I wake up screaming. Again.
You'd think after fifty years it would be better by now, this torturous pain that engulfs my body night after restless night, but it's not. Fifty years on since I first set foot in the arena and still they haunt me, memories of the dying. Cato being ravaged by mutts, Rue slowly passing in the cradle of my arms, Mags being engulfed by the deadly fog. Then there's the memories from outside the arena; Gale being whipped, his exposed back split open, revealing vulnerable flesh. Madge being engulfed by flames that lick at her body, scolding away her life as District 12 crumbles around her. Finnick, his screams tearing holes in my chest, ripping through my mind in vivid quality, like the way the mutts' teeth rip through his limbs. Cinna, bloody and j, innocent, perfect, loving Prim, being murdered before my very eyes by a bomb designed by my own best friend. These memories, the ones that happened outside of my time in the arena are the worst. Because, undeniably, they are my fault. Directly or indirectly, I murdered these people.
I'm trembling, and strange, animalistic noises that sound like choking continue to escape my throat as I gasp for air. A sheen of sweat covers my body, as I fight the urge to scream again. The memories are so real, so vivid, that I have to pause to remind myself where I am, remind myself that they happened years ago and there's nothing I can do now, nothing else to be scared of.
'It is all okay. It is all okay,' I repeat over to myself under my breath. But it's a pointless exercise. Because it's not all okay. Far from it. Because no matter how many decades pass, the memories are real. They are dead. And I can't bring them back.
My body feels weak and worn from the nightmares. By age I am an adult, sixty seven years old with each day taking its toll, yet inside my troubled mind, I am but an infant, scared and frightened of these memories that continue to haunt me, will continue to haunt me until the day I die and far beyond.
As I start to calm, my breathing returning to almost-normal, I become aware of my surroundings. I focus on the security and warmth of your arms wrapped around my torso. You remain asleep despite my screaming; your are used to it, after all the years that have passed. To start, you'd wake, comfort me until the sobs subsided, until you realised it was useless. No matter how many nights you spent up reassuring me, it never helped, never kept away the demons of the night. It's better for me this way too, that you remain asleep, blocking out my screams, because I hate to show weakness in front of you.
You are simply beautiful. Hair tussled and greying, a layer of stubble dusting your chin. You look so innocent. No, not innocent. Even in sleep, there is no escape. Like me, you too have nightmares plagued with dying tributes, and images of your family and home being devoured by flames. I can tell from the way your eyebrows slope downwards, creasing your forehead and the slight twitch of your lips as you are stabbed with painful memory after painful memory. But you are better at coping than me. You keep the screams locked deep inside you, where only you will be tortured, and I will be free of the extra burden.
This reminds me again of why you should have been the mocking jay, not me. Because you are strong. You would do anything to prevent inflicting pain upon others. Whereas with me, all I had to do was open my mouth and out came a path of destruction., each individual word causing a hundred innocent lives to be taken.
Unable to resist, I bring my lips to yours, just once, just gently. Butterflies awaken in my stomach as your fingers slowly come alive, curling around my back as you drift out of your restless sleep.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," I whisper, my voice trembling slightly, still not entirely recovered.
"What's wrong, Katniss?" Your voice is laced with concern, eyes flicking over my face, searching desperately for a trace of what is wrong, because you know I never wake you anymore, just because of the relentless memories.
"Just nightmares. Again. Nothing other than the usual."
A sigh seeps through your parted lips. It is pained, and I know that you are wishing there was something you could do to stop my agony. But we both know there is no way out, not for us, or any other tributes to survive the Games.
You are perfect.
Neither of us speaks another word. I just gaze into your eyes, and they gaze back into mine, understanding. No, you are not perfect either, you never will be. Just like me, you are damaged beyond repair- I suffer the inescapable nightmares full of my loved ones being murdered, and you have to fight the urge to kill me. Even now, after 50 years, an occasional, insignificant event can trigger a memory burned into your brain from when the Capitol hijacked you. You have to close your eyes and grit your teeth until the moment passes, and you no longer feel the urge to wrap your muscled hands around my throat and squeeze the life out of me, the way you did all those years ago.
But despite your faults, I love you, Peeta Mellark. And, for some absurd reason my mind still cannot seem to untangle, you love me too. Without you, I would have crumbled. The burden of death and destruction would have pushed down on my shoulders until I could no longer stand up, and I would have followed the path of the other tortured tributes of the years- become a drunk like Haymitch or a glassy eyed morphling. But you saved me. And I, you. Alone we are worthless, damaged beyond repair, but together we get by.
As the dawn breaks outside the window, I whisper to you. "I love you, Peeta Mellark."
I wish there was more I could say, but I know you'll understand the deepness beneath those few simple words.
"I love you, Katniss."