Alright, another Tumblr based story. I saw some one post about how devastating it must have been for Peeta to wake up without a leg. And as someone who has gone through a life altering tragedy, I understand what it is like to wake up and go from being normal to having a disability. So I really felt compelled to write this. I'm not really sure where I will end it, or if it will just be a series of one shot, but I just had to focus on Peeta's feelings. Here it is!

Beyond Repair

By: Her Voice

I must have swallowed a berry.

That's the only coherent thought I can produce, swimming in a haze of disjointed thoughts. I feel detached from myself, but not in the classic way that you would think. I don't feel like I'm standing outside my body, watching everything happen around me. Instead, I feel like I'm stuck in my own body, unable to function as I should. I can't speak, but I know that I have things I want to say. I can't reach out and touch those around me. I want to pull the person in who keeps brushing my hair back. I don't know who she is, but the bright ruby hair means a Capitolite. And I'm sure she has the answers I need.

But I can't do anything.

My eyes refuse to open, darkness surrounding me. They feel heavy, and I can only assume that it is because of the berries. I've lost everything but my sense of hearing, and even then, everything sounds disconnected. Nothing makes sense.

I can hear Katniss's voice, defiantly counting down the final moment, replaying over and over in my mind. I knew I was prepared for it, that I was ready to end it here. Because I couldn't kill her. I was ready to devour them, to die just to make sure that she lived. I had spent the entire Game doing just that, pulling as many heart strings as I could to get her every benefit, every chance. She had to win, because I couldn't go home to a place where she wasn't.

I didn't care that she didn't acknowledge my existence. I didn't even care that she probably didn't even know my name up until it was pulled out of the bowl.

I could not look at her family, knowing that I was the reason she was dead. Returning to Twelve without her was not an option.

After fighting to stay alive as hard as we had, it almost seemed bittersweet to end it like this.

But it was fitting. Because even if she didn't eat the nightlock and I did, she would at least still be alive. And maybe she would be able to forgive herself and move one, knowing that I did it to myself.

I think I can hear screaming, and I'm almost certain that it is Katniss's voice cutting through everything else. But whoever it is, her words are incoherent. I can't make out what she's saying, only that she sounds far off and sad. There is desperation in her voice. I know that I can comfort her, but I'm stuck.

Instead of reaching out to her, I fight to stay awake.

Slipping into warmth of the blackness is much easier. And I don't think I had a choice either way.

Death is supposed to be a release from pain, right? If I'm dead, I shouldn't be feeling a thing. But instead, I feel like the pain has been intensified.

I expected a lightness to come with death. I expected peace. But I'm getting the opposite.

There isn't a part of my body that doesn't hurt, if I'm being honest. My throat feels raw, like nails coated in sandpaper. I don't think I can produce any saliva to help it. My whole chest aches with my rib cage ripped apart and reconnected, each nerve ending exposed. I feel like I've been electrocuted a few times. The disconnect is still there, but this time, it's like I'm standing beside myself, looking out at people as they watch.

The come in and out, often floating across the room or rolling on the floor. Each face made little sense. Everything blended into the abstract, colors blending in ways that should have created blackness but didn't.

I don't know how long has passed, but I am almost certain that Katniss is dead. My last memory is eating the berries. If I am alive, she must be dead.

I tried to scream, but my voice is raw and soundless. I fight against the restraints around my wrists, but days of malnutrition make it almost pointless. I have no strength left within me to battle my new reality. I hear soft voices, and they sound far off again. They are trying to comfort me, but I'm long past that. I'm almost elated when I feel the cool rush of medication, followed by blissful desolation and freedom from pain.

Haymitch is sitting at my side the next time I come to.

Gone is the floating feeling. I am attached to this world whether I like it or not.

He has been styled simply, in dark pants and some collared top. The silver flash sticks out, and I'm wondering if he's preparing me for bad news.

I swallow, glad that this time, I seem to have some wetness in my mouth to fix it. I can't look at him, the yellow lights against the white ceiling help my focus on the words that will rip out my soul. 'She's dead. Katniss is dead and you're the victor.' I play this over and over in my mind, hoping that by the time I hear my mentor say it, It won't break me. "Just say it, Haymitch." My voice is soft and rough, and I'm not sure that he's heard me. His laughter throws me off.

"Being a peg leg isn't a bad thing, kid."

A strap across my waist stops my from sitting up. And I only fight against it once before I let my head tip to side. I don't process the words, my focus too concerned with how I will show my face again in Twelve. I am not sure at what point I started to press against the restraints once more. And my words don't seem like English. There are doctors swarming in, but Haymitch stops them.

He stands, pressing a hand into my shoulder, pushing me back against the table with strength I don't understand. My face must look wild and desperate, because that is how I feel in this moment. The blonde man shoots a glare at the doctors. "No one told him?" He laughed a little more, his other hand sweeping back my overgrown bangs affectionately. His face softens a bit, and I am incredibly surprised by his fatherly actions. I never thought he cared for me, not in the way he seemed to prefer Katniss. The Seam always seemed to stick together. "I don't know how you two did it. Not one, but two Victors from Twelve. Hell of a surprise, Mellark."

Two? That means…

"She's fine, kid." My body relaxes against the bed, not needing him to hold me there. In what must have been drug fueled nightmares, I saw her body against the lush green grass of the arena. I saw her with blood pooling of her mouth. Her body, battered and broken, finally ended with the poison of the berries. I saw my sword through her chest. I watched the train pull into Twelve, her family sobbing as her body is unloaded. I saw the hundreds of different reactions that were all my fault.

I watched her die 100 ways in my mind. My chest still aches, but I don't feel sick anymore.

I'm not really comprehending what his previous comment means, too happy to know that Katniss is alive and well. That we both will make it home. Haymitch doesn't look to the doctors when he released the thick strap that held me against the table. His gives me a hand up and I try to sit up for the first time in what feels like days.

But I'm unable to lift my left leg. At first, I thought it was just because I was tied down. But I couldn't wiggle the toes that should have been there. There was no foot to extend, no calf to flex. The thigh on my left side is still strapped down, and I rip the blankets away. Searching for a foot that wasn't there.

I stare down at the leg, and I know that Haymitch is giving me a chance to get used to the idea. He says nothing, watching me carefully. I look up at him once, wondering exactly how I had gone from a whole boy to this. A closer look at the wound reveals a perfect stump. The skin is smooth, not puckered like you would expect from a surgical adaptation. They've blended any artificial skin into my own. Gingerly, I reach down to touch where the leg should have been. My knee is there, still whole and healed. But just below the joint, there is nothing.

"They want to fit you with a prosthetic as soon as they can. They've been postponing the celebrations, but every one is sick of waiting." He tried to keep his voice light, but I could hear the hidden message. I want to say something, to press him for more information. But the look on his face shows that this is not the place for it.

Now is not the time to react.

I'm silent as I nod, and Haymitch is allowing a doctor to step in. I want say something, to ask more questions, but I'm pulled back under a medicated blankets of nothingness.

And for the first time, I'm glad for it.

A pretty, dark haired woman in a white coat is waiting for me to wake the next time I'm conscious. I don't recognize her as a part of my team, but she has something wrapped on her lap. I don't have to think very long to wonder why she's here. I don't know how long it's been since I've been pulled from the Arena.

"Hello, Mr. Mellark. My name is Dr. Thatch." I slowly sit up, taking my time due to the new shift in weight. I'm top heavy, even though I haven't eaten much in several days. Although I seem like I might topple over, she does not help me. And I'm grateful for that— I'll need to get used to it sooner or later. There are no straps holding me down on the table either.

I finally notice that the room is pure white, with one wall of darkened glass. And I can't help but wonder who is on the other side.

The doctor doesn't wait for an invitation as she stands, placing her parcel on the bed next to me. "While you were sedated, we went ahead and made the mold for your leg." I pull the sheet off of the new appendage. The shine of the metal is harsh in contrast to my skin. They've designed it to closely resemble the shape of my other leg. But they make no attempt to hide that is it a replacement, mechanical and I'm angry about it, about the fact that it even exists, but my mouth won't rebel with my brain. I feel groggy, like everything has been blurred. My vision, my emotions— all of it feels subdued.

I can only guess that this is due to some blend of medication that I've been given.

"Some Victor's choose to parade the loss of limb. But we assumed that because this was your leg, you would want a replacement." She was cold as she spoke, distant. I run a hand through my hair, trying to gather myself. Her speech continues, but I don't pay attention to the words. I'm mesmerized by the idea of this leg will somehow make up for putting me in the Games in the first place.

She slips a thick, sock like piece of silicone material onto the stump, making sure it fits snuggly around it. It goes up past my knee, and I can't stop the bitter thought of 'there go shorts' that runs through my mind. The doctor places the prosthetic on, just below my knee. "You're lucky that it's below the knee. Your recovery will be easier with the joint intact." I simply nod, swinging my legs over the table. The fit it good, tight enough that it doesn't feel like it's going to fall off, dangling like it is. I'm still nervous that it might fall to the floor. But the doctor grabs a metal frame I'm to use for walking.

I feel weak, but I don't allow her to help me off the table. I really don't want to use the contraption she brought in to help me walk, since I haven't been down that long. But I can feel myself fall as I try to put weight on the leg, not used to the pressure points that were being put on my knee. I grab onto it, as if it will be enough to help keep my upright. But it's not and I'm tumbling to the ground before either of us could stop it.

The crash sends in others, but I push them away, refusing any help to get off the floor. This is my life now, right? I need to be able to do this. It's a struggle, and I can tell that the people in the room want nothing more than to get me up quickly and get on with their day. I'm up off the floor in a few minutes. It's all I can do to stand there for a few moments, getting used to the new balance of weight before I have to sit back down, too weak to do more than that.

She gives me a break. I try to ask about Katniss but she won't say much. I ask to see her, but she just shrugs, as if she doesn't know where she is. I doubt that is the case, but I'll be patient. She's alive at least. And if I remember correctly, she should be fairly unharmed as well. Any injuries were probably healing like mine had.

It's almost 3 hours later, but I'm able to slowly walk with the help of a cane. It's an improvement, she tells me. It's impressive how far I've come. But it wasn't like she gave me a choice in the matter. The leg is pulled off, along with the sleeve to protect the skin. It's red and raw, painful to the touch. It feels sweaty, the whole limb hot to the touch. I'm exhausted, falling into the hospital bed without the meager meal I am offered.

And that night, I don't need medication to sleep.

The next morning, I'm woken up by Effie. She's pulls me into a hug and I can't help but appreciate the friendly, familiar face. I sit up, unable to stop myself from pulling her into a hug. She's a little uncomfortable, but I don't really seem to care. She gently pats my cheek as we pull away, gushing about a 'Big, big, big day'.

"How's Katniss?"

The words are out of my mouth before I could stop them. She smiles at me, eyes glimmering with tears that are nothing but happy. "She's anxious to see you, too. But we thought it would be sweet to air the reunion on live television." I don't want to do it with thousands of people watching on. But I won't have a choice, will I?

She waits while I eat a small breakfast of warmed oatmeal and milk, chatting animatedly about the plans to return home. I try to pay attention, but I'm too nervous about seeing Katniss again. I try to steer the conversation in that direction, but Effie won't have any of it. It's not long before I'm settled into a wheelchair and pushed into what I recognize as my old remake room. We must have been in the Training Tower the entire time. Haymitch is waiting there with Portia. I'm able to stand, using my new cane to steady me as we embrace. Haymitch doesn't say much, watching each step I take to make sure that I am steady enough to do this.

The thought of seeing Katniss again helps me forget about the pain in my leg. My stylist has my team prep me. My body has been healed of all wounds, even the old scars from kitchen injuries. The team can't stop talking as they scrub me down. Lying naked, my leg sitting on the table next to them, this whole thing seems silly. How had I even survived? I tuned out the rambling of my team.

For the first time since my name was pulled from that bowl, I thought about a future. Life would be easier, for the most part. Victors were given homes to live in, money to spent. They no longer had to work, to go to school. For the rest of my life, I would be paraded around once a year. I would watch children be brought to the slaughter, knowing that they had very little chance of winning. Twelve never won. I would have to find a way to live with watching kids die, knowing it was my fault.

It was easy to see why Haymitch had turned to alcohol for comfort.

But at least I would have Katniss.

It didn't take long for the team to get me back to 'show ready'. My hair is trimmed and styled, glossed back to something stylish and modern. I don't like it, but at least I look healthy again. My face is still thin, but there is color back in it. Even my nails have been cleaned, to the point where I'm sure there is a clear coat of something on them. I know it must take Katniss twice as long to get ready.

I'm anxious to be done, to be with her again. I hate the separation, not knowing that she is really alright. The need is raw in my gut, stronger than any feelings I might have about my leg. I can deal with that later. Focusing on that isn't going to make it better. My leg won't magically grow back. But I can manage with her at my side. And that is enough to get me through what feels like agonizing pain. Every other step might make me cringe, but it will be alright.

Portia finally comes back into the room, a pair of heavy black boots in her hand with a garment bag. I'm wrapped in a thick robe, watching as she carefully sets the bag down on the bed. I want to watch her open the bag, to see what she's got us in this time. But I focus on putting on my leg instead. I can feel her eyes on me, knowing that my stylist must be feeling pity towards me. I don't want it, and I have no desire to see it.

Once it is in place, I finally stand, bending down to test how well it works. I don't have much strength, not enough to try and squat down. But it will do, for now.

Portia pulls me into a hug, animated as she pulls out a shirt the color of diluted honey. I'm not sure about the color at first, but with the choices of our prior outfits, this only makes sense. It is softer then candlelight. And when I inspect the fabric closer, it's easy to see the gentle shine woven into the strands. We have been set ablaze and now, Portia beams, we shall glow with victory.

It's thoughtful, but I can't say that I honestly care at this point.

All I want is to take Katniss home, to settle into my life again in Twelve. And to come to terms with everything.

Portia has thought of everything. My left shoe is weighed down, which will help remind my leg to take the right stride. I won't topple over onto the stage, and with a slight shift of my body weight, the shoes will act as a counter balance to keep me upright. They are designs so that my new found disability isn't obvious.

I can only guess that this is something the Capitol has required. They wouldn't want their newest Victor to appear weak.

There was an underwhelming aspect to the outfit that I could appreciate. It wasn't too bold, it wasn't fire— it was me. This was something I might wear, that I would pick out for myself. My skin has developed a rich tan from the Arena, only creating greater contrast with the soft yellow of the shirt. I close my eyes, picturing Katniss in something similar, surprised that I'm expecting her to look the way I saw her in the Games. The moment has been replaying in my mind since it happened. Caked in mud and close to death, her appearance seemed celestial.

Sunlight streaming from behind her, her face beaming in success from finding me. She was a nymph, coming to take me away.

I don't want to wait any longer.

I'm dressed and led towards the familiar stage. This time, I don't feel like a lamb being taken to the slaughter. There is no big reveal for the cameras, nothing to make sure I get right. There will be an interview tomorrow—tonight is just the recap. Still, I'm desperate to see Katniss, my right foot tapping against the floor with impatience. I'm tempted to push down the flimsy, makeshift wall they've built to keep us from seeing each other. The need courses through my veins. After everything we've been through, I'm almost willing to do what I want and say to hell with the consequences. But as I'm about to strike, Haymitch appears.

I'm able to relax at the sight of him. His hug feels odd, since the man has never done anything like that before. He claps my back as he steps away, "She's a knockout, kid. Enjoy this."

I want to say more to him, but he's gone just as quickly as he came. Someone pulls to me to the side of the stage, and the sound of the Anthem of Panem is deafening. For a brief moment, my mind is thrown back into the Arena. My pulse quickens, and I can hear it in my ears almost as loudly as I can the anthem. My head tips towards the sky, wondering if I will see the images of those who were lost. For a moment, I'm sure I can hear the triumphant laughter of Cato.

But it fades into the roar of the crowd. My heart is racing, but I'm not able to pin down the cause. Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, gently pushing my out into the blinding lights of the stage.