This is my first ever fanfic, so please enjoy!
This chapter takes place a few weeks after Katniss and Peeta return to District 12 after the rebel war. (before the epilogue of Mockingjay)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, they are all the sole right of Suzanne Collins. I do, however, own the following plot.
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~ I am walking through the town, bow in hand and quiver on my back. I knew it was a mistake. That the sight of the ravaged buildings that I grew up seeing would only cause me sorrow. Some days, I can come back from a day of hunting and walk past the burned buildings bravely, and make it to my house before the pain hits. But there are days like today when I can make it all the way to the meadow, spend all day in the woods and not even hunt. And when I head back, and I'm too exhausted to be brave, I end up running through the town. As if I can outrun the horror that devastated my home.
I don't stop until I am safely in the Victor's Village. I slow to a walk, and drag my bow along the ground. As I pass Haymitch's house, I notice that his geese are faring for themselves. He must have gotten a new stock of liquor from the train. I imagine he's passed out by now. When I get to my house, it seems unusually difficult to climbs the few steps. My bow knocks against the wood as I walk up to the door.
I walk in, close the door behind me, and look around my house. My empty house. I'm here alone because my mother couldn't stand to come back here. She couldn't take the pain of the ghosts haunting the halls. But everyone expects me to? Everyone has limits, and I have passed mine too many times. I feel very close to falling off the edge of reality, or sanity. And then I look across the room, and I see something that shoves me off that edge.
A framed photo of my mother, Prim, and me hangs on the wall. Prim is sitting down, and my mother and I stand behind her. There's a small space between my mother's shoulder and mine. Somehow, we are all smiling, looking as if there was actually a time of happiness.
With a speed faster than one of my snares, I draw an arrow and shoot it across the room. It punctures the photo and severs the small space between my mother and me. The frame teeters, but doesn't fall; it hangs there, crooked, with my arrow protruding from it. I try to shake off my sudden emotion, shaking my head and taking deep breaths. But then something catches my eye in my peripheral vision. I look to my right and there's another photo hanging up. I walk over to it and see that the smaller frame contains a picture of Prim by herself. She's smiling, but her eyes carry a different expression. They're staring at me through the glass, and all of a sudden, I remember when we were back in 13 in the underground bunker during the Capital's attack. I was telling her about the way Peeta was acting on-screen, and how I feared they were killing him. "Katniss, I don't think President Snow will kill Peeta," she'd said. "If he does, he won't have anyone left you want. He won't have any way to hurt you." She had realized before I did that Snow was trying to break me by hurting Peeta. In that moment, I'd realized how much she had grown. She hadn't been the scared, little 12-year-old that I saved from the reaping.
My vision blurs, but I blink away the tears. And before I realize what I'm doing, I rear my right arm back and smash my fist into the picture. It falls to the ground, Prim-side up. I stare at my bloodied knuckles, and fold my lips against the pain. I see the shards of glass that pierced my skin, but I don't make any attempt to remove them. Though the stinging in my hand is sharp, the ache in my chest is overwhelming. I try to focus on the smarting of my skin, but it is not enough to distract me from the wound that cannot heal. Maybe if I cause myself enough physical pain, it will drown out the tormenting loss I feel inside.
I hoist up my bow, grab it like a club, and swing it into another picture on the opposite wall. It shatters, and I feel some glass pieces graze my face. I hurl my bow across the room, watch it hit the wall and clatter to the floor. Part of me is disappointed that it didn't break. My chest feels tight, and I'm on the edge of hysterics. I stretch my arm across my body, and slam my injured hand against the wall. This time, I cry out as I pull it to my stomach to look at it. The shards are pressed deeper into my skin, and it's bleeding rapidly, leaking onto my shirt. But still, the hurting inside burns with an atrocious determination.
I start walking drunkenly and aimlessly through the house. My breathing is rapid, and on the verge of hyperventilation. I can't let that distract me. I come across a table and I slam both hands down on it, as if from frustration. A high-pitched siren fills my ears, and it takes me a minute to realize that it's me. And once I start, I can't stop. I flip the table over, making everything on it crash to the floor. The screams leave my body, and the tears run down my cheeks; a long, unbroken translation of my anger, sadness, pain, regret, grief, resentment, that I could never put into words.
My mangled hand starts to go numb, and I panic. If I don't have the pain, then I'll feel nothing but the slow, unending torture that has seized my heart. Anything is better than that. I sling my arm against another wall, and the numbness disappears instantly, leaving behind an excruciating agony. The sounds that come out of me now are something between cries and wails. A wave of sobs racks through my body, and has me folding in half and clutching my middle.
My screams were so loud that I could not hear the intruder. And just as I lift my hand, preparing to inflict more harm onto it, my arms are pinned from behind, and strong arms grab me. I scream even louder, and start kicking and flailing. The intruder is dragging me, and that's when I really start to panic. But before I could think of some way to escape, there is a voice in my ear.
"Katniss, stop; it's okay. You're all right." Peeta.
At the sound of his voice, I stop thrashing and go limp. I am no longer screaming, I have no breath for it. Peeta stops dragging me and lifts me into his arms. I wrap my arms around his neck and start sobbing into his chest. He carries me upstairs, into the bathroom that's connected to my room, and holds me while I cry my eyes out, whispering soothing words.
"It's okay, Katniss. You're okay, it's fine," he says this, on and on. But I'm not all right; it's not okay. It will never be okay.
We stay like that until I quiet down and my breathing slows. He sets me down so I can sit on my own. I cradle my abused hand against my stomach, where a huge, splotchy bloodstain shows on my shirt. Though my hand is caked in blood, I can tell there are major bruises forming; I might have even broken my hand. My head is bowed in humiliation and embarrassment. I am ashamed at the way I acted, realizing now how stupid it was. The hollow ache feels like a torniquet around my heart. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta reaching for my damaged hand. I flinch back and avoid his eyes.
"Katniss." He waits until I look at him. "Please let me help you." His tortured expression and pleading voice make me realize that he means more than just allowing him to treat my hand. As I gaze into his breathtaking, blue eyes, I understand that he wants me to let him in. To let us heal each other. I am sure that my face must show my conflicted feelings. He watches me cautiously as I relinquish my crippled hand.
Peeta helps me carefully remove my father's hunting jacket, trying his best to avoid tugging at the skin. He handles my hand thoughtfully, looking over it. He has a slight frown that deepens as he examines the damage. I duck my head again, self-reproachfully. Peeta runs water over my hand to be able to see the wounds better and determine how to clean them. Once most of the blood is cleared away, that's when we can really see the harm I've inflicted. There are extreme lacerations all over my knuckles, and on the back of my hand; some shallow cuts on the palm. There is glass dug deep into the skin in several places, and there are some slightly less alarming cuts crawling up my forearm. But my entire appendage, from the tip of my fingers, over my hand, to the crook of my elbow, is blue and purple with bruises. The brief span of numbness that I fought against is now completely gone. I can feel everything.
Peeta fills the sink with water and has me soak my arm while he digs through all the cabinets, drawers, and compartments in the bathroom. He comes back with an impressive stack of first-aid. But my mother is a healer, so of course the house is stocked with medicinal tools. I carefully remove my arm from the sink as he grabs a small towel. He warily pat-dries my arm very delicately, not wanting to rub the skin. Once it is dry enough, he searches through the pile until he finds a pair of tweezers. He gently takes hold of my wrist and starts to remove the shards of glass with the tweezers. Soaking my arm removed a lot of the smaller fragments that Peeta wouldn't have been able to see, but the larger pieces are not as easily displaced. Unfortunately, they are wedged far in my skin, and Peeta has to dig them out. The process is laborious and agonizing. I try to keep quiet, but my winces soon turn to whimpers. Peeta knows the only way to help me is to finish getting the glass out, and that the fastest way to get the glass out is to not stop; so he clenches his teeth and doesn't stop. I soldier through it, trying my best not to rip my arm away.
He drops a large chunk of glass into the tiny trashcan, and sets the tweezers down. He picks up some kind of balm and gingerly rubs it on the cuts. On top of my hand, over my palm, in between my fingers, around my wrist, and over my forearm. The stinging from the gashes ebbs away slowly; but nothing can help the throbbing ache in my arm, due to the beating I gave it. After a few minutes of picking up boxes and tossing them aside, Peeta finds an acceptable gauze, which he promptly uses to swath my arm entirely. Only my fingers are peeking out of the makeshift cast. He finds some heavy duty bandaids, and wraps each of my fingers individually. Somehow, miraculously, my thumb was spared; gleaming in a natural, pinkish air. He lifts my other arm, which is dramatically different from my right arm; some bruises, and a cut here and there. All he has to do for my left arm is apply a few bandages. Peeta takes hold of my chin and turns my head, appraising each side. He grabs a wash cloth, soaking it then wringing it out, and attentively wipes away the blood on my face. I notice the cloth comes back very red as he lays it on the edge of the sink. He picks up the small towel again and pats my face gently. I watch him, perplexed. When he glances at me, my eyes flicker away.
He applies a bandage to a cut on my face that I didn't even know was there, and then he's finished. When he starts to put the supplies back where he found them, I get up to look in the mirror. I'm astonished that he was able to patch me up. I seem banged up, but I was expecting to look as distressed as I feel. Nothing would give away my misery, except for my eyes. They look a thousand years old. I walk out of the bathroom and pull the door to where it's nearly shut; I quickly strip off my bloody clothes and change into clean ones. I wasn't as quick as I'd hoped - it was extremely difficult to pull my shirt up and over my bulky arm; I wince and moan, but somehow, I am dressed when Peeta opens the door and leaves the bathroom. He must have been listening, waiting until I was ready, because he doesn't mention my change of wardrobe. He walks over to me, and when he's standing in front of me, I try to meet his eyes; but I only make it to his neck. Staring at his jugular, my voice is barely audible, though I know he hears me.
"Thank you." My voice breaks. I was half out of my mind, and Peeta came and saved me from myself. I will never stop owing him.
"Katniss," he whispers; I peer up at him. "Please don't do that again." I drop my eyes again, in shame.
"Katniss!" He grabs my shoulders fiercely. I look at him, startled by his sudden intensity. "Don't try to hurt yourself!" He stares deeply into my eyes, his eyebrows knitted together. I yank out of his grip, filled with sudden fury. His arms fall to his sides.
"What do I matter to you?" I spit at him. I turn my back on him, unable to stop the flood of memories. Peeta's hands wrapping around my throat, trying to choke the life out of me; his eyes, staring at me in such hatred and disgust that, even now, I have to smother a sob. I close my eyes against the flashbacks, and wrap my arms around my shoulders, trying to hold myself together.
I hear him inhale sharply, as if what I said hurt him. He rests his hands lightly on my hunched shoulders. "Don't say that," he sighs. It sounds like there's something in his tone; his voice sounds pained and his words seem colored with... shame? And... regret? It sounds... Does he regret how he had acted toward me after his rescue from the Capital? As if... he's plagued by his cruel treatment of me. I'm not sure; it wouldn't be the first time I'd mistaken someone's meaning. I turn around and stare at Peeta, thinking maybe the answer lies somewhere in his face. His expression mirrors my feelings - confused, with a searching gaze; so I probably have the same look. I feel my eyebrows pull together in bewilderment and frustration. It had been hard enough to try to figure out my feelings regarding Peeta after our first Games; but then the Quarter Quell happened, with the great escape from the arena, and Peeta getting kidnapped by the Capital, the rebel war, and Peeta getting hijacked and hating me. And now, what's left?
Peeta lifts his hand and caresses my cheek, leaving his hand against my face. I find myself leaning into his hand. He bends down to where we are eye-level, and he murmurs softly, "I'm sorry." I gaze into the stunning depths of his eyes and I take a shaky breath; the crease between my eyebrows relaxes, and the pain that had captured my heart finally relents. There are so many different things he could be saying with those words, or maybe he's saying all of them; but it doesn't matter. I have my answer. I may not be sure what I am to Peeta, but I know what he means to me. I love him. In this moment, I know that I will always love him, no matter what has happened in the past. Peeta must have seen the change in me, I can see it in his face.
He gazes at me in awe, and he leans his face closer. He moves slowly, his eyes never leaving mine, as if giving me a chance to back out. I don't move. I can feel his breath brush against my face, and my eyes slide close as his lips touch mine. I thought I would never feel the sweetness of happiness again. I am so overwhelmed by my joy that when Peeta breaks away, there are silent tears rolling down my cheeks. He brushes them away with thumb.
"Don't leave me again," I beg in a pitiful voice. Now that I finally know what I want, and I have Peeta all to myself without the Capital getting in the way, I'm more afraid than ever of losing him. "Stay with me."
"Always." ~
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