Wow, I've got to say, I was so surprised by all the comments and everyone who added You Love Me to their story alert subscription. I can't thank you enough! I plan on continuing this fanfic-encouragement/reviews are probably my greatest motivation, so all your comments helped. :) I currently have a good start on chapter three, which I plan on finishing sometime tonight. So, thank you! Again, thanks a bunch!
-Homey :D
(Warning: I can be very dramatic when writing about characters I love. This chapter is no exception. Hopefully Peeta's behavior is not taken as offensive. Who could be mad at Peeta, anyway?) ;)
Disclaimer: Ya see, there's a thing called amazing characters. And the ones used in this story all came from the mind of Suzanne Collins. They're not mine, even though I've grown to love them.
©HomeschoolGirl 2012, or at least this actual post is. The characters, not so much. But anyway, please don't use this as your own. Thanks!
I dream of Prim. I lay there, on the cobblestone streets, watching as the parachutes float down. She smiles wryly, seeing me. Smiles like she knows I've failed her.
"Please, Prim," I beg, dragging myself forward. Trying to get closer. I leave a blood trail on the ground, but take no notice. If I'm dying, I don't care. I need her. But each heaving time I get closer, she takes a step back.
"Katniss," she whispers, as the bombs begin to go off. Her golden, silky hair blows beautifully around her face. Just thirteen. So young. Such life ahead of her. And me, seventeen, wasted away. Hollow. Yet she has purpose. It has to be me.
"Prim," I say again, weakly. "Run. For me."
"Katniss," she says again. But nothing else. Just, "Katniss."
And then she explodes, right before my eyes. I scream. I scream and scream and scream as she obliterates. Gone. In a second. It's like she has one of those piñatas with the strings that you pull, and then the whole thing collapses and candy rushes out. Except this time, when she pulls on the string for my heart, it explodes. Folds in on itself. And then it's gone. I stop bleeding. I stand. Perfectly unscathed.
I wake up screaming.
This goes on for several minutes. I can't seem to stop. My head is whipping from side to side and I pull on my hair as hard as I can, struggling to maintain reality. But that's the worst dream I've had, and it's so hard to ride the line between sanity and giving myself over. I can't hold it in much longer. I need to-
Peeta appears in my doorway. His blond hair is disheveled and he's wearing a white cotton t-shirt and pajama pants. He's been sleeping.
I'm gasping, trying to get air. He holds his arms out. I crawl to the end of the bed, whispering Prim's name over and over. I seem to stumble, but before I can hit the floor, he's there, holding me in his arms.
I'm still screaming as he rocks me back and forth. I must look crazy. But Peeta doesn't mind. He's dealt with crazy before-and he can deal with me. No, more than that. He's taking care of me, kissing my hair, whispering sweet words in my ear.
"It's okay, I'm here, it's okay," he says over and over again.
But no, it's not okay.
Eventually I calm myself down, staying in his arms. I'm too embarrassed to look at him or even speak.
"Would you like me to stay with you?" He asks at last.
I nod.
We don't talk as he gently lays me down, arranging my hair around the pillow. He pulls my sheet up to my chin. He climbs under, too, and pulls me against his chest. I don't do anything but breathe. He hasn't held me like this since…since I can't remember. It makes me feel good.
"I'm so sorry I haven't been there for you, Katniss," he says. "I'm so sorry I've been selfish. I'm just…dealing with my own issues. But you're not one of them, I promise."
What a liar. I'm the biggest issue, of course. The reason he hasn't kissed me-really kissed me-for so long. Why he hasn't held me like this.
"Peeta," I say. "Are you awake?"
"Mmm…" he answers groggily.
I prop my head up on my elbow, looking into his eyes.
"Thank you."
He leans forward, gently running a hand down my face. I tremble under his touch. He sees this and pulls away. But he's still here. He won't leave.
I snuggle back into the warmth of his arms, finally at peace.
Not not after that, there's a night when it happens. When we're laying there, not really talking about anything, and he tenses up beside me.
I know instantly he's hallucinating. Normally, he'd tell me to leave, but since he doesn't I stay. I run my fingers down his face, trying to make him see sense. His eyes are somewhere far away as they dance wildly around the room.
"Peeta," I say calmly, rising to my knees. I place my hands on either side of his perfect face. I let my fingers linger over his lips. "Peeta, I'm here."
He reaches forward, and for a moment I think he's going to hug me, but he draws his hand back at the last second and instead slaps me squarely across the face. The breath rushes out of my lungs and I crumple into a heap, laying on my back. He uses this to his advantage, sitting up, winding his fingers around my throat.
He calls me filthy names while I struggle to breathe. Mutt, Worthless, Murderer. The tears are running down my face.
"Please," I croak as his grip tightens. It's like he's slowly squeezing the life out of me. I could fight him, but something stops me. Maybe it's the expression in his eyes. I know if I shove him away, it'll only get worse.
"Please," I beg again, barely able to breathe.
The glaze is gone, then, and his normal eyes are there. It's takes a second for the situation to register in his mind. When it does, he lets go, running as fast as he can to stand across the room. My head swims for a moment before I am able to breathe.
I sit up to find him staring at me.
"Oh, god, Katniss," he pants, holding his wrists to his chest. "I'm…"
He looks horrified. I feel horrified.
I begin to cry, against my better judgment. "How…could…you…" My throat aches so much, I barely manage to croak the words.
He begins to cry too, silently. "I don't know. I lost it. Please, Katniss, don't leave me. I'm so…so…." But he can't get his words out, either.
Leave him? That's the only phrase that sticks. Why would I leave him?
I get to my feet, slowly treading across the room. He looks at me warily, clutching his wrists tighter.
"Please," I beg, going to stand directly in front of him. "Peeta, kiss me."
His eyes widen in disbelief. He stares.
"Kiss you?"
I nod. "Please."
He shakes his head. "Katniss, I can't. Not after what I've just done."
His rejection is crushing. I have to hold back a sob; I don't want to be weak. But he doesn't want me. I can't imagine anything hurts worse.
I turn and barrel down the stairs, stopping in front of the fireplace. I curl up beside the lifeless hearth, wishing there was some sort of fire inside. Instead I press my cheek against the cool wood of the floor, shivering.
I hear him come down a few minutes later. I don't speak as he comes and sits beside me, running a warm hand through my hair.
"Katniss, I'm so sorry. I'll never forgive myself."
I wait a long time before I speak.
"Do you know what hurt the most, Peeta?" He doesn't answer, and I take that as my cue to continue. "Not when you choked me, or slapped me…it was when you said you wouldn't even kiss me."
He lips are very suddenly on my throat, making a trail to my jaw, across my cheekbones, down my nose.
I wasn't expecting this reaction. Not as his arms snake around me, pulling me close, or as he falls to the ground with me on top of him. Not as he kisses anywhere he can reach-but not my lips.
"Peeta," I say breathlessly, straining to think past his hands as they massage soothing circles into my back. "You don't have to do this."
"Do what?" He asks innocently, pulling back to look at me. "I thought you wanted this, Katniss." When I look at him, his eyes are not his. They're clouded over, mean, unseeing.
I make a sound of disgust in my throat and shove him away. We both fall on our backs, breathing heavily.
"I don't even know you anymore, Peeta."
He stops breathing for an infinite moment before rising to his feet, stalking off toward the front door. I flinch as it slams behind him.
I always handle things beautifully, don't I? Heck, I make Haymitch look like a saint. And picturing Haymitch as a saint is pretty disturbing.
Days pass without word from Peeta. My bed feels empty without him to fill it up. We used to sleep together, what feels like lifetimes ago, on the train to the Quarter Quell. I had nightmares then, too.
Even thinking of the Games stirs up unwelcome memories. Rue, Finnick, Wiress, Mags, Johanna-who I haven't seen since I came back to 12-, Cato, Clove…most of whom are dead. I feel sick just thinking about it.
I remember a time when I could brush the deaths off my back easily. Well, it's never easy, but I used to be able to think about other things. Now I feel like each person who I've ever hurt, who I've ever seen die, has personally taken a knife and carved a piece out of me. There's so many that I can't feel anything except a resounding hollowness. Peeta helped with that a little. But he's not here now, so.
Plutarch, who I am not currently fond of, calls me one day asking about some singing show he wants to start-starring me, of course. After a few choice words, some of which I'm sure to regret later on, I hang up the phone. And I realize I haven't talked to my mother in weeks.
I reach for the phone, trying not to think about what I'm doing, dialing in her new number. The phone rings three times before she answers.
"Hello?"
I swallow. "Mom? Hi, it's Katniss."
"Katniss!" She exclaims, obviously surprised. "Oh, it's wonderful to hear from you. How are you? Haymitch and Peeta?"
"I'm okay, and so is Haymitch," I say, painfully ignoring her last question.
If it throws her, she doesn't show it.
"Just okay?"
I nod, swallow, struggle to breathe. "I've been thinking a lot about Pri-uh-Rue, lately. I know it's been awhile, but it still hurts."
"Of course it does, sweetie, of course it does."
Terms of endearment sound strange when she directs them at me and I realize I want nothing more to get off the phone.
"Look, I should go."
"Of course," she says hurriedly. "I love you. Please, call me."
I hang up wordlessly.
When I look up, Peeta is standing in the doorway. He holds his arms out to me, which I happily rush into. We hold each other for a long time, in our own worlds.
"Katniss, I'm sorry," he says at last. "Not just about what I did to you, but about the kiss. You're right, that wasn't me. I was being a jerk."
I force a smile, looking up at him. "Peeta, please…if you're having problems, come talk to me. You're the one who agreed we help each other out."
He grins. "So I did."
"So you did."
The next train that comes to 12 not only brings Haymitch's monthly supply of liquor, but a good bakers' dozen of people. I greet them all by name, recognizing them as old District 12 citizens. The survivors-come home at last.
People begin to build. Wood is hammered, bricks are stacked, and grass is planted. Winter hesitantly fades into spring.
The first day one of our primroses bloom, I run screaming into the house for Peeta. His initial reaction is alarm, because who wouldn't be frightened by a mentally unbalanced girl streaking through the house yelling about flowers? He's no exception. I manage to drag him out of the house, blabbering on and on about how beautiful the flower is and how delicate. When he sees it, he falls to his knees beside it, and I am quick to follow. We stare and stare.
Hesitantly, I reach forward and sniff it. It's a mixture of dew and nectar and happiness. It's everything sweet. It's everything Prim was.
"Thank you," I whisper, choked up but too happy to care.
Peeta kisses my forehead. "You're more than welcome."
Even though I want to, I refrain from picking the flower. But over the course of the next few days, I can't stop looking at it. I smell it and touch the petals, fragile like butterfly rings. But a butterfly's beauty pales in comparison to that of the primrose.
Then one day it begins to wilt. Just out of nowhere. I do everything I can to keep it alive. I water it. I feed it special plant food. I sit by it for hours, singing songs. The mockingjays sing right back to me.
But I fail. I wake up on a blissfully warm morning to find it dead. Like Prim. I cry for a little while before determinedly picking it, digging a small grave by the side of the house, and planting it.
I buried it like I never got to bury Prim. I sang songs to it like I never sang to her. And I know; this is my way of saying goodbye. This is my way of finally letting go.
