A/N: Rated T for romance.
Rated M - For graphic depictions of violence and references to eg, rapists/murderers. This is a particularly dark chapter - so be warned.
Summary: Blood spilled and locked lovers. Welcome to Panem's maximum security prison. We ask you respect the prisoners and please, keep out of their rooms at night. I wouldn't want to write you up for any... disturbances.
They called him LB when he was behind bars. Peeta Mellark never thought he'd start here. Such a tender boy. Such a horrific crime. Ten years later that boy is non-existent. His memory is harder to erase. The murders? Well they were the best part. He got to keep those. To treasure them.
Life in prison.
Had he any choice? Any emotion was left back in the justice building as the jury made their decision. That is until the new nurse in the infirmary joins his block.
Touching a prison employee is off limits. It'll get you time in the hole. Twenty-three hours of isolation a day. But some things are worth their punishment, and Katniss may be more than he bargained for. But it doesn't matter. Because she gets to leave, and he doesn't. His name will forever be buried alongside his past in block C.
Taking the job at a maximum security prison wasn't a hard decision for Katniss Everdeen. No weakness, no emotion and no uncertainty were allowed. She could be hired just off of her personality. Helping murderers and rapists isn't ideal. Letting them survive - knowing what they've done.
She was warned about prisoner LB - saw the prison's lockdown as he was transferred from cell to cell. He wasn't the same as the others. He couldn't sleep without being watched. Though not all heroes have good intentions. Especially hers.
Prologue - Peeta's pov
Goosebumps rise on my skin as I'm woken by the frayed net curtain scraping across my face. The wind rushes in through the window but I don't feel the chill. Pain slices through the back of my eyes. With each breath my nose burns as I inhale. Like allergies it singes my nasal cavity. A dull thud striking my temple from every angle pulsates in time with my heart beat. Each time I try to open them, my crusty eyes feel like they're staring straight at the sun, being left without moisture. Each blink is a moments relief as I can feel them shrivel up, becoming dry and cracked. It almost spurs tears. They don't come to revive my sight though.
Every swallow, makes my body jolt and I groan in agony. I'm fighting between trying to refrain from being sick or forcing myself to swallow phlegm.
My face contorts as I force my eyes open. The curtain's been torn off of the curtain rod, making it appear as if it would blow away with each breeze. I jerk upright, choking out a whimper. My legs tighten and cramp up. The nerves in my back feel like they've seized up; been ripped out of my spine.
Broken and cracked noises pass my lips with each inhale. My small body trembles. I smack my lips together confused. The air tastes - wrong. Metallic almost. The flavour seeps into my tongue, burning up another one of my senses. My nose tingles, then I breathe in through my nose. The acrid scent of death floods in, burning my lungs. There's a pinch in my chest and it feels like its sinking into my pores. The biting odour of musty blood and sweat impales my mind, as rancid, as the rotting flesh stuck on the end of the butchers knife. Someone's bled out near me.
I close my eyes tight, welcoming the darkness. Focus Peeta. The night before - what happened? I can only remember flashes of colour - rooms I've grown up in. Tiny moments of laughing and blonde braided pigtails. Blue eyes coming from different directions - a girl. Primrose. I'd been with her. Only her? There was no way.
She'd come to see my parents, with only a backpack. She did so monthly. Then we spoke by the stairwell and - I can't remember. How did I get here? Why is every fuzzy memory so brief?
"Mum?" I croak out, trying to remember when we last spoke. She never used to respond to my voice, but perhaps she's home. Maybe even Dad could tell me what happened. He always has been protective of me; there's no way he'd leave me in a room this state. Surely the stench would have woken them up? I open my eyes. My mother taught me well - not nicely - but she taught me not to be a coward. I can't show fear. Besides I've been injured enough to know what to do with blood. There's just so much of it. How long has it been since I was last awake? I move my stiff legs to the side of the bed. Surely yesterday, wasn't actually yesterday? It must have been days ago. No change could happen so quickly and silently.
The sun rises behind me illuminating the room. I scream paralysed. I can't move. Cold, lifeless eyes watch me mockingly.
I know them. Of course. This is the day my mother would come to me. Pressured by my father perhaps. A cloudy fog has formed over her eyes, dimming them. I glance around, twitching as three pairs of eyes stare back at me- waiting for me to move. I focus on the young girl slumped against the wooden door. Her head tipped back and mouth open - a gaping maw. Primrose. The girl who used to help my father learn medicine so he could help me. The shy, bubbly child who was as smart as any genius. Young, so young. Two years younger than myself. She should have never come. It was as if she knew. She'd seen what had happened. Bled out from the fatal slice across her throat.
I glance back towards my parents but my sight falls short. I don't meet their eyes. I only see the bloody stumps where their neck used to be. Their body's are twisted in grotesque ways. I gag. Never did I think I'd see a contortionist.
My body drops forward. My knees thudding as they hit the hardwood floor. Whoever did this may still be here.
I want to go to them. To find a pulse that doesn't exist - the spurting of blood even. Yet my body refuses to move. I can feel the blood soaking through my trousers - marrying my skin. The splatter of it, covers the furniture. Ironically its the only time they'll ever be any colour other than white. I can't find it in me to see this moment as humorous though. It's too gruesome. Too sickening. It was a slaughter.
How did they miss me? Did they escape? They must have seen me, so why let me survive? Looking down, I lift up the hem of my shirt. The deep red colour doesn't startle me. I'm too numb.
The background comes into focus: the stained white walls, the closed doors, the blood smeared over my arms. Dried streaks run down my face. I can feel it caked on my skin, tightening it. My blonde matted hair is drenched in blood. Is someone screaming? Pleas and shouts echo in the silent room. Someone's begging to live. It was real.
I puke, gaging again as the colours mix together on the floor. I almost choke on it as I begin hyperventilating, sucking the blood in the air into my body. This can't be reality. I try to stumble to my feet as a sharp pain shoots up my legs. I need to get out of here. I begin crawling, dragging myself along the floor to the door. I grunt as it slams me in the face, blurring my vision. I feel so dizzy.
"Peeta Mellark!". A man in a white uniform stands in the entrance. "Peacekeeper Cray". As he finishes, the door is forced open.
The sound of boots thudding fills the room as the authorities barge in. Murmurs of "Damn it" and "he's just a freaking kid" sound as they take in the crime scene. They point their weapons at me. Guns perhaps? I sway slightly as I'm hoisted up and shoved against the wall. Something tightens on my wrists.
"You're under arrest" the first man states before listing off a number of crimes my father never wanted me to learn.
I close my eyes again, picture the scene behind me and the person that did this. I was right.
They are still here.
Authors note ~ Hey! So I made a post on tumblr about this idea and apparently a lot of people wanted to read prison Everlark so here it is. The pov with change between Peeta and Katniss - next up is Katniss years later. Tell me what you think of it? This was quite gruesome to write but not many chapters will be like this. It's very loosely based off of a book called Slammer. Please review, I love hearing your feedback!