My mind takes me to terrible places when I sleep; places where I am pinned to my consciousness, helpless against the terrors that confront me. There are no escape routes in these dreams, but even though they aren't real, even though nothing I do will save her, save them, I can't make myself dream-self stop trying. My dream feet kick against the ground soundlessly, uselessly; they'll never make it in time. I'm just an observer as the horror plays through my mind again and again.
But these nights, I wake up to find a hand holding firmly onto mine. Warmth on the other side of the bed. Peeta's voice. He's always there, woken by my screams, stroking my hair until I calm.
I'm not afraid to fall asleep anymore.
When I'm awake, I make my mind stop playing the memories. I'd turn it off if I could, but the trick is to give it something to do that requires all of my concentration. Hunting is good for this; with all of the dead, rattling leaves on the ground my mind is too busy keeping my footsteps silent to start dredging up the memories. I push myself to the limit in the forest, and some evenings when I get home my mind forgets that it likes to torment me. At least until the dreams start.
Today isn't a good day. I'm helping Peeta with his garden. His neat rows of herbs shouldn't cause so much dread to ball up in my stomach; after all, they're just a bunch of plants.
It's not Peeta's fault. Not my mother's fault. Possibly the garden's fault, although even I can't really rally the energy to lay the blame on a couple of stupid plants. Perhaps it isn't specifically the garden that is making me think of her; after all, nearly everything does.
But the smell of Peeta's herbs reminds me of my mother's healing. And then I think of Prim. Prim, who holds a place inside of me that will never heal. A place that hurts and bleeds every time I'm not quick enough to block out the memories.
My mind encounters pain in places that even I don't expect to find it.
"Do you want to play something? Checkers?" Peeta asks. He's read the expression on my face.
I make noncommittal noise and go back to mutilating weeds. They lie in a wilted pile at my feet. It's surprisingly therapeutic.
"Maybe I'll go easy on you this time", he says, "So you have a shot at winning." This gets my attention. I win every time. Peeta's straight face disintegrates at my raised eyebrow, and I can't help but smile back at him. His hair is golden in this light.
"I think I'll go hunting." I say. There's no need to be cagey or polite with Peeta; he's used to my bluntness.
"I'll be here", he says, "In case you want to come over or anything later. I was thinking of making some cheese buns." He says this hopefully, and it's just a tiny bit pathetic.
"You don't need to bribe me", I tell him, "I'd still come over even if you weren't going to feed me."
"Would you?" he says, He's joking now, but there's a note of truth in it. If it were anybody else, I probably wouldn't show up.
I've never been particularly sociable. Now, after everything that's happened, I've become one of those secretive animals that you occasionally catch a glimpse of just as they dive into the underbrush. But it's just Peeta. Of course I'll come.
It's a good time of year for deer hunting. I've been seeing them for the last few weeks but I haven't been close enough to bring one down.
The weather's good too; sharp and bright with the trees all alight with color. Something about the crisp air makes me happy. By the time the sun's starting to go down I've got a rabbit and a handful of greens in my bag. Enough for tonight's dinner.
It walks out right into my path, a buck with his winter coat just beginning to grow in. He's beautiful in the evening light, immortal, but it's going to be winter soon, and the pantry won't fill itself. My arrow goes through his neck before he has a chance to flinch. I go over to make sure that he's dead. To kill an animal for food is one thing, but to let one suffer needlessly is another.
I allow myself a brief moment of elation. Peeta and I'll eat venison steaks for a month. Haymitch and Greasy Sae will certainly get a share as well. But how will I get him home? He's a big thing; probably a hundred and thirty pounds. It's clear that I won't be able to drag the carcass back by myself.
My first thought, of course, is of Gale. I still haven't gotten used to the idea of him living in a different district. It feels strange to think of Peeta helping me haul a deer carcass, but he's more than capable. The deer isn't that much heavier than a sack of flour.
I decide to hide the buck under a pile of branches so the scavengers won't get him.
I find Peeta examining a vase of sunflowers in his kitchen. He hasn't noticed me, and I watch his eyes curve over the petals. He captures every detail perfectly with a brush, transferring them to the sheet of paper that rests under his palm. His movements are slow. Sure.
Watching him is making me uncomfortable. I shuffle my feet loudly, and say, "I'm back, Peeta." I explain about the deer and Peeta rinses his paintbrush, gives Buttercup a pat (provoking a creaky old purr that sounds like a unoiled door hinge), and follows me outside.
I know that Peeta is wary of the forest from the way that his eyes dart around, but he follows me in without complaint. He's trusting, sometimes to a fault. Not everybody is as good as he is. I smile at him reassuringly, and the worry on his face melts away.
He nearly steps in the water crossing the creek. "Peeta", I say, grabbing his sleeve to steady him. But instead of paying attention to his feet, his eyes dart up to meet mine. We both catch a breath. His eyes are soft and blue and somehow warm at the same time- and then they're whisked away from me. He's slipped on the wet rocks.
"Peeta!" I say. I reach for him, and he sees my hand, and for a second I think that he's going to grab it and be fine, but he doesn't. He falls into the creek.
I grab his arm and help him up. He's soaked from head to toe. "Why didn't you grab my hand?" I demand, and then, "Are you hurt?"
"I would only have pulled you in, too, Katniss."
I shake my head, exasperated by his selflessness. "Let's get you home before you freeze to death."
"What about your deer?"
"We'll come back for it tomorrow", I say, trying to sound as though it's no big deal. And it isn't, compared to Peeta's well-being. For a moment I think he's going to protest, but he must see in my face that my mind's made up because he nods.
I make him take a hot shower when we get home, and by then we're both too tired for a real dinner, so we eat bread and jam sitting by the fireplace. Tired is good. Tired makes the memories stay where they belong: in the past.
Climbing into bed with Peeta is perhaps the highlight of my day. His solid body, his warmth, his smell. These days, it's hard to imagine that I ever lay awake tossing and turning in my bed. Falling asleep is bliss. It's the waking up that I dread. But tonight, I feel so inexplicably happy that I think maybe I won't have nightmares.
I dream of my father. I'm young, and I ride on his shoulders through the forest. He sings a song I've never heard before to the mockingjays in his clear voice, and soon it is echoing all around us. And then the nightmares begin. Mutts. Families grieving. Lost children. District Twelve explodes with a cloud of black rubble. Everything is dark, and then I see a hint of silver in the distance.
"Katniss!" says Prim's voice. Suddenly I know this memory, and I dig my heels in. Try to think of something else. Not this. But it's inevitable, and I'm dragged in.
"Prim!" I scream, "No!", but it's too late, and the bombs hit. Everything is made of fire.
My heart becomes a lump of coal.
First it goes dark, and then misty grey, and then I'm in the Meadow. There's sunshine on my face. Flowers growing in the soft grass. It is springtime.
Deep in the meadow, under the willow
A bed of grass, a soft green pillow
Lay down your head, and close your eyes
And when they open, the sun will rise
I feel them. Prim. My father. They're here, in this Meadow that isn't really the Meadow.
Here it's safe, and here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet–
–and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
I think I'm crying, although there's happiness too. Coming from them. Coming from me. They've come to check on me. Make sure I'm doing okay. I wish I could see them, look at their faces. Something about this feels like goodbye.
Deep in the meadow, hidden far away
A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray
Forget your woes and let your troubles lay
And when again it's morning, they'll wash away
And then I see her. My little sister. She's lit up by the sun, and she' holding someone's hand. I can only see the person's outline, but I know it's my father. I'm sobbing now. "Prim!" I say, and I want to go over to them so badly, but my feet won't move. She looks so healthy, so happy. She's glowing.
"It's okay, Katniss", she says, and the light behind them brightens until I'm squinting to make them out. They turn away, and I see that Prim's shirt has come untucked in the back. A duck tail. My throat forms a lump. They stop walking and she pulls her hand away from my father's to tuck it in. She looks back at me for approval, and I'm nodding, trying to smile through my tears.
She smiles at me, the same smile she had when I brought her goat, Lady, home for the first time. It's so bright now that in a moment I can't see them anymore. But I still feel them. They're in the flowers, in the sky, in the soft, solid ground beneath my feet.
Here it's safe, and here it's warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet–
– and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you.
When I wake up, I can still feel them. They linger in the air, and the bittersweet ache in my throat is a reminder of their visit. My fingers stretch out, seeking Peeta's warmth. He's there, warm and solid, on the other side of the bed. Sheetless; because I've stolen all of the covers while we slept.
"Bad dream?" he whispers. He's beautiful in the moonlight coming in my window. His eyes are careful, sad. Trying to measure the amount of pain behind the tears on my face.
"Good dream", I say, my lower lip starting to tremble again, "It was a good dream." I lean over and fit my mouth to his. It is a long, lingering kiss that I can feel in my toes. His hands come up to cradle my face the way Prim's cradled Buttercup when she first found him as a kitten. If I think too much on this, it's not very complimentary towards my face, because Buttercup was disgusting, crawling with mites and other parasites.
But the way that Peeta touches my face is reverent.
We both pull away for air, and Peeta's face reminds me a tiny bit of how Haymitch looks after he's had a few too many drinks. Peeta swallows, not from nerves, but from something else, I think. His thumb strokes the line of my jaw; such a small movement that I almost miss it. Then he pulls the covers, which are no longer tangled around my limbs, up to his chin.
"What was your dream about?" he asks.
"My father", I say, "Prim." My voice wobbles a bit over her name. I think this is the first time I've spoken it aloud—spoken it, not screamed it—since she died.
"It must have been a really good dream", he says, "You were laughing."
"Really?" I say.
"At first I thought you were crying, but it sounded different. Happy. I wasn't sure though until you told me."
"I think they came to say goodbye", I say into Peeta's shoulder. His arm comes around me, sure and solid.
"How did she look?" he wants to know.
"She was so happy", I get out, and then I am crying again.
After a while, my tears have stopped, and Peeta is still holding onto me, his steady breaths warming my shoulder. Our arms are wrapped around each other, our feet touching. I move a little bit closer, bumping Peeta's knees with my own.
War has whittled us down, weeding out the parts of us that aren't necessary for survival. Peeta could have become like me; distant and cold. But not him. Not Peeta. Of all the things he could have kept, he's left with his kindness, his empathy, his unparalleled ability to love.
I suppose I've retained at least one of those qualities. Because despite how dead and closed up my heart feels, I'm pretty certain that there's only one way to describe how I feel about Peeta.
So I look at him, really look at him, and grab his hand.
And after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."