Disclaimer: The Hunger Games and its characters belong to Suzanne Collins

1.Alone

I lock all the doors, make sure the windows are tightly shut, and draw the blinds. I don't know why I do it - why I try so hard to make sure no when can get in, when the thing I'm afraid of resides inside my head.

Peeta's in the Capitol, mostly because he's the only civil one of the District 12 tributes. I'm bordering insane, Haymitch is too preoccupied with geese, and even if we weren't such damaged goods, it's not like we're rays of sunshine to be around. But Peeta's different. Peeta's a people-person. Probably the only reason people seem to tolerate me is because Peeta talks me up to seem like a decent person. Peeta can weave words just as well as Finnick can weave nets.

He asked me to come with him. Vehemently suggested it, actually. He knows how I get when I'm left alone with my mind. He worries about me, calling every morning and night. He asks me how I'm doing, and then reminds me that I can demand he come home this instant, and goes on to melodramatically explain how he'd steal a hovercraft to get to me.

But I couldn't come with him. I couldn't come with him to a place that still reeks of rose perfume. To a place where I can still see all the blood stains on the ground. To a place where I can still see the dead.

A place where I can still see Prim.

I don't like being alone. I don't like to sleep without his arms, because that's when the nightmares come.

2. Annie Cresta

Everything I hear is too loud. The whoosh-ing of Captiol hovercrafts, the final cries of the dead tributes, the ravish barking of muttations. Everything is too high-pitched; it's like I'm listening to the radio with the treble too high. There's screeching and scratching and whining, and sounds that threaten to permanently put my eardrums out of commission.

I put my hands over my ears. I exit reality.

Someone's arms are around me. They're firm and muscular and strong. They're comforting and warm and tan. I let myself be held, not taking my hands off my ears. I don't want to hear the static anymore. As long as I keep my hands there, the noise is nonexistent. Suddenly, visions of white sand like glitter on the ground and clear water rocking gently, as if in a carried glass, fill my head.

When I spin around, I honestly don't know what I expect to find. When I find Finnick, I am confused.

My breathing is labored, as if I have just paused from having been running from someone dangerous. Subconsciously, I reach out for the arms that are usually there, the ones that soothe me.

I wish for Peeta, wish for him to chase the malignant dreams from my head.

Usually I dream about things I'm afraid of - Peeta dying in some gruesome way, Gale intentionally killing Prim, even though I know he wouldn't do that. Sometimes I dream about things that have already happened, but they seem even scarier playing out in my mind's cinema.

Am I afraid of becoming Annie? Am I afraid of losing whatever sane part of my mind is left? Whatever sane part of me was leftover from the Games was probably became a casualty in the war, one of the many among the named and nameless on my list.

What if that's what I do? What if I spend my nights trying to block out the noise - the nightmares - with Peeta's arms? Am I so dependent on him that I could not survive without him? I'm almost afraid to dig deep enough within myself to find the answer, pretty sure I knew the answer the moment I held out those berries.

When I smell the aroma of Peeta's cheese rolls slithering through the slightly opened bedroom door, I'm almost positive insanity has made a nest in me. The smell, so strong and wonderful, creeps up into the room like a cat crawling over to me. I try to come up with reasons I would be smelling the things I am smelling right now, and I come up blank. Bored and, truthfully, terrified to return to sleep, I wander downstairs into the kitchen.

I stop in my tracks when I see who's in the kitchen - I literally almost turn on my heel to leave, convinced that Peeta's absence is more unhealthy that I initially conceived. But when he speaks, his voice is so warm - like the freshly baked bread I can smell strongly now - there's not a sliver of doubt he is real.

I run to him, throw my arms around him, and hold on tight. I don't let go, not until he gently peels me off him so he can talk to me.

"Katniss," he says, smiling at me. He then studies my face and his own grows anxious. For Peeta, who knows how to read me, he knows that there's something dark underneath my joy of having him back. "I couldn't stay there any longer. I was able to help, but I didn't think my being away was helping you at all." His eyebrows furrow, an adorable expression. "Actually, I don't like leaving you alone to your own devices."

"Do you think I'm like Annie?" I blurt out suddenly. "Do you even think I could be like her?"

"Do you mean to ask if I think you're mad?" He laughs quietly, tucks a stray lock of hair that has fallen from my braid behind my ear. His lips brush my forehead, then presses his own forehead against mine. "Sweetheart, I think we're all mad. Annie's just more obvious about it."