Peeta since he planted the bushes and even then it was brief. I am fully conscious of how selfish I have been when it comes to him, and I feel as if my heart burst into a thousand pieces, all searing and digging their way through my charred flesh. When I think of how Peeta will never be able to look at me the same, how the boy who had fallen in love with me is lost in this man, whose memories and psychological pain will never love me. He will never be by my side again and it's all my fault. I regret not swallowing those berries when I had the chance.

It was hours before I heard the soft knock on my front door, effectively pulling me out of my stupor. I rub my eyes, no doubt deep bruises circle them from sleep deprivation. I push my self from the table, causing my tea to spill over the edges of my cup on to the table, I pull the largest knife from its container on the counter and pad my way to the door. The knife gripped in my hand so hard my knuckles turn white. I look through the peep hole in the door and see no one. Could I have imagined the noise? It was completely plausible as I had heard screams and shouts the day before, but I knew those were all in my head, all the screams and shouts belonged to those long dead.

I unlocked the first two dead bolts and then the small one on the knob it self, poised the knife in a kill position and opened the door just enough that one eye could peek out.

There he sat on the steps with his head in his hands, the moonlight bouncing off his hair like a halo of white light. His back rose and fell rapidly as if he had ran to sit right there. I open the door all the way and step out onto the stoop. The arm with the knife hanging loosely at my side. If he were having a flashback and tried to kill me at this moment, I would not stop him. I wouldn't raise a finger to defend myself, in all honesty, I welcomed it. "Peeta?" I whisper.

He heaves a sigh before he speaks, so quietly I have to step closer to hear. "Katniss," He sighs again, his hands moving from his face and hanging over the edge of his knees, he turns to look at me, his eyes bloodshot, bruises under his eyes, which I'm sure are a mirror image of mine. "I can't close my eyes."

I nod knowing the feeling all too well. I step down a step and sit next to him, our shoulders almost touching. I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my chin on them.

I just sit with him in silence. I couldn't think of anything comforting to say, that was always Peeta's area of expertise. I am not comforting, or warm, or sweet, or even nice. I am cruel and cold, violent and deadly. But he doesn't press, he doesn't say anything either. We stay there until the sun peaks over the horizon, and watch it make it's slow decent into the sky. Peeta's favorite shade of oranges fills the cloudless sky. He sighs and looks down at his hands, fingers stained with dried paint, wringing them in and out of each other. The fidgeting bothers me, in away I can't quite describe. This moment seems so perfect and endless in our stillness and the movement seems wrong. I put my hand on his to still him, he entwines the fingers on his left hand into my right. It is the first time since I kissed him, before the explosion that we have touched. The electricity is not missed between us, but it is ignored. Neither one of us has the emotional capability to be able to put this in words or even a glance at each other.

Our silence was broken by glass shattering in a nearby home, I don't have to look to know it's coming from Haymitch's house. In my peripheral vision I see Peeta glance at the house and sigh, releasing my hand, he makes a cuff on his right wrist with the hand that was just holding mine. The heat that he left still resonating. I watch as his grips his wrists, alternating each one, he had once told me that the pain brings him back to reality. The memory of him in shackles rubbing his skin raw pulls me back to the streets of the Capital. I close my eyes pulling my knees closer and burying my face in them.

When I finally rise, Peeta is no longer next to me on the steps but walking away from me, his shoulders haunch ed, hands in his pockets. I sigh and stand, my bones protesting at the movement after being cramped for so long. I pick up the knife I had left on the stoop and open my door and lock it behind me, promising my self that I would not live long enough to recall this memory. That I would end this misery tonight.

I sit back at the kitchen table and place the knife gently next to my forgotten cup of tea. I put my arms out in front of me examining my wrists and forearms, trying to decide the best place to start. I trace the scars there with my eyes, following the map of grafts that cover my skin. I watch my skin as the lines begin to dance in front of my eyes, the memory of each one bringing a name to mind. Finnick, Johanna, Boggs, Wiress, Gale, Peeta, Prim.

Before my mind catches up with my actions the knife is in my hand and blood is pulling around my left arm onto the dark wood table. Seeping into the grain, staining it forever. I can feel my head becoming light and airy as the kitchen slips away and black consumes it.

There are no morphling addled dreams that wake me slowly, only the banging of pots and pans from somewhere close by. I can feel the plush velvet of the couch beneath me and the fabric of a bandage around my left arm. Soon another scar will mark my failure.

I hear water running from the sink and more banging of pots and pans. I know that it must be Haymitch. It has to be. Greasy Sae would not be coming today as she had told me last night. I was supposed to be alone today, able to die in peace, in away I know I didn't deserve. I deserved something violent and ugly.

I finally open my eyes and see gray-silver Seam eyes staring back. "Oh, well look who's finally graced us with her presence." Haymitch says from behind the letter he was reading. The one from Plutarch that I have successfully ignored for weeks.

I look toward the kitchen door to see who was making all that noise if Haymitch was in the living room with me. Peeta stands in the doorway kneading dough in his hands, watching my face. I roll my head back so I can stare at the ceiling. I was a complete failure. Not only couldn't I save those I loved, but I couldn't even leave this world the way that I had planned. "Katniss." He breathed in the melody of his voice that I had concluded I would never hear again. I close my eyes and try to shut it out.

The chair under Haymitch groaned as he leaned toward me. "Thought you could get way that easy did you?" His question was entirely rhetorical but I felt the need to answer anyway.

"And I would have gotten away with it a long time ago if it weren't for you." I hiss. I can feel the anger boiling in my stomach. Why couldn't they just let me die? If anyone understood why I would need to it would be them.

"And you won't as long as I'm around to prevent it." He responds, my eyes lock with his about to argue, when I catch something I've never seen in Haymitch's eyes. Sincerity, one emotion that had lived in Peeta's eyes. I realize Haymitch has nothing left to lie to me about, nothing left to hide, no need to manipulate me, no need to push me in any certain direction, except life, and that seemed as if he was trying to make a genuine attempt. "Here," he drops an unopened envelope on my stomach. It's the letter from my mother that I had refused to read. "You should read it." Before I could protest he held up his hand to stop me. "Contrary to what you may think, you don't know everything Katniss." With that he grabbed a glass with some brown liquor I had never seen and walked into the kitchen, sitting himself at the table, staring out the door.

I glanced at Peeta in the doorway. The dough still in his hands. We were all broken.

I plead with his eyes hoping he'd give me some kind of hope at an escape from this sorry excuse I had for a life, full well knowing that I would get nothing of the sort from him. Even in his deteriorated state, he would still protect me with his own life. No matter how dismal and miserable I may be. He looks down at the dough in his hands and shakes his head, turning back to the kitchen. I would get no sympathy from him.

When I'm finally alone in the living room I bring my self to a sitting position and flip the envelope in my shaking hands. I didn't want to open it. I knew what it would say. Why she couldn't be here, why it was too painful for her to come back to this place, it would be the same reasons I have for trying to take myself out of the picture entirely. But I knew Haymitch wouldn't let it go until I read it.

My mother's careful scroll raced across the paper, the ink bleeding in places where her tears had hit the page. She hadn't bothered to wipe them away.

My brave Katniss,

You are so much like your father, but I'm sure you already know that. What I'm sure you haven't realized yet is how much you are just like me. Of course you have your father's looks and abilities, his humor, and his mannerisms. His love for music, and his voice. But your emotions and how you handle those are all me, my dear. The way you love and how you react to that. I hope you actually read this, you've never really wanted anything from me since your father died. Trust me, the reason does not escape me. I know how much I hurt you and your sister when he died. But look at yourself. Your reclusive, and closed off. You don't speak for days, barely sleeping, not eating unless forced to. You are doing exactly what I did, because you feel as if all the life has been taken from you. You have lost so much, but you have given so many others so much. I knew you see all the horror and death in this war as somehow your fault. And it is not hard to see how you would come to that conclusion, but you must also see all the good you have done.

I was petrified watching you in the games. I couldn't tear my eyes from you. I was so proud of you, still am. Prim was proud of you. She adored you.

You know why I can't come back to 12. I don't know if I will ever be able to come back there.

I love you. Please think of all that good that is now in the world because of you.

I fold the letter back and slip it into the envelope. Haymitch was right. I lay back down on the couch and close my eyes. My mother was right too. I am her. In this moment I am my mother. My stomach twists and my eyes well immediately and a gut wrenching sob shoves its way up my throat and into the silence. I lean over the side of the couch suddenly not able to breath, I'm pulling in air as fast as I could but my lungs can't accept it. I'm crying in earnest now, the realization that I am reacting to Prim's death the same way my mother had my father's has me in a panic. All those years that I had blamed her, punished her because she was so shattered that the pain had reduced her to this. I'm sick with myself, if I had anything in my stomach, I'm sure it would be soaking into the carpet at this moment.

I'm barely aware that I'm being lifted, and seated back down, curled on a lap, until the hot breath fans across my face, leaving a cold sensation on my tear tracks. "Shh," Peeta's voice vibrates through my shaken body, "It's.." he trails off, as if he was going to say it was okay, but stops himself, he knows better. "I'm here," he rocks me gently, "Always." his lips press to my temple and I'm transported back in time, to the boy with the bread.

My gentle, sweet, friend. The boy that had saved me from starvation, from the arena, from the Capital, from myself. The boy that had been tortured into the man he was today, and my sobs started all over again. He should hate me.

I scramble to my feet and away from him, like he was the fire burning my skin. I couldn't stand to be comforted by him when he should be screaming at me, handing me the knife himself, telling me all the horrible ways I should be punished for what I've done. The words in my mother's letter overshadowed by my own thoughts.

I looked around for an escape, Haymitch blocked my way to the back door, surely he'd catch me before I even reached the handle. The front door was locked, and with my shaking hands it would be a miracle if I got it opened in time. I wrapped my arms around my knees, burying my face and sobbing so hard my back ached with the heaving gasps of air I would take. No one touched me, no one held me. They just let me cry. The only sounds in the house was my moans of pain and Haymitch's glass hitting the table periodically.

I must have cried myself asleep because the next thing I know is Haymitch is trying to slip a pillow under my head from where I still lay on the hard wood floor. My eyes are swollen and hard to open, they flutter, but Haymitch shh's me "Peeta is finally asleep." he whispers. "I'll be right here, close your eyes." I do as he says for once, too tired to fight him.

The orange light against my eyelids wakes me next. I don't know if it was the exhaustion or the blood loss but I slept through the night without a single dream. Something I hadn't experienced in years without the aid of sort of drug.

I open one eye and take in my surroundings. They are still sore from the amount of tears I had shed the night before, but far more easy to move this time. Haymitch is slumped in a side chair, his bottle of alcohol still dangling from his limp hand, head tilted back, mouth open, snoring softly. Peeta laying very still on the couch, his hands clasped on his stomach. His eyes open and stare at the ceiling. He looks over in my direction. He's searching for something, the look he gets when he's fighting memories, trying to decide which is real or not.

"No nightmares," He whispers.

"No. You?" I ask just as quiet.

"No." He looks back at the ceiling. "We would sleep together for that purpose, real or not real?"

I watch his jaw clench and unclench before he turns to look at me again. Raising his eyebrows. "Real." I answer. It was real, at first, but it was so much more than that. But I didn't have the words to explain why.

"You love me, real or not real?" He whispers after waiting for me to explain.

I roll onto my back and look up at the ceiling. I can't answer that one. It's not not real, but I don't know what that means. I see Peeta sit up out of the corner of my eye, his hands on either side of him on the edge of the couch. I don't have to look to see his knuckles turn white as he grips the cushions.

"Katniss. Was it not real?" I shake my head, I couldn't speak if I had tried. "Was it real then?" I turn my head to look at him.

I sigh and turn back to the ceiling. "I don't know." I breath. I hadn't notice that Haymitch had stopped snoring until he cleared his throat.

He placed the nearly empty bottle on the table beside him and rubbed his face with his hands. "Well since your both awake," He clapped his hands together loudly, "I should probably take this opportunity to tell you both, that we will be living together from here on out, until you are both deemed to live on your own by Dr. Aurelius." I lean up on my elbows to look at him. I'm sure my expression gets my outrage across. "Now we are all going to start on a new leaf and not to lie to each other. So," Haymitch turned his attention to me, "You should know I told Dr. Aurelius and your mother about the little stunt you pulled."

I pulled the blanket off of me trying to get up and attack him, when he was on his knees in front of me pinning my arms down.

"Now you can either cooperate and stay here and let me do my job. Or I can send you to District 4 and have your mother look after you in the hospital. Because if you don't let me keep you alive they will hospitalize you." His eyes meet mine, knowing that is the very last thing I want. I have the decency to downcast my eyes, the tension leaving my body, Haymitch backed up kneeling on one knee. "Now we will," He gestured to himself and me, "Will be moving into Peeta's house. I know there are too many memories for you here and Peeta's seems the safest route to go. Greasy Sae will be staying here."

I nod my head knowing there was no point in fighting, even if I had any fight left in me to give.

"I'm going to pack a few things for you, when you feel better you come and get what ever else you want." Haymitch stood and disappeared upstairs. There was rustling and I heard a vase break, a string of swears and he was back, my game bag filled. "Okay, let's go." Peeta and I both stand and follow him out the door.

Peeta took the lead when we reached the steps, taking out keys and unlocking the door, letting Haymitch and me in first, locking the door behind us.

The Victor Village's houses were practically identical, Peeta's just backwards from mine, being on the opposite side of the street. The only difference between the houses was the decor. The living room was sunny compared to my dark one. Sheer white curtains hang over the windows letting light fill the room, plush cream carpet only stopping at the doorway to the kitchen, letting a faded old wood flooring take the lead.

"Here," Peeta took my bag from Haymitch, who headed straight for the small liquor cabinet in the kitchen, "I'll show you which one will be your room."

I followed Peeta up the stairs silently. He pointed left to Haymitch's room that was at the beginning of the hall, down a few feet was a door on the right, that was his room, the next room on the left would be mine. The door that would have belonged to Prim in my house, was closed tight in Peeta's as well. I step into the starch guest room, a bed, a chest of draws, and a small table and chair to be used as a desk under the window. Peeta sets the bag down by the wall just inside the room. "There's a guest bath through that door," He points to a door in the corner next to the closet, "You should take a shower, you might feel better."

I doubted it, but I opened the door and headed for the shower. I heard the door to the room close before I turned on the water, filling the tub. I unwrap the bandage around my forearm and inspect the rough stitches there, no doubt Haymitch's handiwork. I open one of the cabinets and find a first aid kit.

I pull a sheet of pliable clear plastic and wrap it over my injury, taping the ends to my skin. Effectively making it water proof. I take my dingy cloths off slowly, sinking my aching body into the steaming water even more so. I soap up my arms, careful of the plastic, then my legs, and the rest of my body, scrubbing away dried blood. Finally all evidence of my suicide attempt are gone, except for the stitches, I lean back against the white cool stone and close my eyes, letting the steam pull the sadness from my body. I sink into the water letting it cover my face, wishing I could swim in this tub.

When I finally get out and wrap a towel around myself I'm more exhausted then when I went in. There is a tray of bread and jam, and cup of tea still letting wisps of hot air out. I sip on the tea slowly letting it hit my empty stomach. Taking a ginger bite of the bread as if testing it, then not realizing how hungry I actually was, practically inhale both slices of bread. I glance out the window and see my front door, the three small primrose bushes illuminated in the light of early dusk.

I close the blinds, grabbing the game bag and emptying it on my bed. I pull my cloths on and twist my hair into a braid down my back.

I chance a look in the mirror by the door, the dark circles under my eyes are practically gone, the grafts on my neck almost healed, leaving soft pink lines where they met with my unburned skin. There was color to my cheeks, most likely due to the full night sleep and the small meal I had just consumed. My hair still stuck out from the braid, too short to reach the end, but it was growing. I go to the bathroom and re-bandage my arm and finally wonder downstairs. Haymitch is nowhere to be found, probably drinking himself to sleep in his room. Peeta sat with sketch book in front of him at the kitchen table. I padded to the doorway, the carpet concealing my approach. "Hey." I said, he jumped startled. I should have made some noise. "Sorry," I look down to the floor.

"It's okay," He says, a ghost of a smile barely reaches his lips. "I was just thinking."

I nod and move to sit in the chair across from him. "What were you thinking about?"

He gestures to the pad in front of him, the page blank, pencil poised in his hand. "I want to draw, but I just can't get my hands to move."

My brows knit together, not quite understanding.

He continues, "I want to put something down on paper, something to keep my hands busy, but I can't get them to move." I can see by his face that memories are flashing behind those blue eyes.

I look around the kitchen and pull a fruit bowl filled with bananas and apples, peaches, pears and place it in the center of the table. "Why don't you draw these?" He looks at me, the fruit bowl and back to me, his pencil tapping on the surface of the table.

He nods and starts the beginning of the bowl. I cross my arms and watch the fruit, my eyes unfocused to the rest of my surroundings, content to listen to the gentle scratching of Peeta's pencil on the rough paper. When the scratching stops I look up to see Peeta studying me, I glance at the paper and see he had started to draw me behind the fruit bowl, eyes unwavering, a blank expression on my face, arms crossed. "Don't move." He says quietly, and he goes back to his sketch, detailing my hair, the scars on my neck, shadowing and erasing. When he was done he lifted it up so I could see. He was remarkable. There I was sitting across the table from him with the fruit bowl in front of me. Perfect. So real you could almost grab the graphite version of the apple.

I nod my approval, trying my hardest to bring the corners of my mouth up. I must have done well, because Peeta smiles back.