These days move together like the vibrations of the wind. Some going so slow, they can hardly be felt. Some moving so rapidly, I can't find my footing. The Mockingjay is no longer soaring, it's broken. Its wings have been yanked from her torso, her vocal chords burned to ash. They brought me here to die. A forgotten war heroine left to decay in her district. At least the cameras are gone now, I don't have the strength to pretend.
He's out there again. Digging. I know he longs to make me happy, but it is something I am not capable of. Sometimes, in the evening, I can hear him arguing with Haymitch, pleading with him to help him find more flowers.
"She needs to remember. Prim will make her better."
But who will heal him? As much as I hate to admit, he's the only reason I'm still here. Every morning I shower, I run the comb through my thinning hair, and I attempt to smile just once in the mirror. Everyday I tell myself I will once again be the girl he loved, and everyday my tarnished reflection shows me the reality of what I've become. Who would want to see this, who could love this, who would want to be surrounded by this empty energy. Not only am I monstrous, my spirit has left me too.
In the evenings, he hovers just outside my front door. I watch him from the window as he paces in steady circles, whispering furiously to himself. I used to pretend he was nervous, that this new habit was one of a lovesick boy who was desperately looking to impress, but truly I know better.
I always leave the window up just a bit, just so his words can drift in. I let the sting of them pierce me. I swallow them like pills.
"You will not hurt her. She is not a monster. She did not kill your family. She is Katniss. Katniss...the killer? No! Katniss my friend."
But Peeta, aren't I all those things?
He knocks as a formality. He knows I won't answer it. But he also knows I'll be waiting for him by the fire. The door opens quickly, and he rushes inside. We don't speak, and I don't turn my head to look for him. He won't be focused on me anyway.
I hear the clanging of the bread pan as it falls on the counter. He gets clumsily when the fog hits. That's why he must avoid me in his first few minutes here, he's trying not to murder me. Starcrossed lovers indeed.
His heavy breathing calms, and his soft steps head towards me. I can feel him now behind me, I can smell the flour that dust his skin. I want to run my fingers over him. I want him to do the same for me. How long had I fought this, only to crave it so immensely now.
"I was up all night drawing Annie. The way Finnick always talked about her, so detailed. I wanted to make sure that I captured that."
He slides the picture into my lap, and it's hard to believe it isn't really a photograph of her smiling back at me. Here is Annie. The longer I stare the more I swear those big sea green eyes are going to blink. In this picture, she looks like she's in love, but how can she be? Finnick is gone.
"It's nice." I say, quietly handing it back.
He looks hurt, and I want to apologize. I know he's only trying to help. But it's so hard to create this book and not realize you are the reason these people are gone. But that's all the more of a reason to continue. I can't let them be forgotten. I pray for the day that I finally finish wasting away, but not them. They aren't allowed to be just memories. They too, will be heroes.
"Katniss, I found these yesterday. Tell me why you have them."
I cringe, but I don't look. I don't need to see the Nightlock berries to know what he's speaking of. Why can't he just leave things alone. Why can't he just let go.
"Katniss you can't. I, I won't let you."
"Peeta please," I begin to beg.
He couldn't have thought I'd really stay here. He couldn't have thought I'd go on. There's got to be something next after this. Even if there's not. Fading into nothing sounds right.
"So that's the plan." he said, his voice rising. "You were going to use me to finish this book and then kill yourself?"
"I'm not using you Peeta." I say facing him. "I just need your help. We have to tell their stories. I owe them."
"What about your story Katniss? You don't get to choose how it ends. No one should pick how their story ends."
"The world will know me as The Mockingjay. I lead the rebellion and we won. Sounds like a storybook ending to me."
"Are you crazy?" He says coming to stand before me.
He gets so close I shrink to the back of my seat. My body is conflicted, my heart is trying to beat out of my chest, but these butterflies want to spring from my throat. His closeness is making me dizzy. I want to run away, I want to run into his arms.
"This is not living," I whisper. "I don't want to hurt. I'm only here for…"
"For what?" he yells.
When I jerk from his fist he takes a step back. Wouldn't this be fitting. After all his hard work to not kill me, after fighting the false memories, and resisting the voices screaming in his head. I will be the one to push him over the edge.
We are quiet. I watch his chest rise and fall until the pattern becomes normal. His blue eyes slowly become clearer, and just like that he's back. Just like that he's whole.
"For you Peeta." I say when he nods for me to continue.
"I am only here for you. I can't help you. I haven't helped you. Look at you, you still want me dead, and there's nothing I can do to fix that. I can't get that poison out of you. So, this is all I've got."
"What sitting in this house pretending to be dead?"
"I am dead." I bite back. "Like I said, this is not living."
The laugh that erupts from him rattles me. I want to shed my skin and run.
"You're dead, huh? So explain to me then what's Finnick, Coin, Snow, Rue? What's that?"
"That's not fair," I whisper, tears forming in my eyes.
"No, what's not fair is this game you're playing. Dead. Dead! Katniss, you hunt almost every evening, you help Greasy Sae cook every morning, I watch you smell those flowers, why do you think I keep planting them? I watch that smile spread across your face and I know that I have to. I know damn well that I'm not the only one stocking up Haymitch's alcohol cabinet. And I'm sure next you're going to try to convince me that a stranger comes to clean up my kitchen at night?"
I'm baffled. I stare at him wide eyed, but I don't dare to speak. How does he know all of this? Does he really know me so well.
"You're only living for me? Good! Okay, that's fine," He shouts. "You live for me and I'll live for you."
"You aren't dead Katniss. You just feel guilty. We all feel guilty, but we're still here. But I'm still here."
He steps in close now. So close our noses brush against each other. I watch as his hand comes towards my face ever so slowly. He's patient with me. He doesn't touch me until my shoulders relax, and I breathe easy when his fingers find my face.
"It's okay that you're feeling more than just pain these days sweetheart. I'm feeling more and more too. I know you're feeling better. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you're not."
The words bubble, but they don't break. Can I say that to him? Are those brief feelings of joy really real. He's right, and I know this. I've known this. I smile when I catch a big game. I wake early just so that I get to hear Sae's old stories. I creep in his back door every night to clean up the mess he makes, and I hum while I do it. I really don't mind. Is it that I am only guilty that my friends can no longer do these things, is it that I am the only thing stopping me from being whole too.
"Katniss," He whispers as his lips rub softly against mine. "I'm tired of games. Aren't you. Can't we stop now?"
I lock my fingers in his ashy blonde waves, and weld my body against his. The tears are hot as they slide down both our faces. My fingers have trouble running smoothly down his battered skin, as does his with mine. But when his fingers trail lower, brushing against my chest and thighs I know he is not afraid of me. I can feel his satisfaction in my bones. We are both bruised, we are both hurt, but together we are healing.
And with him I find The Mockingjay is no longer broken, it's soaring. Its wings are still a bit crooked. Its voice not as loud, but it's rising. It's moving, and in listening to Peetas words, its found a song worth singing.
So after, when he whispers, "You love me, real or not real?"
I tell him, "Real."