A moment of solitude, that is all I need and I'll be okay. As I lean over this counter, my heart hammering into my throat, my freshly killed rabbit burning in the pan at the stove, I fight off the urge to throw up. I can hear Peeta breathing behind me.
"Are you-...do you-" he's fighting to find the words. I want him, for once, not to talk.
"Can you just give me a minute?" I say. "I need a minute."
I keep my eyes down, hands flat on the surface of the counter as I listen for Peeta's exit. He doesn't stir, though. He stays behind me, unpredictable.
"We're getting rid of it," he says, and then I hear him shuffle. He makes his way into my sight where I can see him in the living room. He takes the television's chord in his fist and yanks it roughly out of the socket. This all seems irrational, but I can't make my lips move to tell him to stop. My brain seems to be temporarily paralyzed by the images I had just seen on the screen of that television. Me, or some version of me- clad in the Mockingjay getup. Arrows flying. Parachutes. Explosions. Death tolls. The war. They still show all the revolution footage in special time frames. Reminders of what Panem had been through to get here. Three years, and they are still airing it for everyone to see.
It reminds me of the programs that used to show the ruins of District 13. And now, they show the thriving new District that has moved out from underground. As they must, they show the struggle as well. My struggle. Peeta's. It makes it hard to pretend that everything's perfect when the television tells you it's not.
"Peeta…" I start quietly. He tries to lift the television off it's table, grunting. "Peeta, stop."
He huffs, bracing the television with both of his arms. I can see his muscles swollen and strained under his shirt. "That's the third time this month. I'm not keeping this thing in here if it's just going to upset-"
"It's fine, okay? I don't need to get rid of the whole TV. I'll just have to- have to pay better attention to the programming."
I should have kept a better eye out for the scheduling…outbursts and breakdowns can be avoided that way. Peeta gives me a strained, skeptical look. Then, he lugs the television back to it's stand.
"Fine, but it's staying unplugged unless you want to watch something," he says with a tone of finality. Just then, I remember that the rabbit is burning and starting to smell. Peeta is too fast for me, though, and makes it over to the stove before I can unclench my palms from the countertop. I let my chest fall then rise a few times, wondering if I should say something. If anything needs to be said. Just like the nightmares, the flashbacks can't be soothed with words. The most I can hope for is a pair of warm arms to enfold me. I stare toward Peeta's back for a moment and feel cold. Maybe I should just say something.
"Is it always going to be this bad?" My voice is so quiet, I wonder if he even heard me over the sizzling meat.
Peeta turns to face me, surprised by my words. "What do you mean?"
I'm not even sure how to put it into a sentence. "I….I want to be able to-" I try. "I don't want to be scared of a television."
Peeta blinks a few times, then wipes his hands on the front of his shirt. He says softly, "It's never going to be just show on television. The war and…and Prim. It's hurts to think about it. And to see it."
I'm frustrated with that answer, wanting badly for Peeta to be able to snap his fingers and make everything okay.
"Maybe I'm just crazy."
Peeta's face morphs into a pained expression, like someone's cutting his skin. Crazy is a word we tend not to throw around. Although, it's always there- in our minds. When Peeta has a hijacking moment, or on the days when I can't get out of bed. I know we both are thinking the same thing: God, I must be crazy.
"I'm sorry." I say.
"You're not crazy, Katniss. Don't say that. I don't want to hear that," he says as he turns to the stove again.
Sometimes, the television programs are about us. Follow ups on our stories. Whatever happened to the revolutionary Mockingjay and her lover? The reporters always say, "Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark returned to their home District to help with the rebuilding of 12."
It's a cop-out update on our lives. Though, I suppose, my image is ruined whether people get an accurate portrayal or not. Panem's memory of me is tainted by one prominent memory: me firing the arrow into Coin. I'm the rebel who snapped. Who went crazy.
That night, I can tell Peeta is wide awake. The moon is bright outside, shining tons of light onto his face and I can see his eyes open and glossy. We lie side by side and staring up at the ceiling. I can almost hear his thoughts flying around in the room with the early summer insects. I try to be patient, waiting for him because I know he will blurt something out sooner or later. He always does.
"I lost my mind," he says. It's so definitive, so sad that I turn on my side to press my lips against his forehead.
"Yeah, but you found it again," I whisper, thinking about the games of "Real or not Real".
Peeta takes a long, deep breath in. "It still goes wandering from time to time."
"I know what you mean," I say. "We ought to get a leash for that thing." I don't know why I'm trying to be funny. Maybe it's too much tension. Peeta laughs anyway.
Then we just let the bedroom fill with silence and breathing and a pucker of the lips and the ruffling of the sheets and just about everything feels normal for a few minutes. A few minutes where we are just another recklessly in love, young, happy couple in their bed and we don't have to worry about being crazy.
Tomorrow could bring all sorts of brand new horrors, but we don't let it muddle the few moments of clarity.
And a few minutes a night is plenty enough, I think.
