"Oh, Katniss…"
The alarm in my head has risen to a scary pitch. No. this can't be right. The Games…again? It wasn't supposed to happen like this. My breathing has picked up and my heart is racing, but the words are stuck in my mouth like dry cotton. I'm suffocating.
"Katniss, sweetheart, it's going to be ok."
"I don't…I can't…no, this isn't supposed to be happening." I can't focus: my mind or my eyes. The roaring in my head has gotten louder, and my eyes are darting all over the place, searching, frantically, for something that is right, something that is real, something that I can hold on to. Something to ground me.
I don't realize that his hands are gripping my shoulders, trying to pull me from the black hole that my thoughts have become.
"Katniss. Katniss, look at me. Look at me. Shhh. It's going to be ok. Come here." He holds out his arms, and I don't hesitate before collapsing into him, burying my face in his chest. My heart is still pounding a mile a minute, and I'm disoriented, frenzied. The tears haven't stopped. I welcome the darkness of my closed eyes against his chest; it's fewer stimuli to distract me, and I'm already on sensory overload. I'm shuddering, breaking, but somewhere in the back of my mind I register crooning, soothing words in my ear. His voice.
His arms are wrapped firmly around my back, and my hands are bunched on his chest, holding onto his shirt as if it will save me from the inevitable. Pretending that his arms are strong enough to pull me out of this nightmare that has become my life.
He walks me over to the couch, cradling me to his chest like one would a wounded animal. I suppose that's what I am right now. Wounded.
"Katniss, will you look at me, sweetheart?" He asks, gently. I'm afraid to look up, though, terrified of this reality. With a little whimper, I shake my head quickly against his chest, desperate to stay cocooned in his safe warmth and the darkness that shields me.
"Oh, sweetheart." He's lost his words, too. I feel a gentle hand, pushing my chin up toward where he gazes at me. Our eyes meet, and I see his face crumble. He brings his hands to my face and uses feather-light strokes of his thumbs to brush away the tears that mar my cheekbones.
"It kills me to see tears on your face. Come here." He tugs me closer, inviting me to burrow into his warmth.
"We'll get through this together." His words fall flat, ring untrue. I still appreciate it. Human comfort is all he has left to offer, and he is anything but stingy.
