Forest surrounds me. My bow gleams too brightly in the sunlight, and it blinds me for a moment. Cato charges toward me from a distance with his sword. I reach back to grab an arrow, but find empty air. I look to my quiver, and it's empty. I drop my quiver and bow onto the ground, and reach for the knife in my belt. I feel nothing. I pat around my belt, and nothing's there.
Peeta expects me back! He doesn't even know I left.
I panic, looking around on the grass, but there's nothing that can be used as a weapon. I debate running toward the lake and dart to the right at the last second, and hopefully he'll charge into the lake and drown. But I immediately dismiss the idea. Most Careers can swim. And I don't think the lake is deep enough to drown anyway.
I run anyway. Toward the Cornucopia, further away from the forest where I so often seek refuge. I might be able to outrun Cato in a forest, assuming he's not as deft running through forest terrain as I am, but I can't lead him near Peeta. If he finds Peeta, he'll instantly be targeted.
I run past the Cornucopia, and my stomach lurches. I can see the high grain several hundred yards away. I feel hot just looking at it. The grain are barely taller than Thresh would be, and this would provide no protection from enemies or the sun. Also there's no telling what kind of creatures lurk there. But Thresh is enough of a threat of keeping me away from there, if I can help it. And I couldn't enlist Thresh as an ally to help kill Cato. I couldn't kill Thresh afterward, especially after Rue, but I think he'd have no problem killing me.
I curve my run. Cato isn't slowing down. I look behind me. I think he's speeding up.
Peeta needs me to come back. Peeta won't survive if I don't survive. And Peeta has to survive. I hold onto this belief as I curve away from Thresh's domain, and circle the Cornucopia. This isn't good. I'm not accomplishing anything. Why did I come out here again?
Without warning, and without my consent, my legs stop moving. I try to lift them or move them forward, but it's as if my feet are bolted down to the ground. I try to jump, but my legs just bend, and my feet stay in place. I look behind me. Cato's catching up quick.
I close my eyes, hoping my death is quick for Prim's sake, and pray Peeta's death is quick for his sake. With no medicine and nobody to aid his wounds, and such little sustenance, he won't last long.
No, Peeta has to survive. I won't accept any other outcome.
I hear Cato's stomps. He's no less than 20 yards from me. He'll be here any moment. My feet still won't move from this spot. Then an idea comes to me. I don't know if it'll work, and I can't test it out first, but I have to try.
Cato approaches, and as he's about to reach me, I lurch my body to the left with all my might. There's an awful crack as I fall, and Cato trips over my body, landing on the ground. His sword flies several feet away from him. He crawls off of me, and tries to get up but I land on top of him before he can make a move.
I start punching him, raw and painful for both of us. I know my fist position is wrong, my thumb is on the outside of my fist, so it's squished between my force and his face, but I don't care. The punches are warm and wet, and I don't stop. The contact makes me feel powerful. I can protect Peeta. I can protect myself. I will not die by a Career's hand.
Cato spits out blood, and his nose is disfigured and bleeding. He then looks confused, which makes me confused.
"Katniss, what are you doing?"
That's not Cato's voice. It's too soft, too gentle.
"Katniss, wake up!"
I'm now being shaken by an invisible force.
"Katniss! Katniss!"
My eyes open. I'm sitting on top of Peeta, and his face is covered in bruises and his nose and mouth is dripping blood.
"W-what?" I ask. I look around. I'm not in the arena. I'm in my house, in the Victor's village. And for some reason, Peeta's in my bed.
Then the sleepy confusion lifts away, and I remember. The war is over. Snow is dead. Peeta is safe. And hundreds of people are dead because of me.
I get off of Peeta, and sit on the empty side of the bed. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them. I feel like a monster as Peeta's blood drips from my hands.
"My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 23 years old. District 12 is my home. I was in the Hunger Games-" I start. Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I barely register them.
"Your scent reminds me of the arena too." I say.
He pulls away, but I grab his arm.
"No. Don't. Don't leave me." I say.
"Never." He wraps me tighter, and kisses my temple.
We sit there in silence, and I watch as the sun slowly rises.
What I don't tell him is everything reminds me of the arena these days.
Peeta doesn't leave the bed until I do. And I do it because Peeta needs medical attention. Ideally, I would have tended to these right away, but I couldn't find the strength to get up. The bleeding doesn't seem too bad, but I can't tell whether or not the wounds are still bleeding. There isn't enough blood to be overly concerned though, and Peeta doesn't push it, so I stay in bed. Admittedly, I find the resolve to get up when my stomach rumbles loudly, and Peeta offers to make breakfast.
"We need to clean your wounds first." I say.
Peeta and I break apart and we stand up. I follow him into the bathroom. I take the disinfectant wipes and cotton bandages out of the cabinet as Peeta sits on the closed toilet lid. I open the disinfectant wipes and gently begin to dab his nose. Peeta tries hard to hide his grimace. I try to be as gentle as I can, but nothing will take take away the sting. And now Peeta's starting to get the wild look in his eyes, which means he may start to have a flashback to his hijacking/torture. A stone sinks at the pit of my stomach. I need to distract him.
"I'm sorry." I say, but the words are barely audible. The words are caught in my throat. All those years of protecting Peeta, and I'm the one to hurt him.
"Don't be sorry." He says.
Peeta concentrates on my face as I continue to clean his nose in silence, and then I examine the wound. His nose arches out to the right. But it looks like a clean dislocation, which means it should be easy to put back into place with minimum chance of complication.
"Good news-" I clear my throat and try again, but it comes out quiet, "It's not as bad as it looks."
"That is good news." He says.
"It's dislocated though, so it should be reset-" I say.
Before I can register anything, Peeta quickly puts his hands to his nose and pushes it to the left.
"Peeta, what are you doing?!" I ask, and move his hands away from his face. I examine his nose. It's back in place.
Before I can open my mouth, Peeta shrugs and says, "This isn't my first dislocated nose, Katniss. I had two older brothers, remember?"
I try to remember his brothers, but honestly I can't recall much. One of them, I think it was the middle one, was as tall as Peeta's father, who was pretty tall, and the other one was… the other one. If I'm going to be completely honest, I'm not even sure if I remember their names. And Peeta never talks about them, so I don't want to ask.
"Yeah." I give what I hope is a comforting smile. But Peeta doesn't seem upset, so I continue cleaning his wounds, hoping the pain will distract him.
I clean his lip, and his cheeks. His lip is busted open, and there's a large gash on his cheek, as well as his nose.
"You'll need stitches." I say.
"Then stitch away." He says.
"I'm really not a healer." I say.
"Stop saying that. If that were true, people wouldn't come to you for medical treatment." He replies.
"They only come to me because I'm cheap." I say.
"They come to you because you're good. You have healer's blood-" I can tell the look on Peeta's face that he wanted to take it back as soon as it left his lips.
"Yeah, yeah. Shut up so I can stitch you up." I say as I disinfect the needle, and stitch up his wounds. I gentle brush his lips with mine after which, despite the pain, he enthusiastically returns. Then I remember his wounds are vulnerable, so I wipe them with alcohol again. Peeta doesn't mind.
I gather up the bloody wipes from the counter, and Peeta stands up. He exits the bathroom, and I follow him. He makes his way down the hall and down the stairs to the kitchen. I dump the garbage in the trash and then disinfect my hands in the sink. I try not to look at the bloody water circling the drain. Buttercup mews, and Peeta pets him with a friendly good morning. Buttercup's sitting on the kitchen table, and I sit next to him. I lazily rub the top of his head, and he rests his head on the table and purs. Peeta's gone to the fridge, pulling out the eggs and bacon. Peeta then brings out the apple and goat cheese tarts he made yesterday, and sets them on the kitchen table. I take one, and start eating. The cheese is soft and salty, and the apple is crisp.
"I was thinking of getting a goat." I say, as I take another bite.
"Oh yeah? Why's that?" Peeta asks. The bacon sizzles on the frying pan.
"I don't want a goat. I don't know why I said that." I shoved the rest of the tart into my mouth.
"You want a goat, don't you?" He asks mischievously.
"No." I say through a full mouth.
"You want one for her, don't you?" He says.
"Yeah." I swallow, "But cheese is very profitable, and those kids need the money."
"Then get a goat, and throw away the milk." Peeta says, as if this was nothing. He flips the bacon over on the frying pan. Merchant privilege.
I give him a look, but he already realized his mistake.
"I didn't mean that," He said, "I absolutely did not mean that."
"You'll just have to make more tarts." I say, taking another tart off the plate, "Haymitch likes them anyway."
"Duly noted." He agrees, as he cracks eggs on to the pan.
I stand up and walk over to the stove. I grab an egg out of the bowl and gently break the top against the counter. I flake away the shell, and start drinking the inside.
"I still don't know how you can eat raw egg." He says, as he flips his egg.
"I like them this way." I say.
"If you say so." He says, and cuts a slice of a bread loaf that's sitting on the counter. Two plates with bacon on it sit on the counter.
"Did you want bread with breakfast, Katniss?" He asks.
"No thank you." I say.
Peeta nibbles on his bread as he puts his egg onto his plate. He picks up our plates, and carries them to the kitchen table.
I sit down next to him, and watch him as he spreads marmalade onto his bread.
"What?" He asks.
"Nothing." A surge of guilt rushes through me, "I just don't know what we're gonna tell people about your face."
"If you're that worried, I just won't leave the Village until my wounds have healed a bit. It's no big deal." He says, "I have a cake order for the mayor to fill anyway."
But it is a big deal. It's absolutely a big deal. I hurt Peeta. And no matter how much he says it's ok, it's not.
"Ok." That's the only response I can get out.
Although he doesn't say it, I can tell Peeta's having difficulty eating. The salt and fat from the bacon are irritating his wounds. He slowly feeds the rest of his bacon to Buttercup, probably hoping I won't notice. But I do.
I focus on my plate, not daring to look at him.
"I think I'll visit Haymitch after breakfast." I say.
"That'd be good. You haven't seen him in a while." Peeta says.
"Yeah." I give up on conversation. Peeta doesn't push it.
After we're finished eating, I clear the table and do the dishes. Peeta leaves the room, and I'm grateful to be alone.
The war is over. Snow is dead. Peeta is safe. These are the words I keep comforting myself with. And while I'm glad these words are in fact true, for some reason I don't understand, I can't relax. I continue to live my life every day in fear that something bad is going to happen that will take this new life away from me.
But the Games never really end. Haymitch has been trying to tell me this since I won my first Games. Look at him. It's been over 30 years since his Games, and he still lives in the arena. Just like I do.
I didn't plan on visiting Haymitch, but maybe I will.
I finish up the dishes, and leave them on the rack to dry. I leave the kitchen and head straight for the front door. I'm still in my pajamas, but neither Haymitch nor I care about trivial matters like that.
I put my bare feet into my shoes and exit the front door. I walk across the street and down two houses where Haymitch lives.
The house is spotless. Haymitch retained Hazel as his housekeeper, who moved back to 12 with all the kids except for Gale after the war ended. Gale remains in 2. Although Hazel and I don't talk about it, I know he doesn't visit or call her. He sends money, but that's the extent of their relationship. And this makes me just as angry at him as I am for what happened to Prim.
But I can't say I'm shocked. Didn't he say all those years ago, back in the woods, when the Games were still on and we all feared certain death, that once his siblings were grown, he'd flee with me into the woods? Wasn't that already a proclamation that he was prepared to abandon his family?
I don't think Hazel is aware that Gale had these thoughts though, and I won't dare breach the topic. I care for Hazel and her children just as much as I did my own family. And Gale has caused them enough pain.
I enter the door, which is almost always unlocked. Nobody here would dare rob Haymitch, as they know if they'll get a knife to the chest if they try. Plus Haymitch has almost nothing worth stealing anyway. Haymitch isn't one for frivolous expensive trinkets.
The house is identical to mine in every way, except for the decor. Hazel is humming in the kitchen, making some kind of stew. Haymitch is snoring loudly, passed out drunk, in the living room with the tv on. I go into the kitchen, where Hazel greets me with a warm smile. She puts on the kettle, and then sits with me at the table.
"How is it going? I haven't seen you in a while." Hazel says.
"Good." I say. My response is too quick, too curt. She knows it's a lie. But she doesn't ask. "How are you?"
"I'm good. Rory's got a job at a construction site. They're building more houses in the Seam." She says.
The Seam. Where my old house used to be.
"That's… good." I say. I start picking at my fingernails.
"Oh my, what's happened to your hand?!" She asks.
My eyes trail to my hands. I haven't actually looked at my right hand. My knuckles are busted up and a little bloody, and swollen in spots. My thumb is disfigured, probably broken.
"I… had an accident." I say lamely.
"Katniss, what happened?" Her voice is gentle, yet firm. A mother's voice.
"I… accidentally… punched-" I can't get out his name and then mutter, "in the face."
Her face softens, and she takes my non-injured hand.
"Oh honey." She says.
"I didn't mean to. I had a- I had a-" I can't finish the sentence, but I don't need to.
Hazel squeezes my hand reassuringly, and then stands up and leaves the room. The kettle is whistling. I get up and turn off the element, and then I pour the water into the mugs with my good hand.
She returns with the first aid kit. I watch mechanically as she takes out the rubbing alcohol and cleans the wounds. Then she wraps it up in cotton.
"That's as much as I can do." She grins almost apologetically.
"Thanks." I say.
"I know he doesn't blame you. These things happen." She says.
"Yeah." I say.
The phone rings, and Hazel gets it. I start picking my fingernails again, wanting Hazel to pay attention to me again.
"I'm sorry, he's out right now. But you may speak to Katniss Everdeen, if you'd like." My eyes flicker up, and she's looking at me. She motions to the phone. I get up, wondering who would be ok talking to me if they had called Haymitch's number.
I take the phone from Hazel, and put it to my ear.
"Katniss Everdeen." I greet.
"Hello, Ms. Everdeen." The man's voice is deep and serious, definitely belongs to the Capitol. "I'm calling to inform you the Victors of the former Hunger Games are invited to the Capitol for a special event in 2 days."
My first instinct it to decline, but I know this invite is not optional.
"What kind of event is it?" I ask.
"Give the message to Haymitch." Dial tone.
I hang up.
"What did they want?" Hazel asks.
Whatever they want, it can't be good.