A/N: A very important thing to note here guys is that my hiatus is not over. This is not my story, it's a friend of mine's. He wrote this story but didn't have the courage to make his own account to post it due to it's controversial nature. But this topic is very close to my and his hearts. Any comments from you guys will be passed on to him.
People write stories on this site about horrid things like rape and murder and have sadistic plots where characters are tortured and yet, certainly not in this fandom, have I ever saw this issue being tackled. So, now it is being tackled. And please refrain from hatefulness in the comments, if you don't like it, don't read it.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.
One
Have you ever looked into a mirror and saw someone who wasn't you?
Imagine it every single day.
On the 14th of October 2010, a teenager went missing. Fifteen year old Perry Lorana disappeared without a trace. She was last seen exiting her family estate by a neighbour and was reported missing when she never returned. Police searches scoured the country and sent out missing posters to every country surrounding, but Perry was never found. On new years day the following year, the search ended and she was considered dead by her local village.
Perry Lorana ceased to exist.
And in her wake an insecure, scared boy arrived.
A boy with many secrets.
~xXx~
Four years later:
No one knew who lived in the house at the end of the road. The guy never came out. He even had his groceries delievered, never setting a foot past the threshold. No one went in, no one went out. It was a mystery amongst many of the people who lived in Panem village. The kids had theories ranging from pirates to ghosts to a mad man who kidnapped children and kept them in his basement.
No one really knew the truth.
Whoever lived inside that house was such a recluse that when Cato was called in to fix a sink, he was surprised.
Cato wasn't even sure why he became a plumber. It was an occupation he had never even thought about until he had been bullied into work experience by his dad and never found the opportunity to escape from it. Maybe now it was coming in handy and he had a chance to find out who lived in the house.
"The house at the end of the road?" Clove was beside herself. Cato shrugged as if it weren't that big a deal. He had gotten the call a couple of hours ago and was now sititng with Clove in the local coffee shop, discussing what he might find.
"Yup, the house at the end of the road," he replied.
"What do you think it'll be like?" asked Clove. "Do you think it'll be all dark and gloomy or do you think you'll be surprised?"
"I honestly don't know," Cato answered. He stirred his coffee with the small wooden stick they give out. "Maybe it's not as bad as people imagine. What if he's just like you and me? What if he just doesn't like other people?"
Clove shrugged. She picked at the napkin beside her latte and threw the small paper balls around the table. "My theory is that he's allergic to the sun. That sort of thing can happen. It makes your skin break out severely. Like a horrid sunburn times a billion. People with that can't go outside for more than an hour."
Cato considered it. At least it wasn't one of the more inconsiderate and brash theories. Some of the stuff that people came up with were truly disgusting. Like he was a dog killer or a pyschotic peadaphile. The worst theory of all was that some believed that the man that lived in the house at the end of the street was the man who killed Perry Lorana.
It was ridiculous, since a body was never found. Cato wasn't sure who the first to believe that Perry had been murdered was. But whoever it was blamed the man who lived at the end of the road and spread the rumour everywhere. Just another reason for the man to hide indoors from everyone. What would they say to him if he ever did come out?
"You know it's been four years," Clove said.
Cato blinked out of his daze. "Since what?" he asked.
"Since Perry Lorana went missing." Clove pushed a newspaper article across the table. Cato picked it up and quirked an eyebrow. It was a four year memorial article. A picture of Perry was on the front. She had bright blue eyes, an impossible deep cobalt. Her hair was in two pigtails, her skirt pink and swishing below her knees. What struck Cato as odd was that she had one of those blue and green shirts that were all the rage four years ago. Except there was one minor detail.
She wasn't smiling.
"Her mother got the shirt signed by Britney Spears for her tenth birthday," Clove explained. Cato ran his finger along the black markings along the chest of the shirt in the picture. "It was also the shirt she wore the day she went missing."
"Who would wear a signed shirt? Wouldn't she have wanted to keep it safe?" asked Cato.
"Beats me," Clove replied. "I didn't know the girl."
Cato remembered seeing Perry around the high school when he was in third year. She was a quiet girl, never seemed to fit in. She seemed constantly insecure, always on her own. Cato considered going to talk to her, but he always chickened out. Not in the 'she's pretty so I'm freaking out' sort of chickened but the 'What if she rejects me?' way.
Again, not in the way it sounds.
"Perry Lorana is the biggest enigma that this village ever had," Clove sighed. "I only wish that the police had found her. Put her parents minds at rest. But then again she mightn't even be dead. She could be in the UK, Asia, the tropics, just under a different name. I don't understand why everyone immediately assumes that she's died."
"Or was murdered," Cato added.
Clove rolled her eyes. "Or murdered," she said.
Cato looked back down at the picture on the article. Perry Lorana. Gone for four years. How could time have gone by so quickly?
Then again, sometimes it felt like every second had dragged on for hours.
"So when do you have to go fix the sink?" asked Clove.
"Tomorrow."
"I bet you he's hot," Clove blurted out. Cato raised his eyebrows in surprise. "What? Stuck in the house for years, maybe he's hiding eternal beauty or something?" Cato couldn't help laughing. "I'm serious! How long has it been since you got some? Even if this guy isn't attractive you'll probably flirt him to death anyway."
"Being flirty is my thing, I'll admit that," Cato chuckled.
Clove burst out laughing. "Oh my god I can totally see you coming out with things like, 'You've been hiding inside so long, think you might be needing some company?'" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
Cato sniffed and took another sip of coffee. "Nah, I'll probably just leave the guy alone," he said. "He always prefers to be on his own."
Clove's eyes had a symapathetic gleam to them. "But what if he called the plumber because he was sick of being on his own? You never know, maybe he's seeking the pleasure of your company."
"After four years of solidary confinement?" Cato asked. He had moved into the village a month after she disappeared. He moved in the dead of night, where no one could see him. People just woke up one morning and the house was occupied. "I'd doubt it."
Clove shrugged. "You never know," she said. "Sometimes being on your own for so long can make your realize that even the company of one is better than the company of none."
Even though this may have been the case for some people, it didn't seem likely in the case of the recluse with the broken sink. Something told Cato that that man generally did not want the company of anyone.
But for what reason, he had no idea.
~xXx~
Cato couldn't help noticing as he walked up the drive of the house that it was very unkempt. The grass was overgrown and scattered with weeds. He didn't know why he found this surprising. If the man never left his house , why would he bother about his front garden? Short answer: he wouldn't.
When he first knocked on the door, no one answered. Cato felt like a bit of a sap, standing on the doorstep of the house whose door never opened for people. Pedastrians walking along the pavements gave him funny looks, probably wondering if he was mad or stupid. Or maybe thinking that he was playing ding dong ditch and didn't fully understand the correct concept of the practice.
"Hello?" he loudly called. "It's the plumber!" God, he felt like an idiot.
Someone shifted behind the door. Cato waited, listening to the floorboards creak on the other side. Yeah, someone was definitely behind it. Okay, was this guy going to faff around? Because he didn't have time for that. If he was going to mess around then he was just going to leave.
"Look, if you've changed your mind and your sink has fixed itself then I'm just going to leave," he said.
He had adjusted to the zero response for so long that when the doorknob jiggled he jumped out of his skin. The tools bumped into each other inside his box, making a bash chinking sound. For some reason his heart sped up as the door slowly opened a crack.
A blue eye peered out.
"What's your name?"
The voice was firm but clear. Cato was taken aback by the authority. "Cato," he said. He held the toolbox up. "The plumber?"
The door opened fully and the blue eyes disappeared into the shadows. "Okay, come in." The voice had turned soft and quiet.
Well, here goes nothing.
Cato stepped into the house and was only three steps in when the man inside shut the door tight behind him, shrouding them in darkness. Cato squinted and could barely see a couple of inches in front of him. "Do you have any lights?" he asked. "I can't see a thing."
A small click made the lights come on. The interior of the house was tidy and upkempt, certainly more upkemt that the front yard. All the cleaniness reminded him that he needed to clean up his living room when he got home. It was a tip. "So," Cato said, "where's the sink?" He turned around to face the mysterious man and his throat went dry.
The man was standing at the door, brushing the blond hair out of his eyes. How could Clove have known that he was going to be hot? God, Cato really had to figure out how she predicted such things. He was slim, almost too slim, and stood with his arms folded insecurely against his chest. He was absoloutely beautiful. "It's upstairs."
Cato nodded in awe. He was about to turn around when he frowned and asked, "Sorry, what was your name?"
"Peeta," the blond boy answered. He picked at his shirt and smoothed out the wrinkles. Cato noticed that Peeta was wearing clothes too big for him. Why was that? Can't you buy clothes online?
Upstairs, the sink wasn't going to take too long to be repaired. The pipes seemed to be clogged up a bit, which only took about half an hour was Cato to fix up. He couldn't help feeling curious about Peeta and why he had spent so long in his house. Really, Cato had thought that whoever lived here was going to be an old man complaining about kids and how things in his day were a lot different. Not someone who looked the same age as him, maybe even younger.
What was keeping Peeta inside this house?
When he fixed the piping, Cato packed up and went in search of Peeta to tell him the job was done. The halls were long and endless, and Cato got lost five times before he found himself back where he started. He didn't even realize that there were houses this big in Panem village. Certainly beat his one bedroom bungalow anyway.
At the end of the hall, there was a door with a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. Those signs were turned weren't they? Maybe Peeta had went in there. Cato gently rapped the door with his knuckles but there was no response. Okay, so he knew he should have left it at that but he was definitely being nosy today. He had so many questions. Why hide? What is there to hide? What is it that he leaves in fear of? Why never set even a foot outside?
Inside was a bedroom. Just a plain bedroom. Cream walls, biege carpets, wardrobe, bed, drawer set. Cato stepped inside, examining the room curiously. He could, for some reason, smell musk and a tint of cinnamon. Was that Peeta's normal scent? If so, it was gorgeous. Cato had a desire to bottle it and keep it for a rainy day. Geez, he didn't even know the guy an hour and he already wanted a perfume of his scent.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting his thoughts consume him for a moment.
So Peeta wasn't an old man, like most believed. He was nineteen, tops. What sort of nineteen year old wishes to stay holed up in their house with no satelite for t.v. or internet connection? Cato remembered when he was nineteen all he did was have sex and surf the net. Then again, maybe Peeta was different from ordinary nineteen year olds. He seemed insecure, uncomforable in his own skin. Maybe he had social anxiety and refused to go outside because of it . . .
Maybe Cato could help him . . .
He could imagine himself laying the blond beauty down on the bed, kissing his soft lips, his tender neck, listening to the soft moans that would slowly be coaxed out of him. Running his fingers down the boy's thin torso, through his golden hair, over the plump contours of his backside . . .
Whoa, back it up and put it in park Hadley. You can do that later with some lube and a tissue if you need to but not here in the guy's house!
Something blue peeked out from underneath the pillow. It didn't go with the colour scheme of the room. Cato frowned and tugged it out, unfolding the cloth to reveal one of those blue and green shirts . . .
One of those blue and green shirts . . .
That were all the rage . . . four years ago . . .
There was writing across the chest, too.
'To my biggest fan Perry, Happy Birthday! Double figures, congratulations!
Britney xx'
Cato's heart stopped and his blood ran cold. Why did Peeta have the shirt Perry Lorana went missing in? There was only one explanation. The kids were right.
Peeta killed Perry.
Speaking of the murderer himself, Peeta appeared in the doorway. His eyes zoned in on the shirt and his face paled. "You killed her, didn't you?" Cato said, finding it very difficult to keep his tone tame. "You killed Perry."
Peeta shook his head the tiniest of bits. "No," he said softly.
"Then what other explanation is there for this?" Cato demanded angrily, standing up. "Perry went missing in this shirt! It's the same colours, the same style, the same autograph from Britney Spears! And somehow you have it? Why did you do it, huh? What did she ever do to you?"
"I didn't kill her," Peeta pressed. He snatched the shirt from Cato and held it close to his chest, almost affectionately. "You shouldn't even be in here . . ."
"Why? Because you didn't want me-or anyone else for that matter-to know that you killed an innocent little girl?!" yelled Cato.
"I didn't kill her!" Peeta yelled back.
It all just sounded like denial. To save his own damn skin.
"You can tell that to the police," Cato said. He tried to walk around Peeta but he stepped back and blocked the doorway.
"You can't," he whispered.
"And why is that?" Cato snapped. Peeta squeezed his eyes shut and a tear slid down his cheek. A tear of guilt? Crocodile tears? Playing the part up to make it look like he regretted murdering Perry Lorana?
"Because she's me," he said. Peeta opened his eyes again, the blue orbs glittering with tears. Cato hadn't had the chance to pinpoint the shade. They were a deep blue, almost . . . cobalt . . . "I'm Perry Lorana."
A/N: This is where you guys are either shocked or are one of those people who I'll never be fully able to understand who would be disgusted. R&R with your thoughts? My friend would love to hear what you think!
