Alone is a Five Letter Word for Pain

by salanderjade

In the aftermath of his greatest victory, Peeta Mellark lost everything. The star-crossed love story is a lie. His mentor betrayed him. His family abandoned him. He lost his leg in the Games. The Boy with the Bread is broken. How will he cope? Timeline: End of 74th Games through Mockingjay

1. Chapter 1

A/N Of all the stories I've ever written, I'm the most proud of this one. It was the hardest to write but, to me, it's also the best. Thank you for reading.

Chapter 1: Fire

I am Peeta Mellark. I am sixteen years old. I am a co-victor of the 74th annual Hunger Games. I am on the train coming home from the Capital. I have lost my leg to the Games. I have been lied to. I have been betrayed. I have been a fool. I should be dead. I wish I was dead. But wishes don't come true for guys like me. I should have eaten those berries when I had the chance.

DENIAL

I see the truth in her eyes and it cuts like a knife. It wasn't real. None of it. I had come into this with every intention of dying for the girl that I love. It suited my romantic sensibilities. Make the deal with Haymitch to bring her home. Get in with the Careers so that I could protect her. Fight Cato to give her the opportunity to run. Rot in a bed of mud and reeds until Claudius Templesmith made it worth her while to dig me out. Taste her kisses and lay skin on skin in the cold confines of that cave thanking God, Haymitch, and even President Snow that I finally got the chance to be close to her. Finding her in a puddle of blood and falling apart because she had done for me what I wanted to do for her all along. And in the end, feeling like the luckiest person in the world because not only am I alive but the girl of my dreams loves me back. It's surreal. It's a fairy tale. It's a lie.

Haymitch won't look at me. He's known all along that it was a pipe dream. A pretty picture that we sold to the Capital in exchange for our lives. She and Haymitch are two of a kind. They can communicate without words. Somehow, she knew exactly how to spin it, how to play it, how to distort it until even I fell under her spell. I thought she loved me. I thought it was real. Haymitch knows the whole story. He knows that I naively begged him to help me die so that she could live. He knows that I planned it almost from the moment that I stepped on that stage. The irony almost chokes me. I can't help but run those images of stolen moments in the cave through my head. She had to feel something. She kissed me like she meant it. She's not that good of an actress. She has too many walls and hang-ups to ever pretend to be something she's not. Maybe she does love me and just hasn't realized it yet? Maybe I'm so used to looking in from the outside that I can't accept the fact that she really does love me. I've watched and waited for so long, afraid to take that leap. I didn't believe that she could ever love me back. Why would she? My own mother doesn't want me, never has. How could I believe that Katniss Everdeen could ever give me her heart? But those kisses felt real. Her caring for me, her stubborn refusal to leave me, had to come from somewhere. It can't have all been a lie.

The almost inaudible sounds of my leg remind me of another thing I gave up to the Games. I willingly took the tourniquet off my leg to give Cato a humane death. Doing so was the right thing. It was the moral thing. That choice makes it possible for me to look myself in the eye as I stare blankly into the mirror and wonder if this is really my life. Nobody ever mentions my leg. They skip over that part as if it didn't happen. I'm reminded every time the stump aches, every time it clicks, every time I hear the slight hitch in my step. I'm not the man I used to be in a very literal sense. It doesn't really matter that I'm not whole anymore, right? I am still alive. I can be normal again. I can still be me. This doesn't really have to change anything, does it? My father's smile is forced when I come to the bakery. My brothers won't meet my eyes. My mother looks through me as if I'm not there. At least on that front, nothing has changed from before. I take a certain amount of comfort in that as strange as it sounds. It is a thread to my prior life, the life I had before the Games and the person I used to be. They treat me like a distinguished guest, not someone who has walked these rooms since I learned how to walk. It's as if the cakes I lovingly decorated never graced the front window. It's like I died, and a stranger who wears my face has come back home. Does my family love me? Yes, I believe they do. Do I still have a part in their lives? No. I lost my place when my name was called at the Reaping. I can't go back to my life. I can't make them love me the way they did before the Games. I convince myself that they will eventually see that underneath the Victor, I'm still here. I'm still me. I'm still me.

ANGER

I threw my leg this morning. I couldn't get the straps to line up. I couldn't get the damned thing secured. I couldn't pretend that everything was fine when the simplest part of my day had suddenly become the most difficult. The frustration welled up in me and I felt something break. I saw a thousand shades of red as the life that should have been mine rose up before me. This isn't how it was supposed to be. This is not my life.

The leg crashed into the ornate mirror that hung over the carved dresser in my bedroom. The shards flew out in a spray of silver, the tinkling sounding musically in the gray light. I felt waves of pity and grief threatens to engulf me and tamped it down. I force myself to get up and retrieve the leg. My punishment for my brief lapse of control is to hop shakily while hanging onto any convenient piece of furniture. I feel hot tears gather as I make my way across the room but refuse to let them fall. My heart cries out, "Why me? How could this happen?" I know that I won't get an answer. Tottering like a two year old, I finally reach the leg and ease down to grab the straps. My balance waivers and I fall, the glass cutting into my knees and hands. The pain pierces the tether that I've maintained on my emotions. I grab the pillow and bite down, a scream escaping in muffled gasps and stifled moans.

Finally, calm rolls in and soothes me. I slip the covering from the pillow and tear strips from it to bind my hands. That small task accomplished, I pull the straps tightly over my stump and push myself to my feet. I survey the damage both to myself and my so-called home. The wall bears a dent and the wooden frame is in pieces. I blow out a frustrated breath and head downstairs to get a broom and dustpan. The bad thing about letting yourself go is that eventually you have to clean up the mess you made. I just wish that some things were as easy to fix as a broken mirror.

I'm surprised to hear voices coming from the dining room when I go downstairs. Pulling the belt of my robe more securely around my waist, I clump down the final few stairs and peer into the room. The sight that greets me causes my jaw to drop and my temper to ignite. My mother is wearing a fancy dress that could have only been produced in the Capital. She claimed her part of my Victor winnings without a single word of protest. My father wouldn't touch it. He declined graciously when I offered it. I didn't do it out of a guilty conscious. While we always had more than most in the District, we were by no means rich. I wanted to reclaim something of my old self; the selfless and forgiving side that I was sure had left me on the train. It was that part that I was trying so desperately to keep intact when I broached the idea. My father's jaw dropped and he couldn't get a word out. My mother leaped into the silence and commented that it was only right since I had so much. I needed to fulfill my obligations to my family. She still wouldn't look me in the eye but had no trouble accepting the purse I handed over each month.

She is not alone as she makes herself at home in my house. The florist's wife and the apothecary's wife are staring wide-eyed at the finery before them. My mother has procured an ornate tea service from the well-stocked kitchen. Some of the bakery's finest scones and pastries are displayed on a decorative platter. She sits like a queen entertaining her friends at my table. She treats this place as if it belongs to her and hasn't been bought with the blood of children. The knot that closes my throat cuts off my greatest asset, my persuasive tongue. My unanswered questions suddenly find their answer. This happened because of her. She never wanted me. She never gave me the slightest hint of love or affection. The only touch I had ever received from my mother was a blow or a slap. She never expected me to come home. The only reason she's glad I'm here is the exalted status that being the mother of a Victor has given her in the District.

The smile on her face belies the flinty hardness that enters her gaze at the sight of me. I barely hear her cordial explanation and the suggestion that I should go back upstairs and rest. All I see is her sitting at my table, eating from my china with her last words before I boarded the Tribute train ringing in my head. "She's a survivor." Nothing for the son who was leaving home for the first time with no assurance that he would ever return. No regret or apology. Nothing.

My hand knocks the tea pot off the table and into the wall leaving a damp brown stain on the wallpaper. The glass doesn't chime quite as prettily as the mirror but the effect is much more satisfying. The ladies scream and chairs hit the floor as they hastily push away from the table. My mother meets me glare for glare. I remember that look from my worst childhood memories but this time I don't back down. I push my face close to hers where I can see every wrinkle and every pore. Her outraged rant cuts off midstream as I point my finger in her face and calmly remark, "You've made yourself quite at home, haven't you mother? Funny, but I don't recall inviting you here. I'm going to ask you nicely just once to take your friends and leave my house."

Her back straightens and her eyes meet mine challengingly, "I don't have to be invited to my own son's house, Peeta. You've embarrassed both me and yourself enough. Don't worry about the mess. I'll take care of it. Go back upstairs before you tire yourself out. We'll finish our tea and head back to town shortly." Her practiced smile flickers to the two women huddled uncomfortably in the doorway. "Ladies, please be seated. I'll have more tea momentarily."

I couldn't believe my ears. She actually thought that she could tell me to go and I would mindlessly obey. I guess she didn't get the memo that nobody orders Victors around but President Snow. I let a parody of my old open smile crease my features and she recoils. I see the motion before her hand swings toward my face. I catch her wrist and stop the slap mere inches from its intended target. I twist her arm and force her away from the table, her face pressed into the wall. Putting my mouth close to her ear where there is no chance that she will misunderstand, I softly utter, "Never again. Do you understand me? You will never touch me again. You will never set foot in my house again. You won't look at me. You won't speak to me. I will come and go at the bakery as I please. I will give Katniss and Haymitch as much bread as I want to without charging them a dime. If you break any of these conditions, I will withhold the money that I know you are so fond of. Don't cross me, mother. You don't want to open up this can of worms. Leave while you're still ahead."

I release her arm and step away; my breath coming in fits and starts. She stares at me with hatred and contempt burning clearly in her eyes. "Don't worry, you stupid worthless creature. I won't ever darken your door again. You can shack up here with your little Seam slut and her whore of a mother for all I care. You're no son of mine, Peeta Mellark. You aren't worth wasting any more of my time on." My hand moves before my mind registers my intent. A red print blooms on her cheek and she backs away, finally wary of pushing me further. "Useless bastard," she grits out.

"Charming as usual, mother." I sarcastically return. "The only whore that I've seen around here is you. After all, you've been paid well for your tolerance of me. Mrs. Everdeen stays with Katniss because she wants to. You're only here because it increases your social standing to be associated with me. No wonder Dad prefers her. You can't even compare." She spits in my face and stalks out the door, the ladies trailing silently behind her. I wait until I hear the front door click before sliding to the floor with my head in my hands. I have never spoken to my mother or anyone like that. I feel one more piece of myself break. I had naively told Katniss on that roof a lifetime ago that I didn't want them to change me. I wanted to die as myself. Apparently, that was one more battle that I had already lost.

BARGAINING

My dad comes in and sits beside me. I'm still huddled in my dining room floor, hardly believing what has happened, much less my part in it. His eyes which are a more faded blue than my own meet mine hesitantly. I can't help but drop mine to my hands, guilt and shame burning in my gut. Who is this person that I've become? How can I ever look my father in the face knowing what I said? My hasty words were meant to cut in the worst possible way. But the fallout will go well beyond the one that said it and the one that heard it. They have to power to split what's left of my family, leaving me forever on the outside. Reaching down deep, I force myself to meet his look.

"Peeta," he says softly. "Are you okay?' His hand pats me on my shoulder and I feel myself breaking down. The tears fill me up and overflow. I drop my forehead to my bent knees. "Peeta?" he repeats, sorrow and sympathy swirling together. "Look at me, son. I can't help you if you won't talk to me." I shake my head and refuse to look at him further. He has the best of intentions but he can't help me. I don't want to hurt him by telling him that but he can't understand. He doesn't have the background. He continues to pat my shoulder and then rubs my head like he used to when I was a little boy.

"Peeta, would you do something for me?" He asked me almost hesitantly. I finally raise my head and look at him curiously. At my nod, he continues, "I don't know what you're going through. I can't say that I understand because I don't. But I'm here for you. Whatever you need from me, you don't have to ask because I'm there. You have people who love you, Peeta. Don't forget that."

I give him a tentative smile. "I won't forget, Dad. I know that you love me." I hear my voice cracking and stop to swallow the lump in my throat. "Some days are just harder than others, you know."

My father searches my face and I know what he's doing. He's looking for his little boy, the one who left on the train. I don't have the heart to tell him that boy died. He's dead, gone and buried in that Arena. He clears his throat and seems almost timid when he speaks again. "I think that you should talk to someone who has been where you are. Maybe that will help put things in perspective for you? Are you willing to try?" My brow furrows as I stare at my father. What is he getting at? I hear footsteps on the porch and crane my neck to see my unexpected visitor. My jaw drops when Haymitch sidles in.

"What's he doing here?" I choke the words out. I can't stop the trembling that invades my limbs at the sight of him. It's too much to take in. I can't handle those memories right not. I'm too raw and too battered to keep up the façade. I just want to fall apart and not worry about anyone trying to hold me together. I want to remember a boy that once loved a girl and hoped that she would someday love him in return.

"Boy, watching you lose your shit isn't exactly how I wanted to spend my day." Haymitch grumbled as he lowered himself into a conveniently placed chair. His flask is pulled from a side pocket and placed on the table within reach. His reddened eyes examine me closely and he obviously doesn't like what he sees. "You looked better coming out of the Arena than you do right now, kid. What the hell have you been doing with yourself?"

I can't stop the disbelieving snort that escapes me. Somehow, the old drunk actually manages to sound concerned. Unaware that my eyes are just as red and swollen as his, I meet his stare with one of my own. "What's it to you, old man? You made your choice a long time ago and it wasn't me. Don't bother being concerned now. I don't need or want your worry. Save it for the Girl on Fire. She needs it more than I do."

Haymitch's fingers tighten on his flask and his face betrays the fury that he's working to tamp down. I know that it was a low blow to remind him that he didn't pick me in the Arena. He chose Katniss. The fact that I basically insisted on this course of action has conveniently slipped my mind. Haymitch isn't one to let an insult go. His reply is designed to cut deep and bleed my dry. He knows my weaknesses and uses them like a master. "I helped to bring the girl you love home, boy. I did everything I could to keep her alive. Hell, I did everything I could to get both of you out. So did the girl." His gray eyes flare, hell and brimstone in their depths. "Do you think she wanted to play the Game that way? Are you so far gone that you've forgotten who you're dealing with? Snow put you here, boy. Remember that. I know you're hurt. I know that you feel like I betrayed you. I can live with that." He takes a long swallow from the flask and pins me with his gaze once more. "I can live with it because you're here. You made it home. Do you know how many times that I've seen kids get on that train and never come back? Do you care? I never took you for a whiner, boy. Not until now. So you got your heart broke. Happens every day. That little she devil ain't worth it. You know it and I know it. Hell, kid, even she knows it. "

My father's jaw drops as my mentor continues to tear into me. Somehow, I don't think this is quite the pep talk he had in mind when he invited Haymitch here. That thought actually strikes me as funny and before I realize it, laughter bubbles up. My father's eyes meet mine, his dumbfounded; mine filled with unwilling mirth. Haymitch paused, taking another sip from his flask and watches me carefully. He knows me better than I know myself. He knows that something has managed to reach me. His mouth curls up in a familiar sardonic smirk. "Well now, that's more like it. At least we know you haven't lost your sense of humor." I shoot him a warning glare which he disregards completely. I push myself up and grab the closest chair, easing myself carefully into the seat. "Peeta," he says quietly. "For what it's worth, I don't blame you for being mad. You've been through hell. For my part, I'm sorry for what happened. You deserved better than that. Now is not the time to fall apart, son. Winning the Games is just the start. It's half the battle. You need to get your head straight because if you don't, they will eat you alive."

I look at him curiously. I know that we can't talk freely here and not just because my father is listening to every word said. Haymitch has been in this for longer than I care to think about. He is often written off as a drunk and a burn out. That does this man a disservice. He is more than meets the eye, but the Capital crowd continually underestimates him. He watches me process this as he idly toys with his flask. I can hear the liquid swishing as he passes it hand to hand. For Haymitch to show this much of a reaction, I know that something more is going on. There's something that he can't say that I desperately need to hear. So I force a smile and turn to my father, donning old Peeta's face and say, "Sounds like you need a refill, Haymitch. Let me grab my shoes and I'll walk you out. Dad, why don't you head on back to the Bakery? I'm sure Mom is wondering where you are by now." My father happily acquiesces and bids us both good bye. I know that I'm not that good of an actor. My father is a good man, but he sees what he wants to see. He's satisfied that Haymitch will straighten me out so his duty is done. He can face my mother, armed with the knowledge that he's left me in good hands. It's a predictable, tired pattern that I've seen played out in a thousand ways. Some things really never do change.

After leaving my father at the road leading back to Town, Haymitch and I head toward the meadow. He watches me out of the corner of his eye as I stride silently beside him. Had it been Katniss taking this walk with him, she would have already exploded. The love of my life isn't known for her patience or subtlety. It's one of the things I love most about her. It's also one of the things that drive me crazy. He's gotten used to her tantrums and outbursts. My silence unnerves him. It's the only card I have to play. After an interminable moment, I hear him snort and take another shot from his flask. How he manages to function with so much liquor is beyond my understanding. Oddly enough, the more he drinks the more sober he seems. It is one of the many contradictions surrounding Haymitch Abernathy that I have yet to untangle. I decide to be the first to break the quiet. Clearing my throat I comment, "What am I missing, Haymitch? They're still watching us, aren't they?" He shoots me a surprised glance and the flask is returned to his pocket. I know that this means he's serious about whatever he's trying to tell me. "Snow isn't stupid, boy. Far from it, in fact. It wouldn't' surprise me if he hasn't placed a few eyes and ears around to make sure all is as it should be. He's paranoid and ruthless. He has managed to stay in power for a long time. You don't do that without having a healthy sense of self-preservation." I nod to show I'm listening. His gaze returns to the path and he fidgets a moment before he continues. "He's going to be watching for the slightest chink. Any weakness will hand him a weapon that he can and will use against you. Don't make it easy for him, boy."

I bite my lip; the words swirl through me and lead me to an inevitable conclusion. It leads me to a place that resembles my own personal hell. It leads me to the star-crossed lovers. Suddenly, I know what he's telling me I will have to do. There will be no easy out, no distance, no time to deal with the pain. The Capital wants what it was promised and it is up to me to deliver it. I have to be in love with Katniss Everdeen. The knowledge slams into me like a punch to the gut and I feel myself folding because of it. "What if I can't do it? I can't turn it on and off, Haymitch. Even if I could, she doesn't love me. She made that abundantly clear." I pause and draw a deep breath. " I haven't seen her in months. She spends all of her time with her sister or in the woods with him. There's nothing left for me. Do you honestly think that Snow and the Capital will believe that we can't live without each other when I can't look her in the eye? Besides, everybody knows that they're together. She doesn't attempt to hide it and neither does he. Anything I do at this point is fruitless. It just makes me look like a fool." Haymitch swings about and stabs a finger into my chest. I rub the spot, knowing that there will be a bruise there in the morning. "I'll talk to her. She may have the personality of a dead slug but she's not stupid. She knows what's at stake and she won't risk that, regardless of Hawthorne. Are you willing to take the chance that Snow will be forgiving? Are you willing to bet your life on it? He doesn't like being made to look foolish and that's exactly what the two of you did when you pulled out those berries. If he's not convinced that you two were so desperately in love that you couldn't bear to be parted, he will reach the only other logical conclusion. He will decide that you meant to defy the Capital after all. Once he thinks that, there will be no going back. You and the girl will lose everything. Is your hurt pride and bruised heart worth that much, Peeta?"

I close my eyes, feeling the urge to scream surge up. I bite my tongue and nod numbly. "I'll do what I have to do to convince him. Just tell me what to do." The effort of that declaration drains me and I feel empty. His apologetic gaze weighs on me like a millstone on my back. He turns and walks away, stopping only to pat my arm in a clumsy gesture. I think it was meant to be comforting. It manages to crack the few walls I have left. I sink to my knees in the grass, hot tears spilling silently down my face. One undeniable truth remains, shrieking in my head over and over. I love Katniss. I love Katniss. That becomes my mantra. That is the easy part because despite everything I do love Katniss. The hard part will come later. Eventually, I will have to convince Panem that Katniss loves me.

DEPRESSION

I finally make it back to my house and go upstairs to my studio. I need the release that painting gives me. It's the only thing that has kept me sane since coming home. I have nightmares and dreams where I watch her die or she's taken away and I'm powerless to prevent it. I don't' wake up screaming like she does. I wake up frozen, unable to move, while my brain furiously tries to process that I've let her go. The cold pillow does little to reassure me in the still depths of night. Sometimes, I sit for hours in my window watching her light to convince myself that my dream was in fact just that. When that doesn't work, I paint. It's not like I get a thrill out of reliving every moment in that Arena, I don't. But sometimes, it's all I have to hold on to.

My blank canvas taunts me. Usually, my hand moves before my mind even realizes what the scene is supposed to be. Sometimes it is a pleasant surprise when a pretty landscape or treasured memory blooms on the paper. Other times, I can't even look at it. The horrors and half realized fears that my mind makes up in the dark find their way onto the easel. I don't try to stop myself when this happens. I just let my brush go where it will and then put the finished product with the stack of others that I don't want to look at.

Today, the lines and curves won't come. His words and her face block every other thought from my head. I can't push them out and I can't let them in. I'm stuck in a half-life where everything gnaws and tears, like the Mutt that tore open my leg. The one thing that brings me peace now cuts like glass. I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye and swing around. The brush has become a weapon in my hand as I search for the enemy. The only thing that meets my gaze is my own eyes staring back at me from the mirror across the room. The sight startles me and gives me pause. Who is this person wearing my face? Where did he come from and more importantly where did I go?

I walk closer to the mirror, noting the changes since the last time I looked. Thinner face, hollow eyes, permanent worry lines creasing my forehead. Is this my face now? I used to smile. I remember that. Standing here now looking at familiar features wearing a stranger's face, it hits me. I didn't want to become a piece in their games. I wanted to keep myself if I lost every other thing including my life. I still wanted to be me when it happened. But that's not me in the mirror. I don't know who it is. My hand moves before I realize it and once more a musical tinkling fills the room. Blood flows in a thick winding stream from my cut palm and down over my fingers. I look at it curiously for a moment and then turn away from the twisted, broken frame. The empty canvas beckons and I surrender to it. I'm finally able to fill up that space. The peace of that freedom fills me and floods out all doubt and uncertainty.

Lifting my hand with the gore dripping off my fingers, I trace lines on the white. Soon my own face looks back at me, the face that I remember from before. Drawn in my own blood and by my own hand. Maybe I didn't lose myself after all.

Acceptance

I'm no healer but I manage to clean up my hand fairly well before setting out on my next task. The cuts weren't deep enough to require stitches. Thankfully, I'm able to clean them and make sure that no glass remains before applying tiny winged bandages to hold the ends together. The hand will be sore but I welcome that pain. It is the price that I pay for the strength to do what I must. I wrap my hand up and tie it securely before changing my shirt. This plan might not be my best but it feels right. It is up to me to make the first move. She will never open the door that she slammed firmly in my face on the train. She made her decision and now I have to make mine.

I take a few moments to push my hair into some semblance of order. I put on my shoes, making sure that the laces are double knotted. I fill up a bag with loaves of bread still warm from the oven and put a few cheese buns in for good measure. I know that they will be welcome even if I'm not. Taking a deep breath and one last glance at my latest creation, I pick up my stuff and head for the door. This first step will be the hardest but it is necessary. I can't let things go on the way they have these last few months. Too much is riding on what happens next.

With that thought firmly in mind, I cross the street and climb her stairs. My hand trembles as I knock firmly. The door opens and my heart trips against my ribs for a moment before I register a soft pair of blue eyes gazing up at me. I stifle the little flair of disappointment and plaster a smile on my face. "Hi, Prim," I say as cheerily as I can. "I brought you something." She smiles and swings the door wider, welcoming me in. I step inside and the door slams closed behind me.

End Part 1