I'm huddled, absolutely terrified, in the corner of the study. I can't move a muscle or utter a single word because I am vividly reliving the conversation I had with President Snow so many months ago in this exact room. I shouldn't have come in here. But I'd heard a noise and was curious. I tuck myself further into the corner as specks begin to swim across my vision and my breathing becomes rapid and shallower. It only takes one memory to set off all the others. Suddenly I'm in the arena where I played my first Hunger Games. The tracker jackers are buzzing around me. I'm running away from the mutts but I'm not fast enough and one of them is tearing at my legs. Rue is being brutally speared before my very eyes. I let out a scream and thrash about, willing the evil to leave. In the process I lacerate my hand on a nearby, unidentifiable object. Darkness begins to take me and as I give in to it, I assume that I've somehow knocked myself out.
I wake up to find the light streaming in through the window has dimmed; the day is almost over. I try to remember where I am, how I got there and it's then I hear the noise again, the noise that led me into this forbidden room to begin with. The events of the day come rushing back to me. I slowly pull my head up off the floor and I search the study. A sudden movement to my left sends adrenaline pumping through my veins and a warning bell goes off in my mind. Survival is key and showing weakness must be avoided at all costs. I find myself reaching for a bow, or any sort of weapon that can help ensure my safety. Simultaneously, I'm meticulously planning my escape. I know there isn't much time until the intruder makes its presence known. There isn't much time until they find me. I'm racking my brain for who it might be when I hear the noise again, but this time accompanied by a meow. It takes a while for relief to overcome me.
It's only Buttercup. I should have drowned that cat when I had the chance. But then, I never imagined we'd ever get along. I shrug away the thoughts of annoyance that have surfaced and instead realize that in a way I am grateful for the ball of fur. Buttercup can be a nuisance but at least some things will never change. As I relax, he stalks on over to me and rubs his face against mine. He then curls up beside me on the floor and I lay my head back down and stroke his ratty fur through a few times. I can feel the tension beginning to drain out of my body. I give him an extra pat or two and am rewarded with a warm, tender mewling. It's been different between us without her.
My eyes swim with tears as memories of Prim swirl about in my mind. I see the way her blond hair cascaded down her back, her kind, smiling eyes, her love for people and the practice of caring for others. The tears turn to anger as I once again realize that she'll never breathe air, feel a lone dandelion brush the bottom of her feet or touch Buttercup's rough coat with her delicate fingers again. I sit up violently and pound my unharmed hand against the wall. Buttercup hisses and runs out of the study as my hand goes through the wall due to a particularly hard punch. This pain is bearable, barely noticeable. The pain I feel in regards to losing Prim is excruciating, inescapable and heart-breaking. I fall apart into gut-wrenching sobs. In the back of my mind, I'm aware of a door opening and footsteps approaching, but the pain in my heart is too intense to allow me to care.
"Katniss, shhh, Katniss. It's alright. I'm here now," I feel myself being lifted off the floor by strong arms. I know that voice. The pain somewhat recedes, albeit momentarily. It's sure to find me again, and soon.
Once I'm safely in his arms, I press my face against his chest, letting his shirt absorb my tears. My arms wrap securely around his neck as he carries me away from the study and up to my bedroom. When there, he gently lays me down onto the bed and kneels beside it. He softly strokes my hair, and I open my eyes only to find his staring right back. His thumb finds my cheek and he wipes away the salty liquid still pouring from my eyes.
"Katniss," it's almost a whisper, more like a breathy sigh. I continue to gaze into his azure eyes.
"It should have been me, Peeta," is the only reply I manage to coax out of my hoarse throat before I'm lost in a haze of unconsciousness.