This idea stemmed from a roleplay session with a good friend of mine. It's nowhere as dark as The Death of Peeta Mellark, which I'm still working on by the way. I'll be alternating between both. The writing for this is simpler, since it's in Katniss' POV, as opposed to an omniscient view.

I do hope you enjoy. Please review and comment. Don't be shy! Thanks for the amazing review so far!

Luv,

Maria

Chapter 2: Down In The Valley

I'm trapped. My shoulder burns, and Peeta's hand is closing dangerously around my throat. It doesn't squeeze just yet. It keeps me in place, digging cracked, bloody nails into the thin skin of my neck as a warning whenever something as small as a strand of hair moves out of place.

His eyes, I notice, so close to mine, once so blue, now black with dilated pupils, bare the weight of terrible secrets. He's never told me what happened to him during his forced stay in the Capitol. Other then the obvious injection of Tracker Jacker venom under the guise of my name and face, I still, to this day, have no idea what they did to him; how they broke him. I only know how they sowed him back together into a puppet that couldn't even be considered a shroud of the boy with the bread. They'd reconstructed a weapon and like a rabid dog, sicced him on me. After intense therapy and days of edging the brink of insanity, he'd returned to me, though not completely. Never fully. And now, as I lay pinned to the wooden floor by the firm, strong hands of a man who can throw a hundred pounds sac of flour through a window effortlessly, the boy who fed me years ago isn't here with me.

And I'll be honest, it hurts. Not physically. I can take that. I've been beaten, burned and shot. I've been on the receiving end of morphling withdrawal. But those, all of those, were nothing compared to the anguish I feel whenever I see Peeta in the unhinged state of the muttation the Capitol turned him into.

From the corner of my eye, I see something glimmer with the light of the broken window. A spatula, I think. I can't be sure, but whatever it is, it's the only chance I have to get him off me. I reach for it, extend my arm, and then hot pain travels all the way to my fingers when Peeta's knee slams down on it, effectively blocking me from the only edge I may have had.

He gives me a long, hard, demented look. No, not demented. Highjacked. I have to remind myself this at all times. Would that make me love him less? No, absolutely not. Of all things, I'm as broken as he is. And together, we make up for the lost pieces. We fit like puzzle pieces do. Sometimes, though, you have to dig deep to find the right ones that fit.

I quietly curse at myself for not being more vigilant. I didn't knock, but I also didn't exactly pay attention because my mind was far back, down the curb with the crowd of terrified people. So terrified, in fact, that none has come to help me, and this even as I escape a shriek, one I know at least one of them outside would have paid attention to. Peeta's hand rises and he backhands me. The cry dies in my throat.

My cheek burns hot - and no one comes.

It's only Peeta and I. I try to make sense of that. They fear us, I get it. But to let someone lie in peril; I'm a bit flabbergasted at the idea. Within a millisecond, I put myself in these people's shoes. I'm standing outside the bakery. Peeta Mellark has lost his marbles ( I heard that from the seamstress once and nearly ripped apart the brand new dresses she'd finished. In fact, she instructed me to 'stay the hell away from my shop, you lunatic'. She's one of those who sends me reproachful glares when I go through the market. ). Katniss Everdeen, dangerous Mockingjay, has just stepped in the bakery and things aren't looking good. She screams. I hear the undeniable sound of the strike of hand, not unlike Peeta's mother years ago. Indeed, things are looking grim. But them being here has put District 12 on the map. It's a little too popular for comfort. Now even Capitol people wander, look at us like we're paintings or sculptures in their abstract museums - roaming skeletons of lives past. People like, for example, Effie Trinket. So, let the star-crossed lovers take it out on each other. Ruin each other. Destroy each other. Maybe then Panem will lose its interest if their stars have extinguished. No, I won't go in. Let someone else try first. And no one does because they have the same train of thought as I.

No one comes.

I feel sick, thinking this way. I feel sick with the realization that I'm right. If Haymitch had been among the crowd outside, he'd have rushed into the bakery and restrained Peeta to some extent, because unlike these people, he knows what it's like to be who we are. He understands. But he isn't here, probably passed out on his couch back home, unaware of the world around him.

Peeta still breathes on my face, bursts hot air upon me. I can still smell the venom on his breath, acidic. It's a mixture of raw lemons and digestive fluids. It makes me gag. He's so unbalanced within his own tortured mind that he can't decide what to do with me. He doesn't need to say it. I know there are so many things flashing in his mind, ways to kill me and make it slow and painful, ways the Capitol instilled in his subconscious. His eyes move frantically left and right the same way they do under closed eyelids when asleep. It makes me feel dizzy.

"It. Won't. Stop. It's. So. Loud", he hisses through clenched teeth. "But I know how to make it stop. I'll make it stop. Like you made all of them stop." He barks into another bout of frenzied laughter and reaches somewhere above my head. By now I'm breathing so quickly, so hard, that my lungs feel on fire. I can't let this go on longer. I have to snap him out of it.

I make an attempt. "Peeta?"

I see stars. Now it's the other side of my head that feels like it was struck by lightning. I think he punched me this time. I hear him roar, something akin to a wild, malignant animal.

"DON'T you speak my name, mutt! You don't deserve to! Not after all the pain you've caused me!" I see a flash of light near his hand. This one, unlike the spatula, is much brighter and far more dangerous. His fist is closed around the wooden handle of a large knife he's used for god knows what. It's covered in red jam and thick blotches of congealed muddy flour, and soon, it will be covered with my blood. As if to confirm this, he add: "I'll skin you like you did all the innocent people! I'll burn you like you burned my family! MY FAMILY!"

I feel my heart leap. I have no doubt, in his state, that he could make due with his promise of hurting me as he thinks I hurt his family and friends. The blade is large, thick, and it scares me. It scares me even more when he brings it under my shirt. Instinctively I retract my stomach in an attempt to get the sharp tool away from my vital organs. The blade cuts through my black shirt like a hot knife in butter with only a flick of his wrist and my upper body is exposed. I feel a blush of embarrassment creep up my cheeks. It isn't the first time he's seen me bare. We've had plenty of moments, in the last few months, to explore. But this is different. Completely different. There's no arousal and the only lustful expression I see on him rhymes with my death.

"I want to see that thing you call a heart", he growls."See how it pulses, twists and swallows tar. I want to SEE it twitch in my hand when I do to you, all the things you did to THEM!"

He raises his hand, twists the knife a little too expertly until he's holding it down and only as it suddenly comes down do I find a voice I thought had died in my throat. It's a croak, and the thickness in it reminds me of something moist breaking apart on a wall. "Not real! Not real! NOT REAL! NOT REAL!"

But my words don't seem to phase him at all. The blade finishes its trajectory. I feel a burn, a sharp pain as my flesh splits open from the pressure of the tip of the knife. It's over now, I think. No one has come in. No one has helped.

I realize quickly that the radius of pain is small, not very deep, and I also note that my eyes are squeezed shut. When I open them, Peeta's crouched over me, his back curved like a feline, similar to Buttercup when he sees me coming to him a bit too fast thinking I'm up to drown him all over again. His face is contorted into grimace, wrinkled around the eyes with the strength it takes to keep himself together. His face glistens with sweat, rolling down his forehead, across his cheeks, pooling at the tip of his nose like tears. He groans, shifts, repositions. He doesn't let me go.

I look down, finding the tip of the blade has punctured my skin above my left breast by less then a quarter of an inch. I don't breathe. I fear my chest swelling would mean I'll finish what he started on my own and drive the cold metal further into my body.

I gaze up at him again. He hasn't moved, but he's trembling uncontrollably. He's fighting with himself, clutching the handle of the knife so tight between both hands that his joints have turned white. He's fighting the illusions, and that means he heard me! It gives me a glimmer of hope. I take a sharp intake of breath, small, because the foot long blade is still embedded in my skin. I only need enough to form a few words.

"Peeta, it's not real." I say this as a whisper, between he and I. So close like this, I'm reminded of nights spent home, nights where he would hold a frosting cone in a similar way, sculpting delicious flowers upon my bare skin. I feel my eyes burn, my vision becomes a blur, shapes and colors of what was once Peeta resting above me, panting as though he's ran for hours non-stop, and I have to fight upcoming tears, a need to burst into tears, because I'm about to lose him. He's so far gone, worst then any other time. He might never return to me. Never use me as one of his canvases again. Longing for a man like this, I never pegged me for such a woman. There was the illusion of it, back then, with Gale, or even Peeta when I was stranded in District 13. But this... This is something so strong it hurts. And I want that hurt to stay, because it also makes me feel so alive. And I might lose all of it.

"Peeta, please...", I say and I hear myself choke on my words. "Whatever you think you saw, it's not real. District 12 is rebuilt. Panem is free. And you and I -"

"Shut UP", he cuts me off; releases another agonizing howl. He springs to his feet, hurls the knife across the room, out of my line of sight. He grabs a small table which somehow evaded the carnage he's caused thus far and flips it over in a renewed fit of rage. As though the sound of it crashing against the wall scared him, he sinks to his knees, hands clasped on each side of his head - pulls on his hair with a cry.

By now Haymitch would have told me to go. Leave him be and let it pass. He'll come back on his own. But he also knows I could never leave him like this. What I do next is a leap of faith, one that could easily end my life. I scramble to my feet, scuttle across the floor, the flour dust and jam and sugar sticking to my hands in clumps. I leave a trail behind me as I go, dark floor below bone white flakes. I don't know what he sees - what he thinks he's seeing. Deep down I'm glad I down. To render someone so down to earth as Peeta into an incomprehensible mass of whimpers and violent outbursts, it must be horrific. He must be so scared... And if we get out of this at all, I know I'll never ask lest it triggers another flashback. "It's not real, Peeta", I try again, rolling his name on my tongue in such a way it gives every meaning of love behind it.

His hands suddenly reach out, his thumbs pressing against the tendons of my neck while his fingers dig into my shoulders. He's fighting between the notion that he could either embrace me or choke me, all the more evident from the way his pupils are dilating and growing at an alarming, unnatural rate. I've seen people high on morphling having less intense a reaction then this. His hold is rigid, akin to someone conducting electricity from a trippy wire down to moist soil. He could snap my collarbone like a twig with his hold. He inhales sharply through pursed lips upon gritted teeth, the sound reminding me of the ocean waves of District 4, and then, with that same feral expression, he murmurs, low: "Not real."

We repeat the words over and over, like a child's play, a game. Who will give up first? Who'll hold their breath the longest or repeat the words the fastest? There's a moment when I don't think it will end. It only lasted a minute or less, but it appeared to stretch far longer. And then, finally, he crumples over onto me, his forehead pressed to my chest before his head slips to my lap, his hands loosening their grip, falling limp at his sides. I feel him quiver and when I reach out to touch his sweat soaked hair, I find even his clothes have gone damp. It breaks my heart, but what really does it for me, what takes me back to the arenas, what takes me back to countless hospitals and the smell of antiseptic cotton and the sound of gunshots, is his voice, boyish and terror-stricken. "Please... Please don't hurt me", he begs me. He begs me.

I feel as though I'm made of glass and dropped a hundred feet hole. I shatter. Even years after the war, Snow still has his hold on my life, on the one person remaining that I have no doubt I love. After Prim, Peeta is the only being I can, without a doubt, say I love, and to this day, Snow is still doing his damnest to take him away from me, even from the grave. I struggle to keep steady, brushing strands of hair from his forehead. "Shhh, shhh..."

I hear his voice crack into a sob, clutching at my coat in some attempt to beg me to spare him. But I urge on, the back of my hand caressing his wet cheek, pushing blond curls behind his ear. I tell him to hush again. My voice is soft, soothing. I want - no, I need him to know he's safe with me. I fear he won't ever feel safe with me. I rock back and forth with him, as my mother would cradle me when I was a toddler. It's strange, the things you remember when you're in a distressing situation.

I wish I could calm his frantic heartbeat with my own. I wish I could ease him. I wish I could be his cure.

I take a long, deep, shuttering breath. For a moment I feel my soul lifted from my body, taken away. I see myself on the floor, on my knees, bare chested with Peeta hunched over in a strained position over my lap. And then we're gone. I travel. I travel through lights and voices. Sometimes laughter. It's completely surreal, but here I am, on a stool, standing in front of thirty or so children. I feel the breeze on my cheek from the open window on my left. My mother's tied my hair in two braids that are too tight and it hurts a little. I scan the room. I'm proud. So proud. My father stands at the back with other adults, with other parents. And I see him, proud of me. I smile. He smiles back. My lips part. I inhale. They're all waiting for me to begin.

I do.

"Down in the valley, the valley so low

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow,

Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow;

Hang your head over, hear the wind blow.

Roses love sunshine, violets love dew,

Angels in Heaven know I love you..."

I feel one particular pair of eyes on me. Something's different about the way the boy looks at me. And then I know why; why that boy with hair as yellow as an oat field, eyes as blue as ice, is different from the others. Light reflects in those eyes, brighter then any of those sitting around him, and then I see the tears slip across cheeks that have grown pink and lips that have turned dark red.

"Know I love you, dear, know I love you,

Angels in Heaven know I love you.

Build me a castle, forty feet high;

So I can see her as she rides by,

As she rides by, dear, as she rides by..."

His lips move, but the voice that escapes them is too deep, holding every quality of a someone who has seen too much, who has suffered limitless lifetimes. "...so I can see her, as she rides by..."

And I continue: "Roses love sunshine, violets love dew; Angels in Heaven know I love you..."

The birds have stopped singing outside. Someone holds onto me. I feel strong arms pull around my waist. When I look down, I'm not in the classroom with my father and the songless birds and the weeping boy. I'm back into the bakery with the weeping man. His trembling has devolved into irregular twitches now, but his tears still flow as strongly as they did on that first day of school. I let my own arms circle him.

"Know I love you, dear, know I love you...", Peeta sings in the confines of my belly where he's buried his face. His voice trembles, changes in pitches, is still unsure, but that he would remember this, that he would sing this for me, with me, makes my heart swell with hope. "Angels in heaven know I love you..."

I move slowly, rubbing his back and playing gently with his hair. I think of the cowards outside. Those who never came and stood by, ignoring Peeta's plea for help. Those who stood by and watched. I won't ever blame them for being afraid of me. But to be afraid of Peeta, who has lended more of a hand then anyone in rebuilding District 12 to the point of near exhaustion, and this without being asked or expecting compensation; Peeta, who has re-opened a bakery for them, has even offered free food to those who needed it... That, I won't ever forgive. I swallow back my anger, wanting more then anything to get my Peeta back above the ugly words I want to yell to the outside world. "Shhh", I whisper, "Shhh... It's okay."

He looks up at me. The veins in the whites of his eyes have burst and made them pink. He's so pale he looks like a ghost. Even his lips are ash grey in the wake of the light outside. "I'm so sorry, Katniss", he croaks.

"Shhh", I repeat, because I don't know what else to say. I won't have apologies for what isn't his fault. I find myself smiling at him despite the situation. I see it, even in his state. My boy with the bread has returned to me. I cup his cheek, hardly containing my display of emotion, something that would have been unthinkable before the reaping years ago. "Hi."

It takes a moment, but his lips crack into a shadow of a smile. "...hi."

My heart flutters and I think I must look demented with that smile plastered over my face. Later, Peeta will assure me I didn't, but in this moment it feels foreign. It won't leave no matter how much I try. I speak with him softly, nurturing as I did when Prim used to have nightmares. "Stay with me?"

He nods, his lips moving but nothing comes out. I read it well though, since my brain registered it from my sleep syrup indulged state before the Quarter Quell. Always.

We stay like this for what seems like hours. Around us dust begins to settle while the light shifts with the passing of the day. I don't dare move, and I don't think he wants to either. We cling to each other as though letting go will mean he will slip away from me again. Eventually we part, but it's reluctant on both sides.

He looks around at the damage he's done. Tables have been overturned. Chairs are broken. The glass cabinet where cupcakes and danishes lay in the morning is broken, its contents sprawled on the floor. Bags of flour have been gutted and spilled virtually everywhere. Glass jars lie open, torn. Slowly, he stands on his knees, and I see his eyes widen as he assesses what he's done, darkening with guilt. "I'm so sorry...", he whispers. And then he sees the state I'm in, with my shirt ripped at the middle, which I've now closed to cover myself. He grows weary at once, his eyes twice as big as previously."Oh, Katniss... I..."

I shake my head to reassure him. "Don't worry, it's not what you think. Let's go home", I cut in. He can't stay here. I'll lose him again. I can feel him slipping already. It's easier to go elsewhere then see what you've done.

My words ease him some because he seems to relax a bit. He returns his attention to the mess in the bakery. "But... all this..." He doesn't even have the energy to end the sentence.

I stand, which is when my body chooses I don't need the adrenaline anymore. My shoulder erupts in agonizing pain. Somehow I manage to conceal it, instead extending a hand for him to grab onto. "We'll come in the morning. We'll clean it up. Let's just go home. Please." I'm pleading, but I stand firm. He doesn't even hesitate, taking my hand in his, clutching to it as he did earlier, afraid I may disappear.

We stand outside where the wind is even stronger then before. Haven will be on us soon.

And no one is there.

The show's over.

They're all gone.

End of Chapter 2