I stand, filling the teakettle at the stove. The kettle is silver, the handle dented and worn from years of use. The scalding water skips around the edges, singing it's shrill melody. Some runs over the edge, burning the exposed flesh on my hand. I jerk my hand back, grabbing at it and tearing away at the skin, trying to scrape off the pain. The kettle clatters on the wooden floor, the water splashing like tears. I cannot fight the burning; I cannot fight the memories it brings.
"Prim," My scream shatters the empty room. "Prim," I hear myself choke out between sobs. The burn will not leave.
The tensions slowly eases itself out of my veins as I feel his strong hands clench around my shoulders. I stifle a cough as flour itches the back of my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory away. I feel his thumb brush away a tear from my feverish cheek. We sit like that for hours, on the floor of the kitchen. Peeta, in his apron and work pants, his back against the cabinetry. I am curled into what he calls my "cinnamon roll position", life of a baker's wife, my back pressed against his heaving chest, settled into his lap, his arms engulfing me in the smell of butter and smoke.
We are stirred by the sound of rain on the windows, a delicate lilting harmony, waking us from the slumber that so often consumes us, the slumber in which we are never truly asleep. Peeta lifts me up to meet him, and we stand, holding each other for a few moments, his face buried in my hair.
Today is a good day. Some days are not. Some days there is a fog so heavy it weighs down your soul, haunting you with memories of the past, stifling you with the darkness of loss, the darkness of regret. Of course, you never see the fog. But you feel it, you feel it pressing you into the ground, handing you the shovel, forcing you to dig your own grave.
Peeta takes my hand, guiding me up the stairs. I see the remains of a smile playing on his lips as he opens the door at the end of the hall. His hand is on the small of my back as we walk into the room, seeing our bed disheveled. We share a lingering kiss, his fingers lightly tracing my neck, mine tucked into his hair. The thunder continues to pound on the roof as we climb under the sheets, moving to engulf the visitors we have gained in the wake of the storm. We fall into a deep sleep as we kiss our children on the head.
His eyes look uncomfortable, his face a forced calmness. I see a pile of blond curls buried into his shoulder, our five-month-old son. I prop myself up on the pillows, shakily, as I reach to take the infant in my arms, he is sleeping. I search Peeta's face for an answer, but he looks at the floor.
"Peeta, what," I begin, but he cuts me off, a sharp mumbling.
"It's Skip," he starts, but I am down the hall in a flash. I swing the door open just as Peeta whisks our boy out of my arms.
"Sk-skip," I say, in my best motherly attempt to sound comforting and strong. I lay my hands on her face, it is sweating.
"Mom," she lets out a weak giggle' "You know that's not my name."
Of course it is not her name. Of course she is brave enough to change her thoughts to that while still being ill. Delphy is her real name, or Delphinium Rose. It was Peeta's idea, giving her Prim's name- Rose. But it is just too difficult to utter that sound, too difficult to remember. Skip has always been easier, endearing, almost, and always the name that comes out of my mouth when I cannot think. When I cannot breathe. When something is not right, but I feel the need to cover it, to be brave.
I cup her cheeks in my hands, my thumbs wiping away the beads of sweat. They dance around her scarlet skin, shining like sunset. Her feverish skin burns, it burns. Burning.
A scene plays before my eyes and when I look down to see my daughters face, I am holding Prim in my hands. She is on fire, she is burning, disintegrating in my fingers. She is turning to dust, and there is nothing that I can do to stop it. Her face is peaceful, and I feel the hot tears brim my eyes, blurring my vision. The burning continues. It shoots through my veins, scorching my skin. Prim is there, I can save her. She is so close, if only I could just-
I feel hands around my waist as I am pulled backwards.
"PRIM!" I let out a scream. The noise cuts through the morning air, the smell of bacon from the kitchen, my daughter's seasonal sickness, my son's innocence. It was so close, I think, she could have been saved. Darkness consumes me as I feel Peeta's hands submerge me in a bath of ice.