Peeta's POV:
My eyelids flutter at the sight of the sun coming over the horizon. Have I really been up all night painting? I have to smile when I realize that I have, that I managed to get through the night without a flashback or nightmare. Even if it means staying up all night, it's better than returning to the capitol or the arena. But then I catch sight of my face in a mirror covered in what looks like a centimeter of dust. That's not a smile Peeta. That's a grimace.
The thought is true of course; I don't smile much at all these days. I don't ever smile, actually. There's no reason too, and the muscles around my mouth probably wouldn't twist upwards even if I had the energy to try and make them.
I pad barefoot into the kitchen and drink black coffee against the counter. My eyelids are threatening to slip shut but my mind tells them no. The emotional pain is not worth the physical relief, I learned that weeks ago. I think it's been weeks, but I can't be sure anymore.
The sound of screams makes me jump, sending coffee over the lip of the cup and onto my shirt. Katniss' screams, I'd know them anywhere. I hear them almost every morning, and yet I have not grown accustomed to them yet. I don't think I ever will.
It's those screams that prompt me to reach into one of the empty cabinets for a large bottle of brandy. Haymitch's escape. I put half brandy and half coffee into my mug, and drain it. Repeat twice. Until I am simply throwing back only brandy from my mug, and soon straight from the bottle. I stumble into the living room and fall onto the couch. I'm gone within moments.
I awake sweating, shaking, my breath ragged. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The shaking slows as I realize that I am in my house, not in District 13, my hands wrapped around Katniss' throat while her silver eyes are huge in fear. Fear of me. She must hate me for the accusations, the choking, all of it. But that's okay. I hate myself too.
Quickly I realize that my awakening from the nightmare was not my own mind's doing, but that of someone knocking at the door. I get up slowly, wipe the sweat on my face onto my shirt, and walk towards the door. But Haymitch is inside before I get there.
"Christ Peeta, you look like hell."
"Thanks Haymitch." It's all I can muster.
He follows me back into the kitchen, and takes in the bottle of brandy before he turns to face me.
"There's a better way to get through this Peeta. I chose the drink, you don't have to."
Suddenly I am angry, I'm lashing out at Haymitch, screaming, "Oh yeah Haymitch? How? There wasn't just one Games for me Haymitch, there was two. And then the tracker jacker venom. It's worse for me Haymitch, no matter how you freaking spin it." My impulsive, angry words don't affect him.
"Do you know who Sae and I found in the woods last night? I'll give you one guess."
Katniss. But I don't say this out loud.
"You goddamn know it was Katniss, and do you know what she was doing? She was curled up in a ball, screaming. Screaming your name, though I don't think she even knew what she was saying. You need her. She needs you."
Haymitch's little speech surprises me. He isn't exactly a sentimental person. And some little part of my heart aches for Katniss. But still, "It's not that simple."
"To hell it isn't Peeta! You went through most of the same things, you can't deny it. I've never seen two people need each other so mu—." His words set something off in me. I have to turn from him to grip the counter, to clench my jaw, to shut my eyes and try to stay here in the kitchen. He reaches out for my arm.
"Don't. Stay there." It's all I can manage as I slip away from the kitchen.
He helped Katniss kill your family. Slowly, one by one. They showed no mercy. Don't trust him. They were always in it together, you saw that. The first Games, and the second. They saved her instead of you. He wants you out of the way.
No. No. The edges of the memory and thought are shimmery, not solid or still. Or true. I hold onto to that last thought because it is my lifeline, the only thing I have to try and distinguish between real and Snow's version of real. Slowly I can pull myself up out of the dark parts of my mind. The process is grueling; it seems as if I'm hauling myself hand over hand up a cliff. I wish it was that easy.
When what seems to be a minor flashback fades away, I force myself to turn back to Haymitch. He still remains unphased.
"Talk to her. Sooner rather than later." He picks up the bottle off the counter and walks down the hall towards the front door.
Out of nowhere I can't stand to be alone in this house again, so I try to make him stay a little longer.
"Haymitch wait! I can't just talk to her. She hates me. I hate me. The flashbacks, you saw. I'll hurt her. I can't do it."
"Get it together then."
I slam my fist down on the counter, making the mug jump as Haymitch shuts the door behind himself.