A/N:

So what do you do when the Bruins lose their quarterfinal match up? Have a drink, eat a shit ton of French fries, and crank out some fic.

Back to the more traditional hurt/comfort sickie stuff. Because I don't want to study for finals.

READ THIS OR YOU WILL BE CONFUSED LATER!

I'm writing this fic backwards, memento style (and if you haven't seen that movie, watch it, it's really interesting). This chapter, the first chapter, is the thing that happened LAST, and the chapter that is posted last is going to be the thing that happened FIRST.

Set during Mockingjay, later chapters may go back to Catching Fire. OOC, I know.

September 4th

9:37pm

I wake soaked with sweat and in pain. My stomach is roiling and cramping, and lines of hot achiness are shooting up from the small of my back. Nausea is welling in my chest. I shove off the bed and stumble toward the bathroom. I end up at the wall, though. This room is oddly flipped compared to my family's apartment. I skid in the other direction, my bare feet sliding on the polished linoleum.

I slam my knees into the floor in front of the toilet and retch. My body wants to fight the sharp contractions of my stomach, but I force myself to relax my tense shoulders and ride the waves of sick pain. I bring my forehead to rest on the toilet seat, but I end up in contact with the edge of the bowl. I'm definitely not in my apartment. No one in my family leaves the seat up. I can't think about this for more than a moment because vertigo is starting to overtake my vision.

I press my face into the edge of the porcelain toilet bowl, trying to keep my grip on reality. My stomach is still cramping, and the pain is radiating horribly into my back and upper thighs. It reminds me of the soreness and nausea I'd had when I'd first gotten my period. But this is different, so much more intense. And I'm not supposed to be having a period.

I spit out residual strings of mucus, then ease myself off of my knees. I sit on my bottom with my faintly trembling legs stretched out in front of me. I comb my fingers through my sweaty hair, holding it off my neck. I reach to unstick my shirt from my lower back. The fabric clings to my damp skin, so I just pull it over my head and sit there in my bra. I use the wadded up shirt to wipe more sweat and puke off my face. I'm about to toss it into the corner when I notice the murky stain on the hem in the back.

The bathroom is dark, but I can plainly see the spot. It looks black on the dingy gray of my shirt. I run my fingers over the stain, and they come up dark and sticky. I hold my fingers close to my face. I can't mistake the metallic scent. Blood.

I drop my shirt and look down at myself. "Oh God," I gasp. "Oh fuck."

The crotch of my pants is saturated with blood, which is seeping down my thighs. I swear again and try to wipe my tainted fingers on my knee. The room seems to be moving in ellipses around me. Nausea is rising again.

I rest my elbows on the edges of the toilet bowl and hold my head in my hands. Within seconds, I'm gagging.

The door to the apartment bangs open, and a wedge of severe light floods the bathroom. "The fuck?" I hear Haymitch's voice. There's a thud as something heavy hits a hard surface. The door closes and the slightly softer apartment light clicks on.

Heavy footsteps come up behind me. "Sweetheart?" he asks quietly from the doorway.

I turn my head toward him, and the effort makes me feel like I might pass out. "Go away," I grunt. One of my elbows slips and I have to scrabble to regain my grip on the toilet bowl.

Haymitch is at my side with an arm around my shoulders. "Why are you here?" I choke.

"You're puking in my john," he answers. I'm in Haymitch's room. So the nearest open door I'd shoved through hours earlier had been his. A smattering of memories from the last time I was conscious comes to my mind. Arguing with Gale, snapping at my mother, feeling dizzy and tired, pushing into the nearest unlocked room and falling asleep.

I retch. Haymitch rubs my back as I heave my guts into his toilet. "Aw, Sweetheart," he whispers, "I wouldn't wish this on you in a million years."

Stars are encroaching on the corners of my vision. I turn to Haymitch. His hair is obscuring his face. "It's dead," I say. I'm not sure if I mean it to be a statement or a question. But I'm sure it's true.

"Yeah," Haymitch whispers. He grasps my shoulder. "Yeah. That's a lot of blood, Sweetheart. It's probably been gone a couple of days."

I sigh and try to nod, but I just grimace in pain. "Mmmmm," I groan as my stomach cramps. I want to curl into a fetal position and scream. I tip sideways and careen into Haymitch.

"Hey, okay," he soothes, keeping me from falling any further. I dry heave. "Alright, going back up." He puts down the toilet seat and helps me curl my contracting body around the porcelain bowl. "Hold tight for a minute," Haymitch says, "I'mna find your mom, maybe a doctor." He pats my shoulder one more time, then pushes up from the floor and dashes out of the apartment.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the door slams. I crush my forehead into the toilet seat as hard as I can. I begin to whisper under my breath, as much for comfort as to keep myself from passing out. "My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. Peeta is in the Capital. I was pregnant with his child. The baby is dead. I am having a miscarriage."

I barely get the last part out before I'm wracked with another painful cramp. I slam my forehead on the seat. "God fucking damnit!" I yell as loudly as my raw throat will allow. "Why the fucking shit…"

Massive sobs are rising in my chest. The door flies open and my mother and Haymitch run to me. I hear two more pairs of feet approaching behind them.

"Fuck!" I'm still shouting and crying, and I'm not sure I'll ever be able to stop.

"Katniss," my mother says softly, sitting on the floor beside me. Her cool hands find my cheek and the back of my neck. "Slight fever," she mutters to Haymitch, "But it could just be activity. Can we get her sitting up?"

Haymitch's arms latch around me, and he pulls me to my feet. I'm lightheaded and listing to one side as he hauls me onto the toilet, but my gaze finds two faces hovering in the bathroom doorway. Gale. And Prim.

"Get out of here!" I yell with a catch in my voice.

My mother cups my face. "Shhh, Katniss. It's okay. They can help. She can help." I lash out at her with my clenched fist.

"Prim, get out! Don't see this," my voice dissolves into moaning sobs, "Don't fucking see this." I hear their footsteps retreating. I flop my head back and cry without restraint.

Haymitch puts his arm around my trembling shoulders. My mother tosses a towel over my lap and eases off my pants and underwear.

I feel so bad. So exposed. Tainted. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am having a miscarriage. The piece of Peeta growing inside me is dead. For so long I'd wanted to kill it. Terminate it. Get it out of my way. But now that I'd decided to accept it, maybe even feel affection for what Peeta had created inside me, it's dead. My body was too hateful to let it live.

"Oh, Katniss," my mother sighs. She's standing at the sink, examining my soiled clothes. I know she's found it. Whatever it is, dead after seven weeks of growth. Already passed from my body.

I'm horrified and relieved and sad and embarrassed all at once. I want Peeta. I want him to hold me and forgive me for what I've done to our child. But Peeta isn't here. He's in the Capital, tortured, possibly dead.

Grief washes over me, starting at my head and rushing down my chest. I want Peeta. Haymitch is closest, so I wrap my arms around his waist and cry and snivel into his belt buckle. He strokes my hair. "You'll be okay, Sweetheart," He says. "Give it some time and you'll be okay."

"How do you know?" I grumble into his shirt.

Haymitch sighs deeply. "My mother. She had four."

"Oh," I say.

"Couldn't make another baby after me. 'S why I'm so fucked up, I guess." He gives a macabre chuckle. "But she did this four times. Strongest person I knew. Was pneumonia that got her in the end. Not the kids. You'll be okay."

I'm not sure if his speech is getting more fragmented or if I'm just losing my grip. I pull away from Haymitch and vomit a thin stream of bile onto the floor. He wipes my mouth with his sleeve.

My mother is back at my side. She is saying something about getting me to bed. That sounds wonderful. I'm so achy and seasick. She ushers Haymitch out of the bathroom and sees to cleaning me up a little. She washes the blood from my legs, wipes my sweaty face, and dresses me in a clean shirt.

My mother lets Haymitch back in to hold me up while she readies the bed. I'm too weak and shaky to make it to my apartment, so I'll be staying at Haymitch's for the night.

I sip water from the glass Haymitch holds in front of me. The cool liquid feels wonderful on my raw throat, but it hits my stomach badly. The coldness just intensifies the cramps. I imagine the luxury of laying down on the soft mattress and forgetting all about today.

I don't have to wait long before Haymitch and my mother support me to bed. I lay on a pile of towels to soak up the blood that still drips from me. My mother pulls the blankets up to my chest. She smooths a hand over my forehead. "There, your much cooler now," she says.

Haymitch stands behind her, bottle of liquor hand. That must have been the heavy thump from earlier. "Where'd you get that?" I whisper.

"Ripper," he answers. "Turns out she brought a few with her when she came up here from 12." He takes a swig of the liquid.

"Give me some," I say, reaching up for the bottle.

"Katniss," my mother admonishes.

But Haymitch hands over the bottle. I take a swig of the burning liquid. It threatens to come back up, but I force it to stay in my stomach. I relinquish the bottle of liquor and breathe deeply for a moment, feeling the fuzzy burn of alcohol begin to soothe my aches.

I'm about to shut my eyes when the apartment door opens. "Katniss?" Prim's small voice asks.

"Yeah?" I answer. She pads up to the bed and crawls up beside me. "Sorry," I whisper. I remember how rude I'd been to her earlier.

"It's okay," she murmurs, taking my trembling hand between hers.

"Catnip," Gale's voice comes from my shoulder. He's standing at the edge of the bed beside my mother.

"I'm sorry," I say again. I can't come up with any more words to describe the hideous mixture of emotions I'm feeling. He strokes my cheek with his big, calloused fingers. "Don't leave," I sigh.

"I won't," Gale says. Prim tightens her grip on my hand. I hear Haymitch setting his bottle down on the bedside table. My mother gently touches my foot through the blankets.

I close my eyes and exhale. The liquor has dulled the aching of my abdomen. I feel like I can sleep. And for the first time in several hours, I feel that there may be some tiny fragments of my life that aren't affected by this blight.

A/N: BEFORE you comment and say "I'm confused, where's the backstory?" read the big bold underlined note at the beginning. Backstory comes LATER.

Anyhow, worth continuing? Reviews feed my muse…