Hotel Paper
[What were the last words you said to someone you love?]
The Meadow is one of my favorite places in District Twelve, and I find myself there more often than anywhere else besides Peeta's and my house. After the war, it was turned into a mass gravesite, which I hated at first, but I came to realize that there's no better way to honor those that fell to the Capitol's wrath. Today, flowers bloom regularly and the grasses thrive in the cool weather.
Peeta sits beside me, legs outstretched with one hand caressing mine. His prosthetic leg is hidden by his pants, but I can hear it when he moves. He had the option, years ago, to recreate his leg with synthetic tissue developed by the new Capitol's doctors, but he refused, saying that it was a part of him and a representation of a part of his life he didn't want to forget.
"Katniss? Do you think we should go in soon? I don't want Rye to catch a cold again," Peeta says, still rubbing my hands in soothing, circular motions. I'm not even sure he knows he's doing it, since it's instinct for him to comfort me in any way possible.
Taking a moment to consider the temperature, I shake my head no, wanting to leave a minute sooner than we have to. It'll be winter soon, and all our visits to the Meadow will be replaced by cozy nights huddled around the fireplace. "I think he'll be fine a little while longer," I tell him. "Rye's a strong boy, and it's not cold enough for him to get sick."
"You're the healer," Peeta replies, looking at me with a hint of mirth in his eyes. It's a running joke between us that despite being able to shoot squirrels in the eye without any regrets, I can't stand the sight of human blood without feeling ill.
With a scoff, I lightly punch him, knowing that it won't hurt him at all. "Healer. Right. We'll see how great of a healer I am the next time the kids scrape a knee," I say, grimacing at my usually sorry attempts to fix anyone up after an accident. I'm glad District Twelve has a fully functional, well stocked hospital, because anyone coming to me with a hope that I'd work some of my Everdeen magic would be sorely disappointed.
"You did well enough the last time," he reminds me, bringing to the forefront of my mind a memory of a bawling Rye and a very guilty Celia. I still remember her mumbled apology and horror that she'd hurt her brother in some way.
"All I had to do was bandage it, remember? It was - and these were your exact words - fool-proof," I say, glancing at him with a meaningful look. "Don't try tacking any skill onto that particular incident."
"You healed me, though," he whispers, pulling me close to him. "Remember? I don't think you could consider that fool-proof at all - in fact, didn't the doctors warn me that I might never recover?" His expression is soft, radiating love for me. Some days I feel uncomfortable knowing that someone loves me as much as he does, but right now I'm content enough to accept it and hope that he knows how much I reciprocate.
I lean into him, a smile tugging at my lips. Eighteen years ago, if someone had told me that I would be able to feel happiness again, I would have screamed at them before spending another listless day watching the days pass, one by one. After all, I was worse than dead. I didn't deserve anything good. But I've been happy for a long time - a formerly foreign concept to me.
Watching Celia and Rye skip through the grass, chasing each other, reminds me what I have to be happy for. Celia is only eight, but she's wiser than I was at thirteen. It was obvious early on how much of Peeta she had inherited, besides her bright blue eyes. She spent countless days as a toddler sitting in a high chair in the kitchen, "helping" Peeta with bread or cookies. Today, she visits the bakery every day after school just to help her father, a gesture Peeta tells me he appreciates.
At three, Rye is a natural troublemaker with an alarming tendency to find where I hide my bow and arrows. He takes after me, although he has an innate sweetness that I know can only be Peeta's, no matter how many times he assures me I can be a very nice person, when I get over the lethal part of myself. At the moment, he races after his sister on pudgy legs, giggling with delight as Celia flees from the stick he waves in his hands.
"Slow down a little, Rye," I call to him, afraid that he'll slip and force me to tap into the non-existent healer portion of my brain. "And Celia, let your brother catch up to you. He's only three - there's no need to run like that."
Celia pouts at me, but when I give her a stern look she turns back and waits till Rye is closer to her before setting off again at a slightly slower pace. "She's a sprinter, just like her mother," Peeta remarks, his eyes following Celia's progress around the Meadow. "Delly tells me that she's the fastest girl in her year, and not far behind some of the boys."
"Of course she's a sprinter," I say, proud of her. She's modest to a fault, which is probably why I've never heard of anything like this. It makes it harder for Peeta and I to congratulate her on her accomplishments, but at the same time I'm glad she's as humble as Peeta is. "She's my daughter, after all." Our daughter.
"Your daughter... so that must be a reason why she scowls at me just like you do." Peeta dodges my slap and laughs, resting his head against the tree behind him. "Sorry, love, couldn't resist. You have a beautiful scowl, Katniss, I promise. I wouldn't mind you scowling at me all the time."
Of course, I scowl as soon as I hear this, making Peeta smile and brush the hair from my eyes. "You're just telling me that because I'll be annoyed if you tell me any differently," I say. "Or possibly because you're delusional enough to truly believe everything you say."
"I do believe what I say - that's why I say it, Katniss," he replies. He squeezes my hand and touches my face gently. "You're beautiful, and I know I'm right."
When he leans in, it feels as natural as breathing. Right after the war, I used to shy away from his kisses, but as time passed I found solace and stability in them, relying on them to anchor me to reality when I felt like the world was spinning out of control. Now, they're just an extension of our love for each other, and I let every emotion I feel run through me, hoping he can feel how happy I am to be there with him.
He responds immediately, wrapping his arms around me. It's as intense as every other kiss we've shared - sweet and soft, but with the same passion that's been there for years.
It's only when I feel myself beginning to run out of air and find myself unable to move that I realize that something is terribly, terribly wrong and I freeze, my lips still on his but now completely still. After a second of shallow breathing and Peeta's death grip, I push my panic away for a little later and carefully extract myself from his arms, using the strength I've maintained through hunting every day to pull away.
"Katniss. Come back," Peeta says, but it's not his voice. It's Capitol-tampered Peeta, with his harsh, raspy voice and cloudy eyes. I know what's wrong as soon as I notice that I can't see the blue eyes I've come to associate with him.
"Celia, can you take Rye home?" I ask, working to keep my voice controlled and at a reasonable volume. "You can go to Haymitch's house if you feel more comfortable with an adult, but please go there now. He'll know why you're there."
Right before Celia was born, I forced Haymitch to promise he'd be there for our children if Peeta and I couldn't. At the time, the new Capitol wasn't as stable as it is today, so there was always the risk of a Capitol rebellion and skirmishes within the districts. Besides that, Peeta's flashbacks were much more regular eight years ago, and I needed to know that I could rely on Haymitch if necessary.
"Looking after your kid can't be any harder than the ducks in my backyard," he had said, looking at me with what I could have sworn was a nervous expression on his face. "As long as she's quiet and doesn't try to grab the birds."
It was his way of assuring me that Celia would always have someone else to go to outside of her parents, and I've needed to call up Haymitch multiple times since then. The last time, however, was before Rye's birth - over three years ago. I wonder if Haymitch can handle a toddler, but one look at Peeta tells me that the kids can't be here.
Celia glances at her father, an expression of realization dawning on her face. "Let's go, Rye," she says, grabbing his hands and the stick he's holding and walking briskly off in the direction of our house. "Do you want to visit Uncle Haymitch?"
I can't help but take a second and hate that Celia has to know the warning signs of a flashback, whereas other little girls her age worry about clothes and school. There's no time to dwell on Celia though, because Peeta's looking at me with a hint of longing on his face - longing to take a knife and plunge it into my back. Berating myself for not taking his pills with me - though how could I have anticipated something like this happening now? - I take a step back and whisper in a reassuring voice.
"Peeta, I'm Katniss. I've been married to you for thirteen years. We have two beautiful children, Celia and Rye, and you love baking with Celia. You say Rye takes after me, and you tell me that Celia's smirk is all mine," I say, starting off as I usually do - with our children. It usually works, because the Capitol never tainted those memories, but today he continues advancing towards me, the bloodthirsty look still haunting his eyes.
"Mutt," Peeta says, staring at me with a fierce intensity. "You're a mutt. You hurt children. You'll hurt me. I have to hurt you first." His fists are clenched by his sides, and I know it's a sign that he's fighting the urge to strangle me. "You're a mutt. Get away from me!" He stumbles backwards, struggling between lunging for me and retreating.
"Please try to remember," I plead. "I love you. I love our children. I'd do anything to save you, Peeta. Anything. I'm Katniss, Peeta. You love me, and I love you. That's the way it's always been." I take a risk and grab his hands, squeezing them so he can't pull away. "Don't let them take you from me."
Peeta looks down at our clasped hands, seemingly carrying on with an internal battle. "...Always," he murmurs, himself for just a second. "Always... I have to kill you," he says, throwing my hands to the side and growling at me.
Shocked with tears running down my face, I back away slowly. Why didn't I take those pills? I haven't had to deal with Peeta's flashbacks in so long that I've forgotten how much of an effect they have on me. Experiencing one, as Peeta does, has to be difficult, but for me, it's unbearable. I know he's not himself, but every word pierces my heart.
"Not real," I say, reverting back to the game we played all those years ago. "Not real, Peeta, not real. Not real. My name is Katniss Mellark, and I love you and our children. Real." I'm not dealing with this as I should - normally, I would be reminding him of everything he loves and all the little details that keep him sane, but today is just as much about keeping me sane.
Surprisingly, his eyes clear and his fists unclench, his breathing slowing and becoming more natural. Peeta takes in my tear-stained cheeks, the broken look in my eyes, and he hugs me, both of us holding on to each other as if the world's about to end.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispers in my ear, burying his face in my hair. "I'm so sorry, Katniss. I tried, and I'm sorry." He seems to be trying to reassure himself as much as me, and I know why. "I thought... I thought I had gotten over those years ago."
The Capitol doctors told us he might have to live with the condition forever, but he took it upon himself to free himself of the curse. Three years ago, we thought he had finally achieved it - had finally beat the Capitol, even though the rebellion had been won and the government collapsed.
"I'll call the doctor," I say firmly. "It's just a freak accident. A few days of pills and some rest, and you'll be perfectly fine, okay? I promise. You have to believe it, Peeta. For me." Towards the end my voice gets slightly high-pitched, my tone becoming more hysterical, and I calm down enough to add three words onto my plea. "Stay with me," I whisper, so softly that I'm sure he can't hear me.
"Always," Peeta replies, just as quietly, and I have to turn before the tears come back.
Peeta is called to the Capitol a couple of weeks later, and I insist upon going with him, arguing that Delly and Haymitch can take turns with Celia and Rye. Delly, being one of Peeta's best friends from childhood, agrees immediately, deciding to take a couple days off from school to make sure that they're comfortable. Haymitch, on the other hand, takes slightly more persuasion.
"Three days? Three days? What am I supposed to do with them for three days?" he asked. He was sober - ever since Peeta's latest flashback, in case we needed him again - but didn't look too pleased about it.
"You're not even the one watching them," Peeta pointed out, reminding him that they'd be living at Delly's house the whole time we would be gone. "All we're asking you to do is check on them a few times a day, because the kids are most familiar with you."
That much is true - Haymitch has always been "Uncle Haymitch" to Celia and "Unca 'Aymitch" to Rye. If they had a choice, I'm sure they would have decided to stay with the cranky old drunk, although that might be because they've only caught him sober before. I'm also certain that Haymitch secretly loves the kids and their closeness to him, so Peeta's statement is all it takes to win him over.
Haymitch grunted once. "I suppose I could do that - for three days," he relented, his eyes wandering into our front yard where Celia and Rye played. "Only three days though, sweetheart - anymore I can't guarantee."
Immediately I started arguing with him, trying to convince him differently, if only for my peace of mind, but Peeta dragged me away. "For all the times you've been able to read between the lines you're not really great at deciphering what Haymitch says, are you?" he said lightly, when we were in the safety and comfort of our front porch. "He loves those kids, you know - he'd never let anything happen to them."
Skeptical, I raised my eyebrow but decided to trust Peeta - after all, he's much better at reading body language than I can, seeing as I'm usually oblivious to people's emotions.
So here we are, four days later. Two weeks ago, we sat in the Meadow, carefree and happy. Today, we sit in the Capitol office, waiting to be admitted. It won't take a long, I know, because as past Victor and a war hero of Panem, he inevitably gets shunted to the front of lines. Even if he wasn't so important to the country, we arrived at exactly the right time, so we could see the doctor as soon as possible.
Waiting has never been my forte. Most of my life has consisted of waiting - waiting to turn twelve, so I could take out tesserae and prevent my family from starving, waiting for the Hunger Games to end with Cato's death, waiting for Peeta's rescue team to return... waiting to figure out what's wrong with Peeta now. Tapping my shoe on the tile floor impatiently, I watch the clock hanging on the wall to my side.
"It's just a check-up," Peeta says, reaching for my hand. I'm ashamed that even though he's probably fighting off his own fear, he's still making sure I have a shoulder to cry on. "Maybe I need to take the pills more regularly or something."
"I know," I reply. "That doesn't stop me from worrying." I grip his hand as if it's my lifeline, which, in many ways, it is. While I know that the chances of the doctor saying anything else other than an assurance that Peeta is fine, will continue to be fine, are slim, it's been a long time since I've experienced anything traumatic. Maybe I'm long overdue for a tragedy to set me in my place. I'm right here, Katniss. Me? I'm this thing called life.
"Come on, Katniss. Think about Celia's face when she sees what we bought for her. We'll see them in a couple days. Do you think Delly's worn them out with dolls and toys?" Peeta smiles, moving his thumb to the corner of my mouth and coaxing me to do the same. "I wonder if she knows how much Celia hates dolls."
I laugh quietly, trying not to disturb the other patients in the waiting room. "She'll love the notebook," I say, remembering the little package tucked into my suitcase - a bound book of parchment paper, just for her to draw in. She's already showing signs of becoming a promising artist, and we try to encourage that as much as possible. "And Celia's too polite to tell Delly if she does hate the toys she gives her."
"I wonder who she gets that from?" Peeta asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Definitely not from her mother - she's too full of fire to let anything like that pass so calmly."
"All her good traits she gets from her father," I reply, not rising to the bait. "She's beautiful and smart and kind, all of which are traits you've given her, not me." I'm not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, and while I can be cunning, the true brains in this relationship would be Peeta. As for kindness... we're lucky none of our children inherited that gene from me.
"You're beautiful, smart, and kind," he insists. "The most beautiful girl I've ever seen, at five and at thirty-five. The smartest, most intelligent person I've ever known... with a bigger heart than anyone else -"
"Let's call it 50/50, shall we?" I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. It bothers me slightly that he has such an inflated image of me, especially considering that it's the farthest thing from the truth.
He nods and squeezes my hand. We sit in silence for a few minutes longer, giving me time to compose myself before Peeta's name is called and we have to go in. No matter what my feelings are, I'm set on making sure Peeta has the support he needs.
"Peeta Mellark," a nurse calls, her eyes on the two of us. "Will your wife be accompanying us?" she asks, giving me a once over and holding the door open for Peeta.
"Yes, I will," I reply, before Peeta has a chance to answer for me. "Thank you."
The three of us walk down a spacious hallway, all chrome and silver. It feels so clean, and the scent of sanitizer and antiseptics burn my nose, reminding me of the many times I've walked down this hallway. Both Celia and Rye were born in District Twelve's hospital, a place significantly cheerier than this one, but Peeta has been treated for his hijacking in this very building for years.
The nurse makes Peeta stand on a series of instruments to check his height and weight, and after a few waves with a glowing wand she pulls from her coat pocket, she purses her lips and scribbles furiously on a tablet. "Dr. Aurelius will be with you shortly," she says, still writing on the device in her hands as she walks out of the room.
"Never thought we'd be back here, did we?" Peeta says softly, looking around the room. With a jolt, I realize that we've been here before - this very room. "I didn't think I'd be back. You know, this is where I wrote all your letters... I sat on that bed, and used that counter. Dr. Aurelius let me use his pen."
Lost in his memories, he absentmindedly rubs my hand, leaving me to my thoughts. Before Peeta returned to District Twelve, he wrote a series of letters to me, at the doctor's request. Because I was dealing with my own demons, I let them pile up at the front table, not listening to Greasy Sae's advice and opening them.
They sit in my nightstand drawer, pushed to the back. I rarely open that drawer, but I promised myself that one day, when I could be sure of Peeta's and my family's futures, I'd read them, but I don't think that day will come soon.
Dr. Aurelius walks in just as I glance at the door, causing Peeta to jerk in surprise. Both of us rise greet him, but he waves our hands away. "Mr. Mellark," he says. "It's a pleasure to see you again, although not given these circumstances."
Peeta responds with a nod and takes his place on the hospital bed, waiting for the doctor to check him out. "It's nice to see you again, too," he says.
"Ms. Everdeen -"
"Mellark," I correct him. "Katniss Mellark. It's a pleasure seeing you again, as well." My tone is brisk, and it's obvious to everyone in the room that I'd rather not see him again, give what he represents - uncertainty, pain, and fear.
He nods, acknowledging my correction. "Mrs. Mellark, my apologies. I hope I can assure you that Peeta will be fine, as he's come further than anyone else in overcoming what he endured in the Capitol," he says, already moving to his computer to read what the nurse wrote on his file.
I sit in the chair in the corner again, feeling a terrifying sense of déjà vu as I watch the doctor do the preliminary check-up - heartbeat, blood pressure, and temperature. I constantly have to remind myself that there's nothing wrong, even though my instinct tells me differently.
"Mrs. Mellark, we'll have to do a brain scan, but I think the only issue is a relapse of flashbacks. Like I said when we met last, I don't believe he'll ever be free of them, but he can certainly minimize the number of occurrences." Dr. Aurelius, after I nod my understanding, leads Peeta out of the room, telling me that they'll be back in fifteen minutes after going over the scans.
Peeta kisses me on my forehead before following the doctor, leaving me in the cool room by myself. To distract myself from the worries assaulting me, I glance around at my surroundings, smiling softly when I see a wall of pictures of a much younger Dr. Aurelius and his family, presumably his daughters.
I find myself fixated on one of the pictures towards the center - a little girl with auburn hair, running on a field holding a yellow balloon. Looking at it, I can imagine Celia doing exactly the same thing back home in Twelve in the Meadow. When I touch the surface of the photo, I realize that it's slightly wrinkled, as if someone dipped it in a glass of water before leaving it out to dry.
The other pictures are in the same condition - pristine besides the wrinkles, and all depicting his daughters playing or hugging him and their mother, who I assume is the tall, brown haired woman, smiling at the camera. The dates in every corner tell me that these were taken over eighteen years ago - some of the more faded ones, up to twenty years in the past.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that I almost don't notice the doctor and Peeta walk in again some time later. Dr. Aurelius tucks a brown envelope into his coat, not offering to show it to me, but before I can ask him about it, Peeta presses his lips to mine. Although I return it with the same fervor, part of me is confused. We're not much for physical displays of affection anymore, so much so that some people doubt that the love born during the Games is still there.
"I'm right here," I say after taking a breath. "Right here, Peeta. So how did the brain scans go?" I bite my lip in a familiar sign of worry, looking at his face carefully for any sign that there's anything wrong. His expression is passive, unreadable, and for once he's not an open book.
"There's nothing wrong," he replies after a short pause. "I'm fine, I just need to take the medicine Dr. Aurelius is going to give me." Peeta hugs me and spins me around, and although I giggle with elation and the feeling of being weightless, I have to wonder what brought on this impulsiveness.
Dr. Aurelius coughs, bringing us back to reality, and we both look at him. "I'll leave the prescription with Mr. Mellark. For now, call me if anything develops, all right?"
"Nothing will, right?" I ask quickly. "Peeta said everything was fine and that he only needed to take the medicine."
A look flashes across his face, but it's so fast that I ignore it. "I believe so, yes," he replies, pulling out a notepad and writing down the medicine he's prescribing. "But it's much better to be safe than sorry." With a flourish, he signs the paper and hands it to me, shaking our hands before we head out the door.
As I pass by the wall of pictures, I can't help but ask. "Are those your daughters?"
The sadness in his eyes is no illusion. He nods, looking at the many photos covering the wall. "Rae and Paige... were my daughters," he answers, a faraway look in his eyes. "Both died in the Capitol bombing eighteen years ago."
The new pills are smaller and a darker shade of blue, one that Peeta tells me is the exact color of midnight. To me, it's the color of nightlock - tiny and deadly. Every day, he takes two pills, one after he wakes up and one right before he goes to sleep. And while he insists that he's fine as he's always been, I have the senses of a hunter, and I can tell that the medicine is doing more than preventing his episodes.
"Daddy?" Rye toddles up to his father, climbing into Peeta's open arms and leaning against him. "Daddy, can you teach me how to bake? I wanna help you like Celia does. Please, Daddy?"
Peeta glances at me as he laughs, looking at my mock horrified expression when I hear that my son is following in my daughter's footsteps. "Did you hear that, Katniss? You'll have two bakers in the family after I'm gone. You'll never run out of bread with these two around," he says affectionately, running his hand through Rye's soft curls.
I look up from the cleaning I'm doing in the kitchen, frowning at Peeta's statement. "You won't be gone for a long time yet," I reply, forcing myself to maintain a light, playful tone. "Although I'm sure Rye will be just as good a baker as his father is."
Peeta catches my tone and looks at me worriedly, a question in his eyes. I brush it off and return to scrubbing the counter down with more vigor than before so I can start dinner before it gets too late. For the next fifteen minutes, Rye's squeals of delight fill the house as Peeta pokes him in his stomach, while Celia sits at the dinner table, drawing in the book Peeta and I brought home from the Capitol.
She's been quieter these days, wrapped up in her pictures and depictions of what she imagines the Capitol to be like. Sometimes I worry that she doesn't appreciate the new Capitol for what it represents, only its high rise buildings and tasteful fashions from all twelve districts. I have to remind myself at times that she's only just eight and doesn't understand what her parents and adults all over Panem endured to allow her to enjoy fantasizing about the Capitol.
One day, in the near future, I'll have to explain to her why Peeta and I avoid cameras like the plague, why I won't let her touch the book on the very top shelf, why her father sometimes doesn't recognize her. But for now, I'm content to let her draw in her Capitol notebook, wondering why her parents stiffen when the name is mentioned.
I toss a handful of vegetables into a pot, not even noticing Peeta gently pick Rye up and walk into our bedroom where he sleeps. It's not until he comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist that I turn to acknowledge him, letting myself lean into his embrace. A very small part of me is worried that one day, we'll be in this position when he has one of his episodes, but I try to keep my body as relaxed as possible so he can't tell the difference.
A few seconds later, Peeta steps back, giving me the space I need. "Something's wrong," he says. It's a statement, not a question, and he looks into my eyes questioningly. "Is it the medicine? Me? Do you want me to make dinner instead?"
"Yes, somewhat, and no, you make dinner often enough. Besides, I'm the only one in this house who can make stew as good as Greasy Sae's," I say, making sure I add a smile to show him I'm only teasing him - because like everything else, he's much better at cooking than I am. I hope to diffuse the tension in the air - am I the only one who feels it? - with my jab at his culinary skills, but something tells me I won't be successful.
Peeta doesn't rise to the bait like he usually does, just stares at me with worry etched into the lines on his face. "Don't joke, Katniss. I know something's off. Something's been off since we came home from the Capitol."
Something has been wrong. Every night, Peeta sleeps earlier and earlier. He puts off more of his work at the bakery or shifts it to someone else there. No one else find it abnormal, because to the others it's about time he starts easing his work load. But I see it for it really is - he's tired. Worn out. Exhausted. And although there's not enough hard evidence to back up my belief, I'm almost sure it's the medicine.
I glance at the bottle of nightlock pills on the counter - labeled and closed tightly to prevent Celia or Rye from deciding they want a taste. "I'm just worried, that's all," I say softly, and from the way Peeta follows my gaze and stiffens at the sight of the pills, I know he understands exactly what I mean.
Peeta sighs, looking at his feet. "I'll be fine. Don't you remember what the doctor said? Everything's clear, I'll just be having some relapse episodes. And the pills should prevent even that." His eyes wander to the pills again, but he doesn't look me in the eye. It feels different, talking to him and not being able to see the brilliant blue of his irises. Different and disconcerting.
Putting my hand under his chin, I gently force his face up until it's level with mine. There's something in those eyes that makes me worry even more. There's love, as there always is when he looks at me. But besides that I see hints of... fear? Guilt? When he jerks my hand away and turns he's not meeting my gaze anymore all my worries are confirmed. There's definitely something wrong.
He moves away, out of the kitchen, before I can ask him about it. "Rye's asleep," he informs me, his tone casual, although I can tell from years of living with him that it's forced. "I think I'll take a nap too; I'm exhausted from my day at the bakery." Only then does he look up and give me a half smile before retreating into the bedroom.
I'm left with a pile of food, a simmering pot of stew, and a growing fear that my fears are not all unfounded. His smile confirms that - it's exactly the same one Dr. Aurelius wore when he told me about his - deceased - daughters.
Despite everything, the medicine lulls me into a state of security. For weeks after our Capitol visit, Peeta doesn't suffer from any more flashbacks, and I start to feel hope, hope that maybe everything will go back to normal again.
Peeta stands at the kitchen counter, for once not plagued by fatigue or exhaustion, making tonight's bread. I smile when I see it, because I recognize the type he's making from the handful of other times he's baked it for us. I remember holding two loaves of that same bread, slightly burnt and with small pieces torn out of the heel of one, and running back home to share them with my family. It brings back a flurry of memories, which make me both sad and grateful - sad because the bread represents one of the worst time periods of my life but grateful because against all the odds, it gave me Peeta.
As usual, Celia stands by his side, watching carefully as he explains exactly how to knead the dough so it comes out as perfect as every other loaf he's ever made. She nods at every word he says, soaking up the information like a sponge. When it comes time for her to try, she hesitantly attempts to copy Peeta's hands and is rewarded with a smile.
"She'll be the next Mellark baker for sure," he says proudly, watching Celia finish the bread with more confidence than before. "How would you like that, Celia? Would you want to take over the bakery?"
Celia nods quickly, her head bobbing to show how much she would like that. "Is this okay, Daddy?" she asks, holding her dough in front of her.
Peeta gives it a once over and nods, letting her put it in the oven and set it to the right temperature and time. He moves to my side, taking Rye out of my arms and relieving me of his weight. At three and a half, he's heavier than I can hold for extended periods of time but light enough for Peeta to carry, considering his strength.
"Katniss, did you pick up the cheese and herbs I need from town earlier today?" he asks, rubbing Rye's hair fondly and rocking him in his arms. He's oblivious to my stare, which might be just as well because I don't want him to be alarmed. Celia looks up at me just as I quickly hide my emotions, her eyes asking for approval.
"The bread is wonderful, Celia," I say, and she scampers off to her room, presumably to add more drawings to her already almost full notebook. "Peeta, we both went to town today, remember? You needed a new pair of shoes, and you wanted to help me pick up Rye's birthday present. So we left the kids with Haymitch and ran errands for the rest of the afternoon." I watch him carefully, waiting for him to slap his forehead and say something about how bad his memory is getting.
He frowns, absentmindedly scratching his head. "We did? I must have forgotten," he says, glancing down at his shoes. "Well, I'm going to nap before dinner. You know how to finish up the bread, right?"
I nod quickly and take Rye back from him, ignoring my arms' protests. "Remember to set your alarm," I say, giving him a quick kiss before he goes into the bedroom. And right then, all the dread I've felt over the past couple of months rushes back, almost overwhelming me. He's not himself. That's more apparent than ever in the sudden feeling of his hands on my throat, almost making me drop Rye.
"Mommy!" he screams when he sees his father's face, red with rage, and buries his head in my neck. "Mommy, what's wrong with Daddy?" he asks, clutching my hair so tightly that he manages to extract a few strands from my scalp. His tears soak the back of my shirt, and it's all I can do to not scream myself. I don't know what's wrong with Daddy, Rye. And that scares me more than you can ever imagine.
I knock Peeta's hands away, taking advantage of his lack of coordination, and stumble backwards, putting Rye down and calling for Celia. She runs in from her room, takes in the situation, and without a word pulls her brother out the door, most likely headed for Haymitch's house. It only takes a few seconds, but that's all Peeta needs, because he lunges for me again.
It's different from the last time. In the Meadow, he had much more restraint than this. Today, his fists are clenched not out of the struggle to keep himself from hurting me, but to maximize the impact of his hand on my face. For all my skills, for all the time I've spent in the woods before and after the war, no one has ever taught me how to fight a loved one for my life... most likely because I've never found myself pinned against a wall, at the complete mercy of the one person who swore he'd never intentionally hurt me.
Not for the first time, I feel a burning sensation behind my eyes. As I always do, I start with words - words to remind Peeta where he is and who I am. It's futile, I know, because he glowers at me with the same hatred as before I said anything, with no acknowledgement of my words. I search his eyes, but all I can see is disgust.
"Fucking mutt," he mutters, taking a swing at me. I scream - not being able to help myself - and force myself from Peeta's hands, only just avoiding his fist. "Get back here. You killed my family. You killed everyone. District Twelve is gone because of you."
"No!" I shriek. "No, Peeta. You're standing in District Twelve right now. In our house. It's been eighteen years since the Capitol fell. You're not in its clutches anymore," I say, my voice ragged from crying and screaming and wondering where it all went wrong.
There's murder in his eyes, woven into his countenance. I'm going to be killed by Peeta Mellark today. I let out a strangled laugh, because nothing about that sentence sounds right at all. Peeta would never kill if he could help it. Peeta wouldn't, but Capitol-twisted Peeta would. He moves towards me again, infuriated that I dodged him. He won't miss again, I realize.
Thinking quickly, I dart into our bedroom, praying that he gives me the few seconds I need to fumble through our dresser drawer. Peeta rushes in after me, dead set on killing me once and for all. A choked sob escapes my lips, and I pull the syringe out of the box, only half sure that it's the medication I want. One use only, the label reads. Precautions: May cause addiction if used excessively...
In the moment between the time Peeta reaches strangling distance and the second I turn around, I consider my options. Dr. Aurelius warned me before that morphling counteracts the medicine Peeta takes, which are designed to target the brain. But it's clear there's no other choice - to keep from inflicting harm on anyone, myself included, he needs to be knocked out. And there's no chance of me physically injuring him.
"I'm sorry, Peeta," I whisper, reaching forward and pushing the needle into his thigh. Peeta bats the syringe away, glaring at me with loathing in his eyes, before he drops to the floor, in a drugged sleep. Unconscious, he looks much like he always does - sweet and kind and caring. I can feel another tear slip down my face as I carry him to bed, tucking him in before closing the door.
After I take care of Peeta, I run. I can't handle seeing Haymitch or my - our - children right now, nor do I want to stay in the same house as Peeta. I run for the woods, wishing that Gale was there but knowing that for the moment, I am totally and completely alone. Grabbing a coat and my shoes, I bolt out the door, not even listening to Haymitch's calls or Celia's pleading. Within five minutes, I'm safe on the other side of the fence.
I don't hunt. I don't forage or climb a tree. In fact, I barely walk. As soon as I find a suitable place to sit, I collapse, my knees pulled up to my chest and my eyes staring straight ahead, not seeing much more than blurry blobs in front of me. Somewhere behind me, I can hear footsteps, but I don't want to acknowledge them. In another time, I would have whipped around, bow loaded and ready to shoot, but I'm not that girl anymore - the fire that made me so famous feels dampened, extinguished.
"Katniss," Haymitch says, reaching me. "Katniss, you have to get up." His voice is surprisingly comforting, devoid of the biting scorn that characterizes him. From the oddly emotional tone he speaks in, I can tell he knows what happened. He holds out his hand, and though it's dirty and reeks of liquor, I take it.
"I can't... go back," I say, shivering in the breeze. My coat is still bundled in my arms, but I lack the energy necessary to pull it over my shoulders, so I let Haymitch take care of that for me. "I can't go home, Haymitch."
He sighs loudly, a little more of the harsh, insulting mentor back in him. "Sweetheart, if it was just you, I'd have let you stay out here and freeze to death. But the fact is that both of your kids are at my place, terrorizing the ducks and preventing me from downing a nice bottle of wine." He forces me to walk, pulling me all the way up, firmly but carefully.
I know it's his way of reminding me that I have a life, a family to be strong for, so I straighten up marginally and let him lead me out of the forest. Haymitch doesn't make any conversation at all, just concentrates at moving at a brisk pace to the fence and drags me back to Peeta's and my house, where Celia and Rye sit on the front porch. Both look worried, and I hate myself for leaving them behind.
"Katniss, listen to me," Haymitch says harshly, talking into my ear. "You made me promise that I would be their for your children if you and Peeta couldn't. I promised that, and I will stand by that promise. But it'll be void if you don't try your best as well."
He waits until I nod before lumbering back to his house. Seeing Celia and Rye there should have given me new confidence, but all I feel is the heavy burden on my back.
With the new episode comes new treatments, new medicine - and another trip to the Capitol. When I see Dr. Aurelius again, I feel so tired that I sink into my chair, not even bothering with formalities. I've seen the doctor many more times that I would have liked.
"Mrs. Mellark," he says carefully, and I can tell he's making every effort not to offend me by greeting me any differently. "Last time you visited, I had my suspicions..." He pauses here, trailing off. It's obvious that he's nervous, and is it just me? Or do I see a hint of sympathy in his face? He fingers the armful of papers I have and shifts a brown envelope to the top of the stack in his apparent unease.
I can only put up with so much, so I look up at my him, my mouth set in a straight line. "You need to do more brain scans," I say flatly. "And you'll do everything you can to figure out why Peeta is suffering like this. I am not leaving until you can give me a definitive answer," I continue, my eyes narrowed. Even though I know that Dr. Aurelius isn't any part of the problem, he's the only person in the room I can take out my anger on.
Peeta rests his hand on my shoulder in an obvious attempt to appease me, but I brush it off. "Katniss, he tries to do just that every time we're here," he says quietly, reaching for my hand instead. When I don't pull away he goes on, rubbing my hand comfortingly as he always does. "It's not his fault."
"Just go," I say, already turning away. "You have brain scans to complete." Only when I'm sure they're both gone and the door shut behind them do I let myself sigh. When the tears fall, I'm not surprised, even though I've always hidden my emotions as best as I could. Time has made me soft, I realize, soft and vulnerable.
Once more I find myself staring at the wall of pictures. But just as I'm about to lose myself in thought wondering about the doctor's daughters, I glance at the brown envelope on the bed against that wall, reading the name written on it in black marker. The name is Peeta Mellark. And the date is October 5. The last time we were here.
Hesitating over the flap - the envelope is stamped with the word confidential in big red letters - I wonder how wise it would be to open it. My curiosity is overwhelming though, and though I'm much mellower than I was eighteen years ago, even the "confidential" label on it won't stop me from pulling back the tab and reaching in to read the papers inside.
The first picture I see is one of a brain. Normal brain scan, the top reads. Control 45-738. Shrugging, I shift it to the bottom of the stack, tilting my head to read the words on the next picture. Brain scan: Patient 2334529 (Mellark, Peeta), it says. 5 October. The differences between the two scans are amazing - I'm no doctor or healer, but even I can see that Peeta's brain differs significantly from the norm.
My forehead crinkles as I concentrate on the next page of the pile. Diagnosis, the page says. Patient 2334529 (Mellark, Peeta). As I read the rest of the diagnosis, I stiffen and try to stop the chills from running down my spine. The further I get, the less words I retain, although some jump out at me. Hijacking, mental issues, memory loss, drastic behavioral change - and worst of all high chance of death within the year.
I sit frozen for the longest time, my eyes still glued to that page. Diagnosis, the page says. But to me, it's a death sentence. Not only Peeta's, but mine as well. For minutes I stare until the words blur together, and when a tear falls off the bridge of my nose and lands on the sheet of paper, all I see is black - black ink, swirling around on the page until everything is illegible.
The door is pushed open, and Peeta and Dr. Aurelius step in. They freeze too at the sight of me hunched over that goddamn stupid piece of paper, the doctor's face uncharacteristically grave and Peeta's face ashen. For a few seconds, it feels like the world has stopped around me.
"When?" I ask, breaking the silence. "When?" When no one answers, I stand up, waving the Diagnosis sheet in the air. "When were you going to tell me? When were you going to show me this piece of paper? You knew, both of you knew! Were you planning on keeping this from me forever? Would I have found out on your deathbed, Peeta?" I'm screaming, punching randomly in my fury and hurt.
"Mrs. Mellark," Dr. Aurelius starts. "Peeta specifically asked me not to -"
Peeta moves forward and hugs me, pinning my arms by my sides and whispering into my ear until I'm quietly sobbing into his shoulder. "Katniss, I wanted to tell you. I really did. But you deserved a little more happiness, and if you had known, I was afraid you'd spend the rest of the time I have... left angry at the world," he says, still holding onto me.
"How long?" I ask, tears still running down my face. "What about treatments? This is the goddamn Capitol, there have to be treatments." When Dr. Aurelius looks at me with that sad smile on his face, I lose it. "You can cure anything! Anything at all! But not this?"
"I believe that the hijacking Peeta suffered eighteen years ago has somehow mutated in his brain, causing all of his memories to be modified. There is no way to stop the progress, although there are medicines to make him comfortable... these are the side effects I guessed he would have to suffer if he was able to make it past the first stages of hijacking. It's had time to take control of his brain. And now... it will wreck havoc." Dr. Aurelius holds my gaze a moment longer, but he then glances down at the tiled floor. "Mrs. Mellark, even I'm not sure what this is. But the evidence is there."
"You are the Capitol," I say after a minute's consideration. "You are the fucking Capitol, and all of Panem's taxpayer's money goes into funding your research, so you can save people. You can save every other damn person in this hospital, and you're telling me you can't treat Peeta? There are medicines and surgeries and treatments! Good for nothing, fucking -"
The room was designed to be sound proof. But my voice pierces the material, echoing into the hallway. Peeta drags me out, as Dr. Aurelius stammers his apologies. Within minutes, we're pushed into a black limousine with blacked out windows, and the driver ignores my screams and drives us to the hotel we're staying at for the night.
"Katniss, I'm trying," Peeta whispers, his face more broken than I've ever seen before. There's a bruise blooming on his face from where I no doubt inadvertently punched him. "I'm trying so hard that sometimes my head wants to crack open. I'm sorry I can't try any harder."
My sobs eventually subside, to be replaced by an ever growing shame. Even now, possibly on the brink of death, he's still looking out for me... while I lie here, drowning in my own despair.
Haymitch was right all those years ago. I'll never deserve Peeta Mellark.
The thought doesn't make me feel any better.
Life goes on. The thought makes me depressed, because for me, Peeta represents life. He's my dandelion. He's my life. And just thinking about life without him is like considering my death. But because I have two children dependent on me for their lives, I do as much as I can to make sure nothing about our daily routine changes.
Every morning, I wake up early to hunt. I find myself out in the woods more and more often these days, sometimes channeling all my energy into shooting and skinning and other days finding a tall, tall tree to perch in for hours on end. Despite the bitterly cold weather, I manage to bring home enough game to feed our family and to bring to Greasy Sae's restaurant where the Hob used to be.
Peeta, if he notices the sudden surplus of dead animals in the house or the constant absence of my hunting shoes from the closet, he doesn't say anything, instead struggling with his episodes and medication. Immediately after we returned from the Capitol, it was easy to believe that little had changed, but as the days passed, his flashbacks occurred with an alarming frequency, often coupled by memory loss and murderous tendencies.
Celia and Rye stay at Haymitch's house often now, and although Haymitch constantly complains about not being able to drink, he puts up with their presence surprisingly well, keeping them occupied with his geese or stories, when he feels sober enough. Both of them don't ask about Peeta, although I know Celia suspects at least some of the issue and Rye, however young he is, knows that his father isn't quite right.
Sitting on our back porch, barefoot but wrapped in a warm jacket, I wonder if I'm doing everything in my power to make living worth it. The fear that I'm turning into my mother, slowly shutting out the world, returns in full force, and I shiver in the cool air. When my father died, my whole world changed, forcing Prim and me to grow up far too soon, far too fast.
I hear the back door open, and Peeta steps out, looking better than usual. He's showered and dressed as he usually is, in a long pants and a sweater. He looks at me, asking for permission to sit next to me, and I nod. As soon as I feel his hand in mine, I sigh, because I've missed him. In my worrying, my never ending fear, I've forgotten what it's like to simply be.
"Where are the kids?" Peeta asks, rubbing the back of my hand like he always does. If I close my eyes and push out the memories of the past couple of months, I can almost imagine that my world is right again. "With Haymitch, I guess?"
I nod, glad that he remembers my telling him that I was sending Celia and Rye over there so I could get some cleaning done. "He's better with them than I'll ever admit to his face," I say, thinking about how I walked in on him rocking Rye back and forth, although he replaced the slight smile on his face with his customary frown as soon as he saw me.
"Haymitch has always secretly loved little kids," Peeta replies, looking at me with mirth in his eyes. We used to do this sometimes - used to sit around outside insulting Haymitch just because we could. Other times we'd invite him over, and we'd gather around the table in front of me with a plate of food or a drink and talk late into the night.
Needless to say, that hasn't happened in a long time.
A silence falls again, broken only by our soft breathing sending puffs of warm air into the space in front of us. Warmed by Peeta's presence, I feel a glimmer of happiness - a glimmer of hope - beneath the layers of depression of buried myself in. It's easy to believe that somehow, all our problems will dissipate into the air.
"Katniss, how are you?" Peeta asks, his voice softer than before. He shifts his body slightly so he's facing me, inches away from my face. "And don't give me any bullshit about being fine, because I know you're not."
How am I? How do I answer that question? I'm scared, worried, hurt... "I'm okay," I reply just as softly, staring at the garden Celia and Peeta used to love tending to. It's dead now, from lack of care and the harsh weather. But it used to bloom in the magnificent colors, a rainbow that rivaled any made out of rain and sunlight.
With a sigh, Peeta falls silent, still clutching my hand. After a few minutes, he looks up at me again. "There's life outside, you know." He stares at me, as if memorizing every line, every wrinkle of my face.
Listening to him, I can pretend he's telling me not to forget that even in the dead of winter, plants can still grow. But I know what he's really reminding me of - that there's life outside of him, after he's gone. Life goes on, I repeat to myself, hoping upon hope that it's true. "There is," I agree, staring at the evergreens in the distant woods. "There's always life."
"I wish -" Peeta stops there, and I can hear him getting choked up again. "I wish I could see the kids more often," he says, not looking at me anymore. I can hear the emotions behind his careful tone, and I instantly feel guilty about keeping Celia and Rye out of the house in an attempt to keep them safe from Peeta's episodes and from the knowledge that he won't be here with them for much longer.
I pull him up, being careful not to hurt him , and lead him inside the house long enough for me to hand him his coat and shoes. I slip my own jacket on, rubbing my frozen feet to thaw them out, and together we leave the house to go to the one next door. At first, Peeta's confused, but as soon as he sees Celia and Rye, bundled up in a scarf, sweater, and mittens, his face breaks out into a wide smile, and he turns to me, kissing me full on the mouth.
It's been ages since we've touched like this, and as it always has, it sends the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. For a second, I can lose myself in the sensation, something I thought I'd never know again.
I love you.
"I didn't mean right away, you know," he whispers in my ear, this time leading me. Despite the paleness of his skin and his thinning hair, the most obvious signs of his illness, he glows in anticipation of seeing his children. I make a note to myself to keep Celia and Rye at home more often, knowing that it's the first step to keeping the door open to those I love.
"I know," I whisper back, loving the feel of his lips on mine. And although the sadness fills me again almost immediately, I make an effort not to let it cripple me anymore.
That night, Peeta wakes me up at four in the morning, looking panicked. His eyes are wild, his hair mussed, and I reach up automatically to smooth it down. When he bats my hand away, I worry for a second that he's having an episode, but I realize that's not it. I hold his hand, like he holds mine, and speak softly to him, trying to calm him down,
"Celia and Rye," he repeats, like a mantra, glancing around the room, as if he's being attacked by an army of ghosts. "Celia and Rye - Katniss, where are they?"
"Asleep," I say soothingly, forcing the tears in my eyes not to spill over, because crying would only worry Peeta more. "They're asleep, I promise. Do you want to see them?" I ask, silently apologizing to them in advance for possibly waking them up.
"I don't remember anymore. I don't remember what they look like. Does Celia have blonde hair? Blue eyes? Or does she have your eyes? And who does Rye look most like? Katniss, I can't remember." He pulls me up out of bed, pausing at the door. "Can you take me to them?"
Although I've tried so hard to keep the tears from falling, a lone drop slides down my cheek, although I hope that he can't see it in the dark. Somehow, this is worse than any of his episodes, because while it breaks my heart to hear him want to kill me, this runs deeper than that - deeper than a desire to murder. "Of course you can," I say, willing my voice not to crack. "Let's go check on them."
We tiptoe through the hallway, and Peeta looks terrified of everything around him. He mutters about not remembering, touching certain things as if to confirm that they're there. "Katniss, why don't I remember this being here?" he asks, pointing to a picture above the fireplace. When I look more carefully at it, my heart stops, and the dam behind my eyes finally breaks.
We both stare at a picture of Peeta and me, although only one of us remember when it was taken. In the picture, I'm decked out in white, with primroses tucked into my hair. Peeta is dressed in a black suit, carrying me to the door of our house. Just recalling those details forces me back into the past, reliving the whole event. The happiness I felt that day is foreign to me now, after months of worrying.
"That... that has always been there," I say, touching the glass covering the photo gently, not bothering to try and stop the tears running down my face. "The happiest moment of our lives," I whisper, more to myself than Peeta, although he catches the tone and rubs my hand gently, even though he's not sure why exactly I'm crying.
The thought of him looking out for me, comforting me, even when he clearly remembers so little, speaks volumes about his limitless love for me, and it makes me cry even harder, the sobs shaking my shoulders until I sink to the floor. I can hear a door creak open, and through cloudy eyes I see Celia walk slowly over to me and hold my other hand.
"Mum," she says quietly, tilting my chin upwards with small hands. "Mum, you have to get up." She pulls me up and wipes my eyes, despite the fact that she's groggy with sleep and cold from the lack of blankets covering her. After tending to me, she talks softly to Peeta, leading him to bed and leaving me on the couch, clutching the small cloth Celia handed me and leaning heavily into the soft material.
A while later, too long for me to be thinking and wallowing, yet too short, because it feels so painfully good to vent, Celia returns, rubbing her eyes and sitting down next to me. For some minutes longer, we both sit in the near darkness, not saying anything and barely breathing. I close my eyes, willing to sleep to find me again, but Celia's soft voice wakes me again.
"Dad asked me about Rye," she starts, her voice hardly louder than a whisper. "He wanted to know who he took after, what he liked doing, his eye color, how tall he was... he wanted to know everything about Rye. And when I was done, he kissed both of my hands and told me he was glad to have seen me." She glances down at her clasped hands resting in her lap.
I swallow thickly, wishing that Celia didn't have to find out this way. "He doesn't remember you or your brother anymore," I say, knowing that those most be some of the most hurtful words you could say to a child. But she needs to know.
Celia sniffles, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, and nods, taking that in. "He's not okay, is he?" she asks, although she knows the answer to that. She's known from all the times I've yelled at her and Rye to leave the house, from the bruises on my wrists from when Capitol-Peeta grabbed them, the tears I can never seem to keep back anymore.
Shaking my head slowly, I grab her hand, needing someone to hold onto. "No," I whisper. "No, he might never be okay again." Voicing the truth I've been trying so hard to deny all this time breaks me once again, but I'm out of tears. All I feel is a gaping void in my chest, and I clutch Celia's hand, ashamed that once again, I'm incapable of giving comfort.
Celia nods, quiet, before she speaks again. "So he'll never get better?" she asks, and in the darkness, she sounds like the vulnerable, innocent eight year-old she is, reminding me that she's not always the strong girl she is when she leads Rye out of the house. She shouldn't have to be.
"I never said that," I say fiercely, momentarily forgetting the sadness and pain in my heart. "He has to get better. He must get better. I don't care what the Capitol doctors do, but he will live." My voice gets louder and louder as I continue, until I'm almost yelling, screaming at anyone to believe me. Why won't anyone confirm what I'm saying?
With tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, Celia wordlessly gets a glass of water and pushes it into my hands. "I know you have to believe he will," she says carefully. "But living in denial only makes it worse when the truth hits you."
I take a sip of cool water, letting it slip down my parched throat. For a child, she speaks with more wisdom than I can ever muster. "He has to get better," I repeat, but now my voice is raspy and faint. "He will get better."
Celia pushes the hair out of my hands and leads me to the bedroom Peeta and I share, tucking me in and kissing me on the forehead, like she used to when I'd fall asleep on the sofa. "Remember what I said about denial, Mum? Try not to lose yourself in misplaced hope." She shuts off the lamp light and closes the door softly behind her, leaving me once again with a head full of thoughts and an excess of sadness.
Glancing over at Peeta's sleeping figure, at the bottles of pills lined up on his nightstand, to be taken around the clock for as long as is necessary, I wonder when Celia got to be so wise.
All I remember is a heavy fist swinging at me and the moment of panic before I fell onto the hard ground beneath me. When I wake up in a hospital bed, glancing around at the sterile instruments around me and the silver chrome that makes me curl up under the sheets again, I have to take a moment to gather my wits.
A nurse clad in startlingly white clothes comes over to me, reading the screen to my left and nodding as she writes something down on her notepad. I stare at her, not understanding why she's here and why she looks so grave, but before I can puzzle that out I remember something.
"Celia and Rye," I gasp, pushing myself up in bed and preparing to rip the tubes from my skin, consequences be damned. "Where are they?"
The nurse pushes me back down again, adjusting the blankets around me until she's satisfied with the result. "A Haymitch Abernathy is currently taking care of them," she says, as if she's not quite sure who he is. "I can call them up to see you now, if you wish." When I nod, she pauses, looking at me, before nodding and picking up the phone by my bedside. She turns to leave, but not before she gives me a glance I can't decipher.
Minutes later, my door bursts open and two blurs rush in, lunging at me. For just a second I forget where I am and why I'm here, losing myself in my children's embrace. A little ways behind them, Haymitch stands, looking awkward in his clean clothes. There's a distinct lack of the alcoholic odor he always wears, and I realize the other reason I'm so surprised at his appearance - he's not carrying a flask on his hip like he usually does.
"Mommy!" Rye cries, wriggling on to the hospital bed. He fingers my bandages with pudgy little fingers and frowns. "Mommy, did you hurt yourself? You should be more careful next time!" he scolds, trying to maintain his supposedly angry expression.
With a jolt, it all comes rushing back. "Peeta," I say, handing Rye to Celia and sitting up in bed again. "Where's Peeta?" I ask, looking to Haymitch and demanding an answer. When no one does, I look press the button next to my bed, summoning a nurse. She appears seconds later, sweeping in through the door. I repeat my question and watch as she abruptly turns away.
"Your husband is in the Mental Ward," she says, her tone carefully clinical. "After both of you were admitted to this hospital, he was sedated to keep him from harming other patients and doctors. I was told that you will be allowed to visit him... after you are discharged."
I open my mouth to argue, but a glare from Haymitch shuts me up. "Is that all?" I ask, sensing that she's holding something back.
"No, I was also told that Dr. Aurelius will be with you shortly, to discuss your husband's health." Finally, she looks me in the eye, and I can see something I'm not used to seeing - pity.
"Send him in," I say, not bothering with please or thank you or any other the other manners I tried so hard to teach Rye. I've seen that look before, and I dread Dr. Aurelius' visit, because if I'm right, I'll be forced to confront my demons much sooner than I had planned... because the last time I saw that look in anyone's eyes, my father was dead.
After the nurse leaves, Haymitch tells the kids to sit down and hands them a book from one of the shelves to keep them occupied. He stands next to my bed, apparently not sure what to say. "You're not alone," he finally lets out, looking at his feet. His voice is harsh as usual, and at first it sounds completely normal coming from him, but there's an undercurrent of reassurance.
Nodding, I look away from him and the kids, unable to think about anything but what Dr. Aurelius will come to tell me. Possibilities swirl around in my mind, and though each scenario becomes more fantastical than the last, all end the same way. I feel pressure on the palm of my hand, and I know without looking that Celia is there, keeping me anchored in the present.
More than ever now, I appreciate her thoughtfulness.
The door swings open, and a familiar man walks in. Dr. Aurelius. He stands for a second in the doorway, taking in the scene before him: Haymitch staring out of the window at the setting sun, Rye playing quietly on the sofa, oblivious, and myself, my head slightly turned and my expression no doubt listless.
"Mrs. Mellark," he says, greeting me, but he pauses and changes his mind. "Katniss. Can I call you Katniss?"
I sit up and nod, shaking his offered hand. "Dr. Aurelius," I return, trying not to sound as weary as I feel. "How's Peeta?"
As soon as he looks away, mirroring the nurse's actions, I know. "No," I whisper, staring at him in horror. What was the last thing I told Peeta? Did I tell him I loved him? I'm almost sure I did, but between the crying and the begging, I'm not sure he heard me. When was the last time we kissed? In my mind I flash back to that day outside of Haymitch's house.
Dr. Aurelius starts shaking his head. "No, no. No. Peeta's still alive and physically healthy." The fact that he had to include that word, physically,only just prepares me for what comes next. "Mentally, however, the tracker jacker poison has complete control. Not only does he not remember, he is prone to hallucinations and murderous rages... like I'm sure you know."
I do. I know all too well. "There's something else," I say. It's not a question, and I'm sure he knows that, because he meets my gaze steadily and doesn't deny it. "What are you not telling me?"
"There is a way... to save him." Dr. Aurelius fidgets with the papers in his arms, and I realize with a jolt that those are Peeta's files, the very same ones I went through at his last visit. He looks nervous, but there's a sadness in his face that I've learned to connect with his daughters' deaths. It scares me more than anything else.
"What is it?" I ask, afraid to hear the answer. Part of me is elated, because I know I'll do anything in my power to cure Peeta. But the tone of his voice is anything but, and he says it with a deliberation that makes me doubt the simplicity of this cure. Everything has a price - I learned that early on. And I'm not sure if the price in this particular case is one I'm willing to pay.
He hands a single sheet of paper to me, the top emblazoned with the header I've come to recognize. Capitol Hospitals, typed in simple calligraphy and ending in a flourish. The first paragraph consists of the same courtesies included in every official document, leaving me with a single, shorter paragraph beneath it. I scan it several times until I finally understand. Before I can stop myself, I let out a ragged whisper.
"Peeta," I say, lowering the paper. The last time I said his name like that, in circumstances just as dire, I knew nothing about him - except for the little bit he told me the night before. If I'm going to die, I want to still be me.
His one wish - his one dying wish, as his death was almost certain that night - might not ever be granted.
Dr. Aurelius, not being able to interpret my reaction, plows on. "It's rarely been done, on mentally disturbed patients. But there is a way to replace all memories up to this point with a set of new, personalized ones before relocating the him elsewhere, possibly the outskirts of an outlying district."
His words meet silence, for such a long period of time that I'm sure he's beginning to wonder if I'll ever respond. Finally, I meet his eyes. "But I'd be able to see him... we'd be able to see him," I say, already knowing the answer, because I, of all people, know about the issues that come with tampered memories.
He shakes his head, slowly, deliberately. In my peripheral vision, I notice the nurse slip back into the room, standing off to the side. Celia is listening intently, her gaze focused on my face. Haymitch pretends not to be eavesdropping, but I can tell how agitated he is by the way his fists clench open and shut. When he looks up to see my eyes on him, he clears his throat - preparing to put in his two cents, I'm sure of it.
But I beat him to it. "No," I say, my voice clearer and steadier than it has been since I woke up. "I couldn't."
The doctor blinks at me, although I get the impression that he's not that surprised at all. What shocks me is the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes, and I belatedly remember that Peeta has gone to Dr. Aurelius for every one his health issues since the rebellion. I'm not the only one who wants him to live.
"He could be happy there, Katniss. He would live. The Capitol would no longer have a hold on him. Most of all... he would be alive and healthy. Healthy," he emphasizes. The way he addresses me, by my first name rather than the more formal Mrs. Mellark confirms everything I've just realized. There are others fighting for him, too.
"No," I insist. I can already taste the salty residue of tears on my lips, but I wipe them away. "No - never. There has to be another way. There's another way to do everything in this goddamn Capitol." Dr. Aurelius moves forward, making a signal to the nurse, who comes over with a needle.
"I'm so sorry, Katniss." His voice is broken, something I've never heard before. It makes me pause, and the nurse uses the lull in my protesting to plunge the syringe into my skin.
"Get off me! Get - off - of -"
I'm sorry, Katniss.
This time, the voice is unmistakably Peeta's.
In the corner, balls of crumpled paper litter the floor. Broken pens are scattered amongst the mess, ink spilling out of the ends and staining the carpet a deep blue.
I write mostly on hotel paper.
Every sheet of the expensive parchment comes printed with a gold olive branch at the top, a lingering sign of the district's opulence and wealth, even so long after the war ended and the agreements were drawn up to prevent it from becoming too powerful. Unfortunately, it still leads Panem in luxury production and fashion insanity.
Muttering to myself, I scratch out the words again. Too sweet, too harsh, too cold, too deep. What would you say if you could plan your last words to someone? How do you even fit everything you want to say into a few short sentences?
Seconds later, a new paper ball is added to the pile.
The room is empty. It's large, with plenty of space for the luggage Haymitch hastily threw together when I was brought to the Capitol. The aforementioned luggage is open on the floor, Celia's and Rye's discarded clothes in piles in and out of it. They had so much trouble finding something to wear - Haymitch had packed all of their old clothes, and Celia was forced to borrow my smallest shirt and wear the pants she came in.
No, I tell myself. If my mind strays to them now, I'll lose my resolve. So I push them out and force myself to look once more to the pad of paper on the bed in front of me. Blank, so blissfully blank.
Shaking, I put my pen to the sheet again, wincing as a dot of ink leaks from the tip and stains the paper. I can't very well leave it there, a lone bit of ink in the middle of nowhere, so I scrawl something quickly, something that's been bubbling to the forefront of my mind lately.
Seeing the phrase in sharp contrast with the paper makes me frown and toss the sheet away, tossing it haphazardly to the floor. It's very short - only three words - but they seem like a lie now. If you love me, why are you letting me go? Why? I can almost see Peeta's hurt face in my head, asking me why I ignored him.
"What else do you expect me to do?" I scream at the room, flinging the pen away, which hits the wall and makes a resounding crack before falling to the floor in two pieces, broken. "Did I have any other choice?"
Giving up on the letter, I move to the blinds, which let in a fair amount of sunlight despite the fact that they're partially closed. I throw them open and witness a fiery sunset, sinking into the Capitol horizon. The light reflects off the tons and tons of glass that is the defining characteristic of the city, making me blink.
It's orange. Orange, like the sunset. And although I know I will never forget that, for as long as I live, it's not right to trust my already fragile mind to hold all this in.
Rummaging through my clothes, I throw them all out, in search of the one item in my bags that isn't an article of clothing. Immediately I see it, nestled among a few dresses that Haymitch so thoughtfully packed - black, the color of mourning. He knew, I think, hating him for not telling me. But my anger dies down when I realize that everyone knew - everyone but me.
I heft the journal out, feeling its weight from a hundred heavily inked pages, holding my last gift to those lost in the war. Peeta and I stopped filling out the pages some years later, feeling that there was no one else we were missing. And so it stood in our library, gathering dust from its spot on top of one of the shelves.
Opening it now, I turn to the next blank page. A sob escapes me, and I hurry to the phone, dialing room service.
"Hello?" A chirpy voice greets me, although there is an undercurrent of tension. By now, everyone knows that Katniss Everdeen-Mellark checked into the most expensive hotel in the Capitol - and consequently, the one closest to the hospital. And everyone with eyes could have seen that she arrived with her two children and Haymitch - with no sign of her obviously ailing husband.
"I need a pen," I say, trying to steady myself. "Many pens. And better pens then the complementary shit up here. I also need a bottle of paste."
"Of course, Mrs. Everdeen. The supplies will be sent to your room right away." With a cheery farewell, she hangs up the phone, leaving me to wonder when my reflexes got so slow.
Minutes later, a teenaged boy shows up at my door, his face most likely red from the rush he was in to bring the materials on time. "Mrs. Everdeen," he says, greeting me formally. Although his eyes dip down towards the floor when he bows, as he straightens up he immediately peruses my blotchy skin. "Your things."
I press a few coins into his hand, thanking him, before I shut the door again. Once again, I'm faced with paper and a pen. Lunging for the journal, I start scribbling, my words in no structure and my thoughts in no order. The words flow out almost as quickly as my tears do.
You love the color orange, I start, refusing to put loved instead. You're a baker and a chef. You're a husband and a father. You're my first love and my last love.
My handwriting smears together as the salty drops fall onto the paper, but I rub them away hastily. From there, all I can do is write.
You love to hear me sing, I write, taking pains to shape every letter exactly, so anyone reading this would never mistake the phrase for something else.
When Celia was born, you kissed her, every bloody inch of her, before turning to me and smothering me in the same kisses. I was exhausted, worried, and hungry, but I would never turn away your kisses. I don't believe in magic, but every kiss you give me is the closest I'll ever get.
You used to come to the woods with me. You were loud and you scared every bit of game away from our house to the lake, but I would never have it any other way.
The phone rings, interrupting the hurricane of thoughts pushing to be written down. I drop the pen, pick up the phone, and throw it at the corner, not even hearing it shatter into a thousand pieces.
The ringing stops.
Celia is a baker. You love teaching her the best way to knead dough, the best way to ice cookies. She's the only person I know who can follow along to your baker's jargon and the only one in our family who can bake cookies as soft and sweet as yours. Sometimes, you let her take control of the kitchen, smiling with no little pride at her bustling around, crimping pies or putting a loaf of bread in the oven.
My tears taste suspiciously like the sweet pink cookies Peeta made for me on Valentine's Day. I'm crying now, and I'm not making any attempt to stop myself.
For our tenth anniversary, we went to District Four.
I pause, remembering the time we spent there.
It still marks one of the best days of my life. I taught you how to swim, and you taught me how to build sandcastles. And for a few hours that day, we were perfectly whole again.
"Not anymore," I whisper.
There's a loud knock on the door, followed by the sound of scuffling. "Mommy? Mommy, are you in there?" Rye's baby voice is clear despite the distance and the door between us, and I can just make out Haymitch's gruff scolding.
"Hush! What if she's sleeping?" Practical as always, Celia's voice floats above the rest, and Rye stops, giving me a second to finish the entry.
You'll be my only love... always.
It's messy and covered in tears, but I finally feel like I've accomplished something. Exhausted, I clean up and stick the book back under the pile of clothing before opening the door.
It takes a long time, but slowly I begin to sing again. The bittersweet melodies I sing become clearer as the days pass and I slowly regain my voice, harsh and grating from weeks of minimal use.
I'm hesitant about it at first. Singing is painful for me. It brings back too many memories of a better time, one when I had nothing more to worry about than whether or not my father would bring me to the woods after school that day, or whether or not my mother would let me pour tea for our small family. Later memories of post-war tragedies surface. And such memories plague me, draw me into their depths and cause me to rage needlessly at the unfairness of the world.
Singing has saved me twice before, though. It kept me alive after I killed Coin, even if at the time I wanted the exact opposite. But deprived of human contact and feeling, I found myself searching for my voice again, if only to hear something else besides the dull sound the pills in their container made and the clink of the silver spoon against my plate.
Singing gave me Peeta. And in that, I'm most grateful to the gift for music that I inherited from my father.
Even now, it keeps his memory alive. That particular memory, one of a whole and healthy Peeta, is one I wouldn't mind surfacing a little more often, blotting out the image of the deranged man he was before he was given a second chance at life.
Unfortunately, that chance didn't include me or his - our - children, or any of the people he once held close to his heart.
For months I wanted to regret my decision. Living without Peeta almost killed me, and I found myself wondering why I ever thought I could manage alone. For all intents and purposes, I couldn't. Haymitch was over almost every day, spoon feeding me warm broth and making sure Celia and Rye went to school.
Thirty-six weeks after I left the Capitol, a letter came in the mail. I had forgotten it was scheduled to come, but as soon as I opened the envelope and saw the hospital seal on the paper inside, I remembered what it was for. I threw the letter away, but I kept the picture that came with it.
In it, Peeta leans against a tree, smiling. He's perfect and looks as wonderful as he did a year ago - ten years ago. In his hand is a scrap of paper, embossed with a gold symbol at the top. Even though I couldn't what was written on it, I knew immediately where it had come from. I could picture the word in my mind, colored a dark blue.
"He would live," Dr. Aurelius said.
Granted, it's another life, and the smile in the picture isn't for me. But he lives.
His memory is enough for me.
Always.