"Are you sure? You're sure you want to do this?"
My eyes are down, kept still on the bread at the center of the table. I cannot meet his. I know if I do, my resolve will shake, I will see the effect this is taking on him. I cannot bear to see his eyes so hurt, so protective, and so broken. I am not sure at all that this is what I want, so much as what we need. What I need. Carefully, my eyes rise, slowly taking in the room. The kitchen is warm, the window open and the curtains blowing in the slight breeze. I can see the game from my last hunt, strung neatly in one corner, being saved for the next few days within a box given to us and many others from the Capitol to preserve our food. There's a can of paints and brushes for his work, for his breads as well as his portraits. There are no pictures hung anywhere but over the table – a simple painting of four flowers, growing from rubble in front of a mesmerizing sunset. It is the only one I care to see, even if my heart breaks some days while taking in its meaning. I think of the room down the hall that was once my mother's that now works as a makeshift studio for him. His portraits are strewn neatly across the room covered with sheets. Some he doesn't mind seeing, others he knows I do. The ones of our nightmares, the ones he paints when he cannot seem to succumb to the weary of his aged body. Up the stairs there is another room, one I never let myself enter. It was hers, after all. I think of my own, the simple bed, the closet in the corner, the window that I keep open at night. I think of how the room is not only my own anymore, and the thought comforts me, if only for a moment.
Finally, I let my eyes fall to him. Nothing has changed his outside – the short blonde hair, his stocky build, the gentle roughness of his hands. At least while he is clothed. Underneath, his scars from the burns, the scars from his torture, they rake across his body, foreign to the boy I knew so long ago, and yet, strangely familiar now. His eyes are still striking, a blue so clear and bright I sometimes have to blink myself away from his gaze to remember to breathe. Most days, they are clear, his love and protection ever bright and present. Even so, there are days still, when the clouds come and the darkness overtakes him, and I fear I will lose him again. But I never do. Years have passed, and whatever we were has evolved to what we are now. When the dark comes and he is covered with confusion, betrayal from own mind, his own memories, he clings to what has resurfaced in his mind – his true memories, and the moments pass. They last less and less, and have become few and far between. I still fear to hope, he still fears to give himself the trust to let go.
Our biggest scars are none than can be easily seen. We both know that. No amount of clothing will ever hide what has been so effectively damaged by the war, by the games, and by time. We will never be the children we were again. Perhaps, we were never children to begin with. They made sure of that the moment our names were drawn. I certainly cannot recall feeling like a young child, not since the day I lost my father and my mother, and became the only thing to keep us alive. Well, not the only thing. I think back to the day with the bread, even now knowing I will never stop owing him from that day, from the very first time he saved my life. Even if he doesn't like to acknowledge this, I know it to be true. Now looking back, I can say that day is the first day I loved him. If only I'd known before.
Right now, we are across from one another, the table with the bread separating us though we both know it is not what presents the distance. I bring myself back to the present, back to him, and for a second, I see more than I should. His eyes are still searching, still begging for my answer. "You don't have to do this," he says, and he reaches for my hand, slowly and cautiously, as if he touches me I may sting him, or worse, pull away, though I know now the latter has the former's affect on him. I let his hand take mine, and I intertwine my fingers with his.
"I know," I say. It's all I can manage. If I say more I will change my mind. But I want to do this. I want to tell them about the games, about the life before. "Will you help me?" I know this is a useless question – he will help me whether I ask or not, even if his memories are still far too tampered with to know which are still his own.
He nods and releases my hand, and for a second, my heart stops. But then he comes and drops one arm and then the other until they engulf me, pulling me into his body from behind my chair. My arms enclose his, tightening his hold, as if it loosens, one, or both of us, may drift away. "Come on, then." He lets me go, and instead pulls me from my seat, leading me to the front room, where I know our story will be told. I am terrified, and so is he. But we know better than anyone a terror far worse than reliving a story – after all, we relive this tale often in our dreams. The worst of it was over, no matter how many nightmares we woke from screaming. It was time to tell the story the only way we could, the only way we would.
xXXx
"Prim! Prim! No!"
I wake in cold sweat. My hair has fallen out of my braid, wisps of it are stuck across my face, and I panic when I feel it almost wrapped around my neck, as if Peeta is there again, his hands clasped onto my neck trying to choke the life out of me. It takes me several minutes as I try to calm myself to remember that he isn't here. He is still at the Capitol, where the doctors still believe they can bring him back. I take a deep breath and slowly untangle my hair from my neck, feeling the broken pieces that were burnt away from the fires. As well as I can, I sit up; looking for the band I'd used to tie my hair in place earlier. Now that my heart has slowed and my breath has become less shallow, I realize the chill in the air. My window is open, the sky a dull purple. It must be early morning. The curtain sways when the breeze comes through, and I shiver against my blankets, knowing they will provide no warmth. I want to stand, to cross the room and close the window and block out the cold that begins to seize me again, but I can't seem to manage the strength. I just sit there, my knees pulled to my chest, my arms holding me into myself, as if I could possibly be pressed together any further. I rest my head against my knees, my bones a small comfort. I look out the window, watching the residual smoke left over from the fires of my distant neighbors float away until it fades against the trees belonging to my forest. In there, where my lake stays, steady with the cabin and my meeting place with Gale. I close my eyes. It is not my forest anymore.
I keep my eyes closed, trying to keep myself from seeing her face, her tiny body burning, reaching for me. And then I remember - she had no idea. She never reached for me. She had no idea her end would be then, just as those children had no idea it would be theirs. A sob pours out of me, and I am far past trying to be strong. It has done me no good. For all my efforts, the one person I thought to keep safe in the entire world is dead. I cry until the sun begins to rise, the purple dissipating from the sky, being replaced with soft blues and yellows. It is still a shock to me that the world can go on, the sun can rise, and the birds can sing, all the while Prim is no longer here to bask in it. Even seeing the sun coming through the window hurts me, for I see Prim, and Rue, in it bringing the warmth and light into the world.
I think to leave myself in bed; that perhaps I will waste away, and fade into the sheets until I am nothing. No one would miss me. Haymitch long ago stopped visiting, and for all I have seen of him, he could be dead in his cabin from alcohol. Greasy Sae comes and goes to prepare me food, but she does not come to my room when I do not respond to her calls. She long ago stopped trying to waken me from this nightmare. And then I think of my mother, of how much hatred I had for her in her weakness. I think of how her sadness crippled her, how she could not bring herself to rise for even her children once my father died. I now know I was wrong. I had no idea how real her sickness was, until now. I have no life left in me. Not without Prim or Peeta. I have lost everything to the games of the Capitol and those who fought to control it – Snow, Coin, the rebels and the innocently vile creatures that watched as children slain children for their own sick amusement. I lost everything to them.
Most mornings go on like this. Some days I have the strength to move, to pretend nothing is amiss. I ignore the emptiness and I occupy myself with hunting, as well as I can. Sometimes, I go back to the old house, and sit on the ruins, recalling memories of my father. Some days I go out and wander through the forest without my bow, hoping that a creature will come and take me from this world. They never do. They can smell the scent of death radiating off of me and know I am nothing worth catching. Not even the feral dogs or bears want me. Then there are the days where the world goes black, and I am nothing. I do not move from my bed. I do nothing but stare off into the distance, and remember how I am weak, alone, unwanted.
I don't know how long I sit in my bed on this day, or when I make the decision that no, today will not be the day I let myself die. I stand, and guide myself to the bathroom, avoiding the sight of me in the mirror. I am not the girl who was on fire, nor am I the mockingjay. I am the broken shell of a nineteen year old girl with no family, no friends, and no real reason to live. I step into the shower, careful with how much heat is in the water – my burns still can't take the pulsating heat from the shower's head. When I wash away my sweat and tears from this morning, I dress and comb out my hair before I begin my usual braid. I step out of the bathroom, exhausted because this is the most I have done in days.
I look around my room, and see the filth that has culminated. I go to my bed, pulling the sheets away from the mattress, knowing they must need to be cleaned. While tugging at the corner of the bed, I think I hear the thud of the front door. I don't stop, assuming Greasy Sae is just dropping off her bounty for the day before heading back to the new trading market at the town square. I feel a rumble deep inside myself, and realize it has been days since I have eaten. I decide to take the sheets down and see what she has brought me. As I walk down the hall, I pass the mirror, and I freeze. I am shocked at how much I still resemble myself, and at how much I do not. I am thinner, and my clothes hang off of me as if I were a poorly fitted mannequin. My hair has grown very little, but the burnt parts have become lost within what was saved. My eyes are still gray, though now they are hollow. I see no life within them, no fire. I feel so impossibly aged, and yet, this pain is only reflected in my eyes. I look away and begin my way down the stairs.
…part where she runs into Peeta planting the prim roses...
That night, I dream of Peeta. I dream of our time in the cave, me pretending to love him for our chance to live, nursing him back to health, his confessions of longing and his kisses. And then we're at the cornucopia, watching Cato killed while Peeta is slowly dying. We're being told only one of us can live, taking the berries in our hands. "Are you sure?" he asks me, and I can tell he would eat them then and there if it meant I were safe. I'm reaching for his hand when suddenly we're on the train, and he's dropping my hand and freezing me out. We're back in the Capitol and his lips are finding mine for the cameras, and I find myself wanting him to find them for me. While he's kissing me, the stage becomes the roof, his arms are around me, and I am finding myself actually happy. Then we're making our way back to my bedroom, because I can't bear to let him leave me. when I lie down, I blink, and then I'm standing, crying, screaming, watching Finnick save Peeta, feeling the terror as he's lying there without a heartbeat. He's being pulled from me as Joanna start to unravel the wire, and I am trying to get back to Peeta, and I'm screaming. And then he's there at District 13, coming toward me, and all I feel is relief, happiness, when his hands clamp onto my throat.
I wake screaming again, screaming so hard that it becomes to come out in whispers. My body is thrashing against my bed and it's a second before I realize I am thrashing against something else, something warmer, something more solid than a mattress. I stop screaming as the terror hits me again and I look to my left. Peeta is trying to find my arms, to still them and to comfort me, but instead I start screaming again. His eyes are worried, and he starts saying my name, over and over and over until I can't scream anymore.
"Katniss," his voice is measured, like he is diffusing a bomb. "Katniss. It's okay. It was just a dream. You're home, in bed. You're fine. Come on, Katniss. Calm down." I can tell he is trying hard to decide whether to leave me, or to try and hold me again. Before he can fully decide, I choose for him. I reach for him and bury my face in his chest. I am crying, and it sounds horrible and hoarse and nothing like myself, but I am beyond caring. My arms are pulled around him so tightly I'm thinking I might be hurting him. It takes a few seconds before his arms are around me, cautiously at first and then just like mine, tight and secure, like we'll never be able to diffuse from one another. I can feel him nuzzle his face into my hair, hear his shaky intake of breath, and I think he may be crying too, but I don't dare pull away.
We lay there for hours, or maybe only minutes, crying and sighing and crying until we both collapse from exhaustion. But when I wake, he is gone. I look for any sign of him in my room, but there is none. I am alone in my room, in my house, just like always. As if his being here had been only a figment of a terribly twisted nightmare. I think of how real his warmth was, how safe I felt once I stopped breaking down, and how I slept with peace, not terror. Suddenly, there is warmth deep within my body that I barely recognize. The warmth I'd only ever felt for Peeta, no matter how much I tried to deny it. The grumble from my stomach brings me back to reality, and I make myself stand, stretch, and shower before heading down to the kitchen.
When I finally get to the kitchen, I find Greasy Sae at the stove, stirring whatever is in her crock, and a loaf of bread set in the middle of the table - along with a flower. My eyes stay longer on the flower – the small yellow dandelion that lay next to the loaf – and then Greasy Sae clears her throat. "Well, it's been a while since I've seen you, hasn't it? Come on, now. I've got food cooking and you look starved." She looks no different – the past three years have affected her appearance in no shape or form. She still hunches as she stands, her wild gray hair kept untidily underneath a small cap atop the crown of her head. Her hands are still quick and nimble when the food and the spoon as she works her way through the herbs and meat to create her stews, and her wit was still as sharp as the knives she used to skin her prey. The lack of change gives me a small comfort, even if I know she is not the same woman she was when I left for the Games. None of us will ever be the same again.
"Thanks, Sae." I choke out as I come closer to the pot. The scent of food is wafting all around me and my stomach begins to grumble more. She turns her head to look at me and a faint smile crosses her aged lips. "I'm sorry." I whisper.
"Hush." She says to me. She pats my hand lightly, nods her head, and turns back to the meal. "Things happen, and the world goes on. We must always remember that, love. The world goes on." I stay there with her in the kitchen while she prepares the meal, at the table with the bread and the flower. I take the flower in my hand and twirl it in my fingers, examining its petals and its stem until I know every small detail concerning it. I take in the three shades of yellow and brown that covers the petals, the shades of green across the body, the ridges along the bottom where the flower was ripped away from the earth. Even when the meal is prepared, and Sae sets a bowl in front of me, my eyes are still glued to the bloom.
"He left that for you this morning," Greasy Sae speaks quietly, as if her words will break the spell the dandelion has cast on me. "Said you would need it."
"Of course he did," is all I can reply before I set the flower to the side and begin to eat.
XxxX
A/N: Been a while since I tried this. Thanks for reading. More to come. Eventually.
