Apparently, I wrote this five years ago, saved it, and never posted it. Found it again tonight, figured why not. Sorry if anything doesn't match up - my remembrance of the source material is a bit sketchy but should have been good at the time of writing.
Set after the events of Mockingjay but way before the epilogue ... I hope you enjoy!
I've known lonely before. I've faced death, beaten it more times than I dare to remember. The fear they've sparked in me over the years has always been great, no matter the façade I put on, the fake face I show people, the smile they see every day since the return to District Twelve.
But never before has that fear been shown to be insignificant.
The dream starts out normal, kind even, for the first time in a very long time, and I feel I've finally done it, finally beaten the nightmares that follow me night and day. My body relaxes in the bed, and for a moment, I forget my loneliness.
I see District Twelve, as it had been so long before. The District Twelve I know, the District Twelve I grew up in. I see the Seam, see my mother and Prim in the bedroom of our house, wrapped up together, laughing in spite of the cold winter I can feel but not see. My mother's face is unlined, not yet marred by the disaster that I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, lines my face now. She's smiling down at Prim, one hand moving energetically as she recites a story to my sister. I'm not listening, not fully, too fascinated by the sight of so much happiness in their faces.
Behind me, there are footsteps – heavy footsteps, male footsteps. I don't need to turn to find out who it is. I know, just like I know that horror has not touched this family, my family, yet.
My father calls out a greeting to my mother, who stops, glances up, and such delight lights her face the winter seems to creep away from her. A small smile finds its way to my lips, a genuine one, and when a hand touches my shoulder gently, I turn.
That's when things begin to go wrong, when the nightmare that I use to have and the nightmare I have now begin to intertwine.
The man standing behind me is recognisably my father. His features are the same, just how I always remember them … but there's something wrong. He's not smiling. He's frowning down at me, lips moving without sound. But I don't need sound, all of a sudden. He stands there, an accusatory glint coming into his eyes, and then, in a heartbeat, he's gone, exploded into nothingness. And I stand there, unable to do anything, unable to help.
I've dreamt that dream before, but never here, never in my home. Something is wrong, something is different. Anxious, I turn around to my mother and Prim, but suddenly they're not where they had been. My mother is on the other bed, lying down, eyes open but unseeing, depression eating her up. And Prim … Prim, my beautiful, innocent Prim, is dead, her skin burnt to a crisp by an unseen fire, hand stretched out towards me, asking for help, asking me to save her, the way I saved her from the Reaping, from the Games, so long ago.
And then the house itself is gone, torn away by an unseen force, and District Twelve doesn't exist around me anymore. There's nothing but a barren land, and I'm in the centre of it, I'm the cause of it. I'm the reason there is no District Twelve, the reason there is no Prim, the reason my mother is withdrawn from the world once more.
The scream that tears from my throat is inhuman, and I wake in the night, cold sweat clinging to my skin, sheets tangled around my scarred body, salty tears leaking down my face and into my mouth. I taste them, and I know that I'll never stop shedding them for all that I lost, my father and my mother and my sister.
The scream feels unstoppable, but the pillow muffles it when I roll onto my side. I wait it out, tears burning trails down my cheeks, and when I finally, finally feel in control of myself again, I crawl from the bed.
I can't sleep here tonight, I can't return to the land of dreams, where I revisit the tragedy that my life has been so far.
The bedroom is too big, too empty, for just me. I'm more used to the cramped room in the Seam, with me and my mother and Prim sharing the confined area. A room that could fit our entire house in is too big after the way I've lived.
The hallway is cold, sterile. Too white. For a moment, I pause, unsure what to do. Should I go downstairs, sit in the darkness of the living room and hope that sleep does not try to reclaim me? No. I know where to go, or rather my feet do, because within moments I am stood in the kitchen, and there, on the counter, is a basket of bread that was left for me earlier that day, cool now but still edible.
Peeta. I nearly smile, but I can't. The dream is still too recent, the trauma too raw. Instead, I reach for the basket, and pull out the first small loaf of bread he has left.
It tastes like District Eleven, like the bread that I received for Rue. Rue. Another face that I still see, one I was spared from tonight. Even now, her death plays in my mind tauntingly, reminding me just how incapable I am of saving those who need protecting.
Even though I eat, the tears come again, and swallowing becomes hard. Eventually, I give up. It seems tonight is finally the night my demons won't leave me alone, and I must face them, one way or another. But I refuse to sleep again.
Outside, the night air is cold, piercing through my damp clothes to cool my overheated, tortured skin. It's past midnight, the stars twinkling merrily, the half-moon half-hidden behind small clouds. It feels like too nice a night for what I've dreamt, but maybe that's the reason I dreamt it. Maybe the happiness I was beginning to recover bit by bit with Peeta at my side grew too great, and my subconscious had to quell it again, bringing back memories of things I'd rather forget.
The house beside mine is dark save for one window. Haymitch, passed out, perhaps? It doesn't surprise me. He's been better, but not brilliant, in terms of his drinking. He doesn't drink quite as much – at least, not around Peeta and I. He even began to clean up his act, just slightly. His house, the few times I've visited since we returned to District Twelve, smells relatively pleasant. There's an undertone of alcohol and vomit still, but it's more muted than it once was.
I don't look at the only other house that has been occupied on the street. I know it'll be dark, because it always is. Peeta doesn't like light when it's dark outside. He says it reminds him of the Capitol, and that that, in turn, brings false memories, memories that still, to this day, make him want to kill me.
I sit on the cold stone of the low wall surrounding my 'garden'. It's barely a garden. Peeta lined the sides of the house in primrose bushes, but they have yet to bloom. All other plants that may have once been planted here have long since withered, from neglect and from abuse I gave them when I first returned, when I had to acknowledge that Prim wouldn't –
I stop that thought, wiping angrily at my eyes with the back of my hand. My knees curl up, coming to rest against my chest, and my arms wrap around them as I stare out over what I can see of District Twelve in the night.
Eventually, the sky lightens, and shivering begins to set in. But still I stay, stubborn and persistent, watching as the sun rises slowly over the horizon, signalling the start of a new day.
It's then and only then I move inside, and fall back onto a bed – but not the bed I slept in the night before. I can't return to that room yet, with the nightmares.
But in some ways, this room is worse. This room bears the mark of the girl I couldn't save. The rows of ribbons on the desk. The notes written in her small, delicate hand detailing patient treatments. The clothes, one set tossed in the corner as if it had been pulled off in a rush.
I can't stay in this house. It bears too many memories, too much sorrow, too much pain. With one hand over my mouth, I flee, back into the garden and out, and find myself knocking heavily on the door to the one house I know I can find comfort in.
He answers almost immediately, and I don't have to say anything; he takes my elbow and gently pulls me inside, kicking the door shut with his foot and embracing me. In silence, he lets me cry, knows that it's more than whatever I've told him before, more than what he's comforted me for in the past.
When I've finally finished, he gently leads me into the kitchen, where it's warm and smells of bread no matter how long it is between his cooking. Still without a word, he wraps me in a blanket from his living room, and I sit on one of the chairs in front of the oven, warming the chill from my bones and watching his movements with sore, red-rimmed eyes.
'More nightmares?' he asks at last, sitting across from me with a mug of hot chocolate to match the one he pushes across the surface, its base scraping the wood lightly. He acts like he doesn't notice.
I nod, looking down into the drink so he doesn't have to see the dream flash across my eyes. My father, exploding, Prim, burnt, District Twelve, gone. Images race through my mind again, but my tears have run out, my eyes too dry.
I take a sip of the hot chocolate. It's little like the stuff we'd had on the trains to and from the Capitol, but it's good nonetheless. I drain it in three large gulps, and then shakily lower the cup again. Peeta's still staring at me across the table, waiting, but I don't know what to say. Don't know how to tell him how weak I feel I am, how much I can't stand the house anymore.
I don't need to say the words, because he moves, and then he's embracing me again, pressing my face against his chest. I let him, feel his warmth creep into me, take strength from him. When I yawn, he plants a gentle kiss on my forehead, and helps me stand, his arms still tight around me.
'Want me to stay with you to keep the nightmares away?' he asks, his voice ever so gentle.
My eyes close, and his arms unwind from me. I nod gently, and he leads me to the bedroom he's taken to be his.
He makes me pause before the bed, and hands me some old clothes of his. In truth, I'd nearly forgotten that the clothes I wore had been soaked with sweat, and change gratefully while he turns to avert his eyes.
Once I'm more comfortable, he folds back the comforters, and I slip in. After a moment's hesitation, he follows. If I weren't so exhausted, weren't so sad, I would have tried to understand that hesitation, but my mind doesn't give me chance.
It feels like forever since I've shared a bed with Peeta, his arm under my head, my palm resting flat against his stomach. I realise then, I've missed him. Probably more than I should have. These few weeks back in District Twelve, seeing him every day but not sleeping in the same bed as him, I've come to miss him, come to crave the intimacy and the comfort.
Now, there's nothing to stop me from claiming them, nothing except my own feelings. Peeta seems oblivious, fingers stroking my hair soothingly, trying to lure me into sleep. I would have let them, wanted to let them, but the part of me that wants to know how I felt about Peeta – how I'd once felt about Gale, and what I needed, what my soul wanted to be whole again – prevails.
Happiness was the one thing I shouldn't have, not anymore. Not without Prim. Not without Gale, who I'd once found impossible to imagine a future without. After so much death, so much misery, and all of it because of me, happiness had seemed too far away, like I'd never be able to touch it again.
But with Peeta beside me, I feel it. For the first time, feeble stirrings of hope of a life here, a life without the Games, without people like Snow or Coin ruling and killing for entertainment, rise in my chest.
'Peeta?' I ask, surprised at how rough my voice sounded. His fingers pause, and then his other hand comes up to cup mine, lying on his stomach.
'Yeah?'
'Do you think … maybe …' I've never been as eloquent as he has, never been able to say what I want to. I swallow, hard. 'I don't want to sleep alone anymore,' I whisper at last, and then I hide my face against him, cheeks burning.
He curls his fingers around mine. 'I know,' he whispers, and as simply as that, I know it. He still loves me, despite everything the Capitol's made him believe, despite everything I've ever done. He still wants me to be happy, and wants me to be with him.
His lips press another kiss to my hair, and then he adjusts himself slightly under my head, moving muscles I can assume to be falling asleep. 'I won't let you have those nightmares anymore, Katniss,' he murmurs, tightening his hold.
My first genuine smile breaks, and in the warmth and protection of his arms, I sleep.
I don't dream.