I return from the forest and it is only morning. It was not in my schedule to wake this early. Not even Haymitch's geese have started honking yet because of the liveliness of the square. I've grown accustomed to sleeping in now that hunting is one less thing I have to worry about. Sometimes it's too hard to even venture out into the forest without letting thoughts I want to keep out wash over me. In the dim light of dawn I went out to the lake, accepting that entering the forest might cause a potential breakdown. I needed to be calm.
It's the nightmares that still haunt me. They will always haunt me, no matter how desperately I try to keep them at bay. Last night it was the ghastly image of watching Prim ablaze with orange flames that lick against her body and completely engulf her. Her burning body is the nightmare that reoccurs the most. I woke up to find my clothes drenched with a cold sweat. I did not scream and that meant that Peeta was still soundly sleeping beside me. This is good. I cannot want to burden him anymore than I already have.
My old hunting boots glide silently across the tile of the kitchen. I feel relaxed in them, clinging hopelessly to memories of my life that weren't so bad. The thought makes me roll my shoulders to tighten the supple leather of my father's hunting jacket. All of these things are fragments of something that can no longer be whole. I need to stop being so grim. I am alive and Peeta says that is enough to be thankful for. I should start listening to Peeta more often.
The past is all that I want to think about now. I wish to submerge myself in the times of rebellion and war but everyone else swears that it will do no good. Peeta and Haymitch and Greasy Sae keep me busy. Another thing that Peeta says is when I look back on the past, everything should be celebrated, and not mourned. I cannot celebrate all of the deaths and losses. No matter how much I want to please Peeta. It is not possible.
I retrieve the book from the study. It sits on the desk where the white rose once rested. I frown and quickly slide it off of the table before any memories can taint it. I am careful with the book even though it is sealed firmly shut with saltwater. My fingers glide over the cover and become reacquainted with all of the memories that have been spilled onto the pages: all of Peeta's drawings, my memories, and Haymitch's encounters throughout the years. I don't wipe the tears away that run down my face as I continue to glance down at the book.
I have become strong for all of them.