Thank you all for your amazing reviews! I literally JUST posted the first chapter, but all your reviews and a sudden spark of inspiration insisted that I continue. Hopefully you'll like this next chapter - A bit sadder than the first chapter, but, having gone this far, I will say, I will most likely HAVE to write at least one more chapter so as not to end on a sad note.

Delving a bit further into the 'Relapse' idea - Gets a bit dark with suggestions of gore and violence (to oneself and others), so be careful.

Please Review!

~TLD

Recovery and Relapse

It was a bad week.

Though, by anyone else's standards, it would have been a great week.

The rebuilding effort in town was picking up. Even Peeta had felt strong enough to go into to town and lend a hand. Greasy Sae commented that she'd be back in business in two flicks of a dog's tail.

I had smiled wanly at that.

Seven days.

That was all it took for me to go from recovering to… this.

I'd been writing in the book. Peeta had drawn the most beautiful pictures of Prim, Finnick, Madge… Sometimes I'd put the pencil down and just trace my fingers over their faces. Not even caring when the paint smudged beneath my hand.

On one such day, Peeta had been out, and when he walked through my door in the evening, he found me sitting on the couch, the book held limply in my lap.

I'd heard his heavy gait from down the street, but somehow hadn't managed to find the strength to wipe away my tears until I heard the door close behind him. It was then I hastily wiped my tears, suddenly embarrassed for my weakness.

When I turned my eyes to see Peeta standing over my shoulder, I expected to see pity – no, not pity – sympathy. For Peeta never pitied me. He felt with me, empathized, understood.

But instead, I watched Peeta's tired, dirty face light up with a brilliant smile.

I felt confusion line my face, but I couldn't help the small smile that curled in response to his.

"What?" I said.

In answer, Peeta chuckled loudly and reached for my hand, lifting me gently from the sofa and leading me to stand before the bathroom mirror.

"Take a look," he chuckled, and flipped on the light.

My pale, beaten face, grey eyes still swollen and blurry with grief, was painted in streaks of brilliant colors – green, orange, blue, purple!

I looked down at my guilty fingers quickly – and yes, they were still smudged with Peeta's paints.

Before I could laugh, or cringe, or feel annoyed, Peeta's hand was on my chin, raising my eyes back to the mirror.

But I didn't look at myself.

All I could see was Peeta's face, Peeta's eyes. The soft, gentle, loving glow in Peeta's eyes that held me – my horrible past, my brokenness, my grief, my silly painted face – all with love, with pain, with patience, and with… awe?

"You're a masterpiece," he whispered, his voice low but heavy with love, and with awe.

At that moment, I'd spun around and locked my arms much too tight around Peeta and he held me back just as recklessly close. And for a moment, it felt like nothing could ever tear us apart.

Seven days.

That was all it took to go from that moment, to...

I'd been feeling reckless those first couple of days. Eager to fill that void with fight, with too much effort, with too much strain.

I'd helped out downtown until Thom had insisted Greasy Sae take me home after I had a screaming fit one frightening afternoon over a little red ball I'd unearthed in the remains of the Home for orphaned children.

It hadn't been so much the ball, but the tiny hand still clutched around it.

After that, I stayed home, watching Peeta bake, draw, garden. Watching him try. Come and go.

And soon all my energy left with him.

He was getting better. I could tell. The fits were fewer and further between, though, I still would occasionally see his grip suddenly tense and his eyes tighten whenever a sudden thought would surge through him.

After each time, though, he'd take a deep breath, whisper, "Find what's real. Focus on what's real," and then turn cautious eyes to me.

I don't know what he saw whenever he did that, but something always made him sigh and smile, and then I knew he was fine.

Seven days.

Who would have thought that so much could happen in such a short time?

Then again, my life had been altered so quickly, so irreparably so many times in the blink of an eye. I shouldn't be surprised.

Isn't that what happened with Prim? One second trying to reassure me, to say my name, and then next… Gone. I went from the girl who would destroy the world for her little sister to… whatever this is.

The empty shell where that love used to be.

I never realized just how much of me, of Katniss, was really my love for Prim. Now that she's gone… Who am I?

Seven days.

A week ago, Peeta told me he loved me.

He told me of a memory that had finally broken through the venom.

It wasn't a happy memory, he'd said, but it was real, and he remembered how it felt to be Peeta before the Capitol… He said he remembered the first moments after the hovercraft picked him up.

"It was pain," he'd said, his eyes distant and troubled, "and fear. But not the same as later." He'd paused, and raised tear-soaked eyes to mine, "Because I was so afraid, but not for me, for you." He took my hands in his, but not before wiping the streaming tears from my eyes.

"Since they... did… what they did… to me," Peeta said, struggling with the words, "I've only felt that… intensity of… well, it's more than just fear… one other time." He paused, collected his thoughts.

"When the parachutes…" he began, "and you…" He shook his head as the memories temporarily overwhelmed him.

"I was so frightened for you, Katniss," Peeta whispered. "I remember that feeling now. From before." He paused, remembering. "You were so far away. I knew I couldn't reach you, but my legs starting running, and my hands…" He looked down as his burn-scarred hands.

And finally, I realized. He pulled me from the flames.

I should have spoken. But I was temporarily overwhelmed with the revelation.

But Peeta spoke again. "It's different from… these new fears…" he says. And I know what he means, the irrational fears from trackerjacket venom, the fears that were planted in his brain.

He looked up at me again, "It's different because, it's you. I love you," he said gently. "I knew it then when I was more afraid of losing you than I had ever been of anything they…" he paused, and then forced himself to say, "made me see… I knew that I loved you then. And that everyone was right, and you were right, and all the good memories that had confused me, the ones that they used to hurt me, they were all true."

Peeta's eyes streamed with tears. "I'm not the same as I was, and I can't promise I'll never hurt you, but I want you to know that I love you, and I know that I've always loved you."

My own tears had streamed, despite the smile that pulled me apart. "No," I said, placing my hand on Peeta's cheek, "You're not the same. Neither am I. But I love you, and I always will."

Seven days.

It's all it took from that moment. To this one.

The pain grew steadily in my chest. The ache. The emptiness that could never be quenched.

I saw their faces, over and over and over.

Prim. Finnick. Rue. Madge. Boggs. Coin. Snow. Cato. Clove. Thresh…

Haunting me.

I couldn't write. Couldn't see past the unnamed faces that swam into view. The people of District 12, District 8, District 2, the Capitol refugees… on and on.

I couldn't see Peeta when he tried to hold me. Couldn't feel him through the mist of the ghosts. I couldn't hear him through the fog.

And then, I dreamed of her.

We were there in the Capitol Circle. I watched her run to the aid of the bleeding, crying children, her braid flying, her white uniform shirt still out like a little duck tail.

Panicking, I looked around, screaming, searching for the second bomb.

"Prim!" I screamed.

And, by some miracle, she looked up, and turned toward me.

My heart leaped when she started moving away from the children, from where I knew she'd soon be engulfed in flames, and toward me.

"Prim!" I shouted again, "We have to get out of here!" She was so close now. I grabbed her wrists as her frightened face loomed before mine.

"Katniss!" she shouts, her voice heavy with betrayal. "How could you? How could you do this to us?" she cries, looking down at the front of my jacket.

Confused, my eyes follow her.

And then I see the bomb strapped to my own chest.

As the searing pain of burning flesh slices through me again, I wake in my bed, screaming and thrashing like a wild animal, unable to be silenced.

I don't know where Peeta is. I can't seem to remember if he'd been with me when I fell asleep. But at the moment, in my half-deranged state, I'm glad.

Because I can't do this any more. And I can't let Peeta stop me.

I make it to the kitchen, despite the lack of light and my own flailing, shaking limbs, and still heaving, sobbing chest.

But just as I flick on the kitchen lights and dig through drawers for the knife I know I'd seen there earlier, the front door opens.

"Katniss?" Peeta calls.

My breaths howl in my throat, making a gagging, choking noise like a dying animal, but my fingers close around the hilt of the knife and I pull it free as I turn to face him.

His eyes bulge in horror. "Katniss. No."

He doesn't shout. He doesn't beg.

"Don't do this."

He takes a slow, deliberate step toward me.

My body is shaking with my wracking sobs, gasping for breath. I can't breathe. My vision is blurry. I can't see.

"I hurt," I finally moan.

"I know," he says softly, calmly, taking another noisy step toward me.

"Too much," I whisper between gagging sobs.

"I know," he whispers.

And then I feel his arms around me. His soft, but firm fingers pry the knife from my hand and fling it across the room. And suddenly, my knees give out and he's holding me, carrying me to the sofa, setting me down gently in his lap and rocking me, crooning and murmuring into my hair until I fall asleep.

It was a bad week.

When I woke up next, I was not alone.

And though I screamed and kicked and protested, Peeta wouldn't let me leave the room until I talked to him. Until I told him about the ghosts, the visions, the voices, the guilt that would never, ever leave me. I replayed the haunting visions, the nightmares, sounds I'd never forget, and the guilt and guilt and guilt that threatened to swallow me whole.

I screamed at him. I begged. I shouted at him and called him every foul name I could think of, but he wouldn't let me leave. And when I couldn't scream any more, I curled up with my head on his lap, and let him brush the hair from my eyes.

I don't know when it happened, exactly. But after a time, the pain lessened. The fog cleared a bit and the ghosts seemed to ebb away. The pressure on my lungs softened and I took a deep breath for the first time in longer than I could remember.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to Peeta, still silently and softly caressing my hair.

"Me too," he whispers back.

After a long moment, I sit up to look at him properly. His blue eyes, swollen and troubled.

"I promise I'll never leave you alone to fight the nightmares again," he swears, his voice choked but fervent, "but you have to promise me: promise me you'll never try to take yourself away from me like that again." His voice shook at the end, and mine caught in my throat.

"I promise," I swear, my eyes welling up with new tears. Tears of remorse. I never meant to cause Peeta pain. And that's exactly what I'd be doing if I left: leaving him to face the demons alone.

"I'll always be here with you," Peeta says, "You don't have to do any of this alone. We've survived this far together," he added, smiling slightly.

I can't help but smile a bit. He's right, of course. We survived it all. Together.

"Together," I agree, feeling strong for the first time in days.

Peeta's answering smile is dazzling. "Always."