"Insanity is doing the same thing, over and over again, but expecting different results."
― Narcotics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous
I'd written my life in thoughts of her hair—the way it always seemed to be begging for the stroke of my fingers, deft, baker's hands. My frame keened for her attention, pleading to be taken into her. But as I sat down to put into writing my thoughts, I came up short, and she seemed to fly by. She passed on a wing, with silent birds' stealth.
Though when she went, she left a maelstrom in her wake.
I lifted my spirits when my name had been called. I'd wanted to impressed her; I walked, straight-backed, almost offhand, indifferent to it either way. I'd wanted to keep her safe; I'd sprung up a tornado of my own, that day she almost took off my hand (she was radiant, and I was Peeta, the baker's son, the boy who had everything I needed, couldn't have worked a day in my life, and was only unfortunate enough to have been reaped and she at least had hoped I would go quickly.) More than that though, I wanted to make her love me. I wanted it from my very core, to the little boy at five, listening with the birds as she sings and the world sighs.
I thought it very morbid, then, how ecstatic I felt during that train ride. How this chance, the chance that grants us a good gamble at death, could be the one I need to make Katniss Everdeen's world collide with mine. And I almost laughed, because it seems that that's how love is, and it is for the morbid at heart.
She thought I was a joke. I had thrown her—I had her attention, notwithstanding the brevity of the occurrence. It was enough to last me the duration of the Games. The rest of my life, however long that shall be. Luckily, it hadn't needed to.
She sought me out, preyed upon me. It was something I'd wished for. I'd relished her every emotion. It is only now when I feel the horror of those moments in the Games. It would have been so easy, so horribly easy for her to have cut me down where I stood. What was she planning to do with me? Is this how she wanted things to turn out? Almost everyone dead, a lot more dying, whilst she and I stay sequestered, alone so she can torment me, taste my blood.
I wish for my cell.
At least then, I was sheltered from my addled mind, the things that have confounded me ever since my name had been reaped. My family wasn't dead, then. Panem was still safe. Katniss wasn't plotting how to put me away in my sleep.
I was able to tell what was real. She wasn't there to blur the lines.
I don't know when things became about just Katniss. I could maybe guess, but over the years, my pining for her had bourgeoned in purpose.
I wanted it to end. Katniss had killed my entire family, her sister, drove away her own mother, and caused the entire nation to collapse. She'd spat in my face, yet I blindly persistent, constantly griping for her. I'd kissed her, touched her.
I was revolted by myself.
I was shackled to the bed.
Stark white malformed all else, apart from an incessant beeping in my left ear.
I know where I am; I just don't want to be here.
Awaiting Dr. Aurelius' arrival, I revel in thoughts of the hunter girl's blood, all the while craving the fit of her body against mine. By the time he comes, I'm hot and no doubt flushed from my thoughts, both from rage and arousal.
I am not startled by his frown, but the purpose he carries. Most days, he's met with the futility of my recovery and relinquishes his job in trying to fix me.
Today, however, he arrives baring a stack of clothes and a silver key, at once relieving me from my restraints and handing me the stack. "A hovercraft will be arriving promptly for your departure—we will be communicating by means of the telephone." He mumbles something akin to "Use it," though the rest is incomprehensible. A small smile tilts his lips, as if he is too, now being freed. It's a likely cause.
I rise from the bed, sore but standing. I dress, ever so slowly. It seems more difficult now than ever. As I thought I was getting used to this new leg, they tie me to a bed for four months, with only the bathroom and the occasional checkup with a heavily guarded doctor and up until two months ago, Haymitch. He hasn't seen me since. I couldn't imagine what he's been up to.
Dr. Aurelius doesn't move to leave until I finish. He expects me to follow him. But, knowing what is to come—that I am leaving, forced back to District 12—and I stall. "I was hijacked. By people like you."
He turns, that half-smile still tracing his face. "I apologize on behalf of 'people like me'. I'm sure we didn't mean it."
His disinterested manner enrages me. "What does that make me then?" I ask through gritted teeth, because whatever he has to say won't matter in just as few minutes.
He raises his eyebrows, the act so simple, that it only angers me more. Because this is anything but simple. "Excuse me?"
"What am I, if I am hijacked? So terribly insane that I had to be held in custody until you deemed me correct?" Through gritted teeth, the words feel like daggers, scratching against my throat and spearing his consciousness.
"Well, I guess you said it yourself. You're insane." He chances that smile again.
"But all this time you've been trying to fix me—or heal me. Why?"
"You can't be crazy in this world. Not any."
"Why can't I be crazy?," I say, taking a seat, because this is my last day with him and he'll want a break, some calm in spite of all recent entropy, but I won't give it to him. He could all of the peacekeepers and sentries in this entire mansion, in all of Panem yet I will stand my ground.
He sighs, rubbing at his face roughly, his smile slipping from his features. "Because you want to remember. You don't want to forget your family or all that has happened."
"That's why I don't want to be crazy. That isn't what I asked—I asked why I can't be." I hold my breath. Because I need to know if whatever happened to me can be cured. Albeit, part of the reason for my interrogative is cruel. He may not have been my bane, but he has a connection, an obligation to it. He's been trying to fix me ever since the president died and someone remembered that there's something wrong with me, that they had caused it.
I intend make him struggle as much as I do.
And Dr. Aurelius does. Finally he speaks. "I don't think that's valid," is all he says.
I frown, shaking my head. "Of course you think so. I can't think this way because you get paid to tell me otherwise. That's why you can't be crazy." I rise from the bed, stalking out of the door. Again, I didn't get what I want.
The walk to the hovercraft is terse, and every footfall sounds like stepping on glass. The linoleum floors are scrubbed pearly white, just like Dr. Aurelius' teeth that beam as he shuts the hovercraft door solidly behind me.