Disclaimer: Again, I don't own anything. It's all property of Suzanne Collins.
*First Trimester*
I always thought that coping with the looming threat of starvation was the single most maddening thing I've ever coped with. To know why your mother is tired, why your sister is weak, to know how to fix it, and not to have the means to do so. But this might be worse. To have food available and to be unable to keep it in your body is infuriating. I am about to come unhinged. Peeta works all day, with little success, trying to make things that my stomach won't reject. There are a few things that work. Cake, of all things. Some bread. Thankfully the cheese buns have passed the nausea test. Meat is like swallowing syrup of ipecac. I am forced to survive on starch and sugar. And I'm still getting thinner than I was before I got pregnant. I'm driving Peeta to distraction with worry. But then, Peeta is suddenly convinced that I'm made of glass and will probably behave as such until this baby is born. If he had his way, I would be confined to the house where no harm can befall me, and would only be allowed out of bed periodically. He hasn't said this as he knows better than to even mention it, but I know he's thinking it. Peeta has always been ridiculously protective of me and protective of children in general. Having the two rolled into one package is overload for him.
My days have turned into an interesting sort of monotony. They are monotonous in that the flow of events stays the same. It is the same as it has been for the last fifteen years. However, my pregnancy usually disrupts the flow just enough to make things interesting. As if the child I'm carrying, who isn't anything more than a mass of strangely-formed cells at this point, is already thinking up ways to worry and play pranks on its mother. I'm not sure if I'm hoping the child retains this personality when it's born or not.
My day starts the same way. Wake up. Throw up. Every single morning. Of course, the nausea doesn't limit itself to the morning, contrary to popular belief. It continues throughout the day. It's just the morning that's the worst. As I'm retching, feeling like I'll throw up half of my vital organs, Peeta appears. I think the sound wakes him up. As much as I roll my eyes over how hard Peeta worries about me, having him appear beside me every morning helps. He makes sure my braid hasn't fallen over my shoulder, ensures that no stray wisps of hair get too close to my mouth. One of his hands is always on my back, rubbing gentle circles, easing some of the tension that builds up from my continuous gagging. Peeta always has comforting words, too. Sometimes they're sleepy, kind, and quiet. Sometimes they're funny. Sometimes they're bright and encouraging. Sometimes they just acknowledge that this sucks. Anything he says is always the right thing for the moment. Peeta hasn't lost his way with words.
When I'm done vomiting, Peeta guides me backwards into his lap. There's always a little cup with water and mint in it for me to wash my mouth out with. Then I'm handed a cool, damp cloth and I run it over my face, which is always burning from the exertion my body has put me through. He slowly, gingerly helps me up from the bathroom floor, and holds me steady when I get a little dizzy. I'm led downstairs where I'm given a spoonful of a dark brown syrup, a home remedy for nausea that families in District 12 and District 11 have used for centuries. I was told by my mother when I was very young that it has been around since before the Dark Days. She said people used to drink it by the barrel, putting it in water just because they thought it tasted good. Another sign that people back then obviously didn't care what happened to generations after them. So wasteful. But they were right about one thing; the stuff does taste wonderful. And it helps a little bit.
Then there's breakfast. It is always something Peeta baked the night before. Usually bread, but sometimes there's cake. If only I had known that I would be relegated to eating cake for breakfast. I'm sure my five-year-old self would see it as a dream come true. But it usually sits and if it helps me put on weight instead of losing it, it'll do. Next, we see if breakfast is going right back up into the kitchen sink. If so, Peeta does the same comforting things he's just done in the bathroom. If not, Peeta eyes me warily until I smile a little at him and he grins back, relieved that I'm not vomiting. Then he writes whatever is the breakfast item of the day on a little note pad, making a list of things that agree with me. It's not very long, but Peeta's determined to make sure I stop getting thinner and thinner.
After breakfast, whether I've kept anything down or not, I slip on my hunting boots and my father's jacket and I'm off to the woods. This worries Peeta. He is convinced that something will go wrong when I'm in the woods and he won't know where to find me. I usually mention that nothing's happened to me out there in the last fifteen years. Why now? He never replies, but I know what he's thinking. I'm weaker than I was just a few weeks ago. Something could happen. But I can't not go. The woods have always been my home. I want to be there as long as possible before I can't physically get under the fence anymore. Peeta also knows this, so he protests relatively little. I go every day. Most of my time isn't spent hunting. I can't eat meat without throwing it up, Peeta doesn't eat much of it, and there aren't all that many people who live here now to trade with. I just have to be out here – in the grass, in a tree, by my lake. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I don't think. But here I am comfortable and here I stay at least half of the entire day. Sometimes more.
In the last few hours, I hunt, stuff everything in my ancient game bag, and swing by town on my way home. Few people live here, but the few who do I know very well. I'm really the only one who still hunts in the woods outside the district. Things do come in from other districts with more frequency now. Before, it was nearly unheard of. But still, tiny District 12 continues to be a bit neglected and my hunting still makes a decent profit. That, plus Peeta's baking, keeps us going. With so few in the district, resources are allocated fairly evenly and everyone gets along just fine. Everyone gives me the same warm welcome, but a few comment on how thin I am.
"Katniss, looking a little light lately. Tell Peeta to feed you more," says one, accompanied with a good-natured chuckle.
"You look a touch unwell. Are you alright?" says another, a little more concerned.
I tell all of them that I'm just fine. I'm not sure why, but I don't want to tell anyone what's going on. Not yet, at least. I am exasperated by the time I get to my last customer, Sage, a woman who moved here from District 6 a few years ago. District 6 still produces medicine for Panem, but they're also allowed to train doctors now. About seven years ago, a huge diaspora of trained medical personnel spider-webbed out from District 6, making a pretty good business of providing medical care to districts that had previously been made to rely on primitive home remedies. Sage was the only one who thought to come to District 12. I often wonder if Prim would've ended up like her, a trained doctor, schooled in some faraway district and sent out to work in places like District 12 who need doctors so badly. We would've had someone here if my mother hadn't moved out to District 4. But I like Sage, and she gives a good price for various plants she needs that I find out in the woods. Sage opens the door and immediately purses her lips, grabs my wrist, and drags me inside.
"Get up here," she demands, putting me on a little scale. Everything happens too quickly for me to protest. She balances the weights on the scale and writes down a number. Then she hands me a bottle full of little capsules.
"You're losing too much protein and you're too thin. Take these. And I'd better see you in a week, or I'm coming to find you."
"What-" I start to get a little miffed. Being told off by someone ten years younger than me is hard to swallow.
She rolls her eyes. "Just do it. And if you don't, I'll tell Peeta to make you. Now, what've you got in there?" She gestures to my bag. I forgot that while Sage does have Prim's healing hands, she's got a personality closer to that of Johanna than my sister.
I grit my teeth and open up my bag. Sage and I haven't interacted much over the years besides trading game and plants. But I have a feeling that she's not going to leave me alone now that she's concluded I'm too thin.
Sage ends up with a few bushels of herbs and two rabbits. She insists that the capsules are a gift, one she expects me to put to good use. I grudgingly accept them and stalk off towards home.
The next week proceeds in the same fashion. The capsules do not cure the nausea, although Sage didn't even tell me exactly what they were for. I don't seem to gain any weight either. Maybe they're giving me the protein she said I was losing. I'm not sure. Peeta has given up experimenting to try and find food that will not make me sick. Instead, he only gives me things that are on the list of previously approved foods. I still can't keep some of them down. I hate watching him look so helpless. He wants so badly to make me feel better and he can't. I try to smile at him a lot this week so, if anything, he knows that I know he's trying and that I appreciate him for it.
I don't go see Sage the next week. I still do not want people to know, although I think I have worked out why. I know that pregnancy is delicate this early. I know that mine seems to be giving me a lot of trouble. I don't want to see the pitying looks around here if something happens. Peeta and I already get enough of them. I'll have enough trouble consoling Peeta if it goes that way. I don't need anything else.
Sage does not come find me like she threatened. Things stay blessedly the same. Stagnant, almost. I have forgotten about her two weeks later. I'm more concerned about Peeta now. My illness seems to be affecting him as much if not more than it is me. I am troubled as I walk towards the woods, hoping its greenery and air and open space will help me think of a way to help Peeta. I am absorbed enough that I barely hear the movement beside me. I turn quickly and find Sage appearing from behind a tree on the edge of the meadow in front of the fence. Sage did come find me, as promised. Just a week late.
"Yes?" I ask, unceremoniously. If it sounds rude, I don't care. I have enough going on without the young doctor trailing me.
Sage frowns and looks me up and down.
"They're not working. Unless you haven't been taking them."
I growl. "I am. What are they supposed to do anyway?"
"Protein supplement. But you're even losing muscle mass, so they're not working. You can't keep them down, can you?"
I grudgingly shake my head.
"How many weeks are you?"
My mouth is instantly dry.
"What do you mean?"
Sage looks at me, deadpanned.
"You know what I mean. Answer the question. How many weeks pregnant are you?"
I relent under Sage's unamused gaze.
"Um. I didn't count, but I think seven or eight?"
"Okay. And why have you not come to see me?"
I know I sound highly annoyed when I answer.
"I didn't really want anyone to know about it. Just in case..."
"Understandable. But your being this weak and sick is a recipe for that kind of thing to happen. And if you're worried about Peeta, which it looks like you are, you're not helping him by not seeking help yourself."
"Okay, fine! Help me. What are you going to do?"
"Well, for one, I'm going to let you go into the woods because you're comfortable there and I need you to rest a little. While you're out there, I'm going to see Peeta and tell him what you need to be eating. We should have you feeling better in a couple of days."
With that, Sage turns on her heel and strides off in the direction of my house in the victor's village.
I don't stay in the woods for too long. Long enough to rest a little like Sage told me to. But I am ridiculously curious as to what Sage is telling Peeta to do with me, so I head back home with absolutely nothing in my game bag and no detours into town. When I walk into the kitchen, Sage and Peeta are sitting at the table. Peeta has his notepad out and he's writing furiously, like an overachieving grade school student. He is impossibly eager and hopeful. He perks up when he notices me.
"Katniss! Sage says she thinks she knows how to help you keep things down! I don't know why we didn't ask her before-"
"I heard," I roll my eyes, interrupting. There are few things I dislike more than being fussed over. So, of course, I decided to marry Peeta. The fussing never ceases. He's lucky I love him. I'd kill him otherwise.
"Oh. How?" Peeta asks.
"I got cornered before I made it to the woods and was told that you two would be teaming up against me."
"Sorry," Peeta apologizes to Sage for me. "She doesn't always like being taken care of. She doesn't mean it, I promise."
"Yes I do."
Peeta just laughs a little.
"You're a brave man, Peeta, letting that one get pregnant. The hormones are only going to get stronger. Just remember, duck and cover."
"No, if she decides to go after me, I'm gone. Her aim's too good. My only defense is camouflage."
"Better paint like the wind, sweetheart," I snap.
"Alright, alright, I'm sorry." Peeta quickly puts his hands in view, palms up, surrendering. I scowl and plop down in a chair, arms crossed.
"Don't worry, she'll be in a better mood when she can keep some food down. She's hormonal and hungry. I probably wouldn't cope half as well."
"Are you going to stop talking about me like I'm not here?"
"No, because we're done anyway. Peeta's got instructions on what to do. I'll be around here next week since I can't seem to trust you to keep your word. And come find me if anything else crops up."
"I will," Peeta answers for me. Sage nods once and is out the door.
"Are you really mad at me?" Peeta always has to make sure that he hasn't actually upset me. I make a mental note to do more of that for him.
"No. I'm just generally annoyed."
"Okay. Well, I'm going to cook you something. Sage says you should be able to keep it down. And she says that you should take this too."
He slides more capsules my way. District 6 doctors are trained more in high-tech Capitol-esque medicine than anything else. I grudgingly take one.
Peeta has something in front of me in record time. It doesn't smell objectionable. I take a hesitating bite. Then another. I eat the entire thing. I do indeed keep it down.
"What's in it?"
"Ginger and something else she gave me. I never knew ginger was a natural nausea suppressant."
Somewhere in a vague memory, I think I remember my mother saying that.
"But it's alright? You don't feel sick?"
"Not really. I don't feel normal still, but I don't think I'm going to throw it up."
Peeta sighs and rubs his face with one of his hands.
"Thank god. Katniss, you had me really worried. I was scared something would happen. You weren't eating anything and you looked so sick. I mean, you still look really weak, but at least you ate something substantial."
"I didn't want to scare you," I mutter. "I'm sorry."
"It's not your fault. I'm just glad this seems to work."
"Let's hope it keeps working."
"Yes," Peeta nods vehemently.
I rarely say things like what I tell Peeta right now. But he seems so relieved, and still so worried.
"Peeta, please don't worry about me. I don't like seeing you get so upset. I'll be alright."
Peeta looks at the table for a moment.
"Promise?"
"Of course."
Peeta nods, obviously still shaken up. He sleeps especially close to me that night, huddled around me as if trying to protect me from an invisible assailant. He wakes sometime during the night and looks around wildly, trying to find me. I can tell he's seeing other things right now, some of the few phantom hallucinations he still has. I put both hands on either side of his flushed face.
"Peeta. Peeta."
"Katniss? Where are you?"
"Right here. I'm right here. Do you see me?"
"No."
"That's alright. I'm fine, I'm right here. Just breathe for a minute."
"But, they're trying to take you! They'll-"
"Shh, Peeta, no one is going to take me anywhere."
"But-"
"Peeta, when have you ever seen anyone make me do something I didn't want to do? Truly."
All I hear from Peeta is quick breath for a moment. Then he nods.
"That is true."
I can't help but chuckle a little. "Too true."
Peeta nods, eyes still a little wild. After a moment, they clear a bit.
"Wait, I can see you now."
"Good. Then you know I'm here and I'm fine."
"Yes. That was just a nightmare. Real or not real?"
"Real. Honestly, you're so good at this now you hardly need to ask me. It's real most of the time you ask," I smile softly at him. I push a few sweaty, blond curls back from his forehead.
"I want to make sure, though."
"Which is fine with me."
Peeta just sits and calms down for a moment.
"Alright, I'm okay now."
"Good. Do you think you can sleep?"
He nods. "Yeah, I think I'm alright."
Peeta reclines and puts his arm across the pillow. I settle myself in the crook of his arm, pressed up against his chest. I let him play with my braid until he falls asleep. I follow soon after.
The next day is considerably better. I'm still a little sick in the morning, but breakfast stays down just fine. After his scare last night, Peeta seems to be feeling better about everything. He is even relatively unconcerned when I go out into the woods.
I am feeling well enough today to be able to think about all this. Being pregnant. It's strange to me. I suppose I spent too many years trying to avoid even thinking about it that I don't know what to think now that I'm here. Today I am not panicking, or hungry, or nauseous. Today I am able to wonder about how I feel about things. I sit by my lake, wanting to feel some ghost my father's presence. As if that echo of him will tell me how I should deal with this. I wonder if my father was scared to have children. If he was perpetually terrified of losing us. I'm not sure. All I know is that he loved us with everything he had.
"Maybe that's all I have to do," I mumble aloud. I am so scared of loving this child because I'm afraid that I'll lose it. But now I think that maybe the alternative is worse. The child exists now. No going back on that. Now that it exists, I can choose to keep my distance from it to preserve myself, or love it. I think it would be a great injustice to distance myself from this child because I'm afraid. It would make what started as an unselfish act become a selfish one. I suppose I'll have to let go and love this child. To do otherwise would be cruel.
"Well, I guess we're stuck with each other, come hell or high water," I say to my stomach. I feel a little silly. But I also feel as though I've been ignoring the fact that there is a life in there. I feel the need to address it.
I sit for a while, propped up on my elbows, just staring into shallow, muddy water. I watch a little group of tadpoles dart around the shallows where I sit, swimming furiously with tiny, half-formed legs. I laugh just a little at how delicate, uncoordinated, and strange they seem.
"But I guess you don't look a whole lot different right now, do you?" I direct at my stomach. I resolve to find something to call this child so I can stop referring to the poor thing as "it," "you," or "they."
I hunt just enough today to keep suspicion down in town. Although, all I really feel like doing is walking around and enjoying the strangely good day. People notice that I'm feeling better. I'm nearly smiling when I make it back home. I'm early enough that Peeta isn't in. Sometimes he goes out to get things while I'm off in the woods. Flour, icing sugar, paints, brushes. I inspect a painting that he's been working on in another room. I think this room was supposed to be meant as a formal dining room, but Peeta and I eat in the kitchen, so we turned it into something of a studio for him. I'm happy to see that the painting of the day is a happy one. Some days he paints the Games. Sometimes his tracker jacker hallucinations. Often he paints me. It is no exception today. The scene is a little mundane, but as always, Peeta breathes life into it. It's me at the kitchen table just this morning, looking a little thinner, a bit more gaunt than usual. But I look happy. I look relieved. It's a hopeful little piece. I look around the room, wondering how long Peeta will be. I notice a bit of red paint on the drop cloth on the floor. It's still wet, so he must not have left too long ago. It's not until another drop joins it that I realize it's not paint. It's blood.
I know you all hate me for the cliffhanger, haha. I promise I'll have the next chapter up fairly soon. :) Also, a little note about Sage and District 6. I know that District 6's export is technically transportation, but there are clues in the books that they also dabble in producing medicines. I just sorta took that and creatively ran with it. Figured I'd explain what could be interpreted as a discrepancy. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love it if you'd leave me your thoughts about the chapter in a review! Until next time!
~Belmione