Disclaimer: The Hunger Games belongs to the one and only Suzanne Collins.
"Katniss!"
My head is throbbing. What is that racket!
Katniss! Wake up! Come on!"
I see a shadowy figure hanging over me. So that's where all the bloody noise is coming from! I feel as though someone is driving an awl into my forehead.
"Katniss!"
Shapes slide in and out of my vision. I feel a vague stinging sensation in my cheeks, but that is nothing compared to the searing pain in my temples. Everything looks blurry, almost like one of Peeta's watercolor paintings…
"Katniss? That's right, wake up!"
My eyes snap open. Peeta.
"Oh thank God!" says the voice and I see a woman's face swim into view. "Haymitch, get your drunk ass over here!" she shouts.
Something is wrong. Peeta! Where's Peeta?
Suddenly the reality of the situation dawns on me and I feel like I've just hit a forcefield head-on. How could I have let this happen again? After I've finally gotten him back, the real him—sweet and humble and disarmingly funny. I fling myself bolt upright, causing a flood of stars to dance around my eyes and a wave of nauseating dizziness.
"Jesus, sweetheart! Take it easy!" comes the voice of Haymitch from somewhere to my left. I feel someone gripping my shoulders firmly and I am dimly aware that I am bleeding profusely.
"Where's Peeta?" I gasp, blinking frantically. My hand flies back automatically, searching for an arrow. There is nothing there.
"How the hell should I know?" snaps Johanna. "What is it with you two anyway? Someone's always trying to kill you and I'm always caught up in the middle of it!" I can tell she's trying to ward off genuine concern because she is more surly than usual. My heart feels like it has dropped out of my body.
"Peeta!" I yell maniacally, not knowing what else to do, because Haymitch and Johanna still look like undulating blobs and I can't figure out how to make my feet stand up. "PEETA!"
I feel arms lifting me up from the ground, but I keep screaming his name. He was right here! Right beside me! This is a nightmare, I'll wake up soon and Peeta will be sleeping next to me. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.
The metallic taste of blood brings the events of the day flooding back to me, flashing before my eyes in rapid succession. I feel like I am spinning, spinning like the cornucopia at the Quarter Quell…Stay awake! I command myself.
Darkness.
Three hours earlier...
When I awake there is sunlight streaming in through the window. I yawn broadly and roll over to reach for Peeta, but I find his side of the bed cold and empty. Then I remember with a start what day it is. I make an uncoordinated, sleepy grab for the alarm clock and note the time with a sigh: 8:35 am.
By the time I have stumbled into the shower, pulled on my bathrobe, and made an attempt to comb out my unruly hair, it is nearly 9 and I can hear the sound of sizzling bacon in the kitchen. Peeta looks up when he sees me and grins.
"Morning."
"You didn't wake me," I reply moodily, snatching the spatula from him. "I'm supposed to be doing this. It's your big day!"
Smiling, he wraps his arms around my waist, while I attempt to maintain some semblance of a glare. "You just looked so peaceful, like an angel," he teases, knowing how low my tolerance is for romanticism.
"Yeah, that's right, an angel. The angel of death next time you try to use that line on me," I say, jabbing at the bacon testily, but unable to conceal the small smile turning up the corners of my mouth. Peeta sees it right away and takes the opportunity to plant a conciliatory kiss on my lips.
"Ok, ok, I'm sorry," he concedes, and the sound of pure, undiluted joy in his voice completely mollifies me. After five years in the works, today is the grand opening of the new Mellark family bakery.
"I'm so proud of you, Peeta," I tell him, this time smiling for real.
Peeta beams back at me. "Sometimes I thought it would never happen, you know?"
"Mmhmm," I agree, knowing that he is not just referring to the bakery. I don't think either of us, least of all me, believed that we could have come so far since the Rebellion. The months of work spent constructing the bakery seem like a nice stroll in the park compared with the years we have spent fending off nightmares and flashbacks, sobbing over lost loved ones and, finally, sorting through our feelings for each other, feelings steeped in fear and betrayal and uncertainty.
The noise of the front door slamming open yanks me from my reverie and both Peeta and I spring instinctively into defensive positions. Several seconds later a disgruntled looking Johanna comes striding into view with two reporters scurrying in her wake.
"Peeta! Would you get your precious little iconic face out here and talk to these people before I—" She pauses in mid rant as she notices the absurd poses we have struck upon her unceremonious intrusion into our kitchen. At least I had the good sense to grab a knife because Peeta is brandishing the spatula at her and looking about as fierce as Prim's old goat.
The reporter snaps a couple photos while Johanna doubles over laughing. Scowling, Peeta tries to casually disarm himself of his kitchen implement.
"Peeta!" she wheezes, erupting into another round of uncontrollable laughter. "What were you going to do, deep fry me!" And she's off again, holding on to the countertop for support.
"Ahh, Peeta," she says, wiping her streaming eyes and trying to sober herself, "Thanks for making my day, kid."
"Don't mention it," says Peeta stiffly, although he doesn't really sound angry. I can't quite understand it, but he and Johanna have a special sort of relationship. I know he talked to her a lot while he was going through therapy, trying to unearth what was behind all of those shiny, deadly memories. I think Johanna's the only one who can really come close to understanding the horror of what Peeta went through in the Capitol, and surly and difficult as she may be, I know I should be eternally grateful to her for what she's done for him.
Meanwhile, Peeta quickly recovers his good-naturedness and, sensing that Johanna's defenses are down from laughter, he lunges at her and pulls her into a giant bear hug.
"Oof, get off me you big sap!" she protests, but I can see that she is secretly pleased. I smile at the pair of then and after Peeta releases her, Johanna sticks out her hand to me and shakes mine vigorously. "Good to see you, too, Mockingjay. Hey, would you look at that arm!" she cries, examining the long, jagged scar which has faded significantly in the past years. "Remember when I sliced you open? Good times."
"The best," I reply, rolling my eyes.
"Ahem," comes the sound of someone clearing their throat. Peeta and I exchange a glance—we have completely forgotten about the reporters.
Peeta puts on his best winning smile while I run upstairs to change and Johanna sulks in the corner, suddenly remembering her annoyance with the barnacles she picked up in town. I hate dealing with the media. I thought that nothing could be worse than having the capitol sticking their cameras down my throat at every waking moment, but it turns out that the regime change did not slake the populace's desire for voyeuristic and intrusive reporting. It had been especially bad at the beginning when Peeta was newly released from Dr. Aurelius' care and was still having regular and agonizing flashbacks. I barely escaped a lawsuit after I caught someone from the paparazzi climbing up Peeta's rain pipe and I shot the camera out of his hands with one of Beetees flaming arrows. Singed the guy's mustache off too, I remember with a smug smile. Served him right.
After I grudgingly let the press take a few photos of Peeta and me, I signal to Johanna and we head out for town. Despite my annoyance at the reporters I'm not going to let anything ruin this day for Peeta. I stop on the front steps for a moment and straighten his tie for him. I feel ridiculously domestic as soon as I do it and I know Johanna is rolling her eyes, but I don't care. I cup Peeta's face and gently brush my lips against his. He looks at me a little curiously, clearly a bit taken aback by this uncharacteristic display of public affection.
"What?" I demand, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "Oh shut up, Johanna." Peeta squeezes my hand with a smile.
And that's when I hear it—a slight pop, and then the loud roar of a hovercraft hanging menacingly over our heads. At first I think that its Beetee come to congratulate Peeta on the bakery, he drops by pretty regularly, but there is something not quite right. The hovercraft doesn't look like one of the new fleet Beetee has designed for inter-district travel, no, there is something sinister about this one.
Suddenly the sound of open fire sends the reporters screaming and skittering for cover. Out of the corner of my eye I see Haymitch framed in his doorway, the alarm in his face evident even from a distance. Just as I reach out to grab Peeta's hand I see the missile headed for us as if in slow motion. I open my mouth wide in a silent scream and the last thing I see as I'm thrown backwards with incredible force are Peeta's startling blue eyes moving up, up and away. He's been taken.
