It makes no difference to me that it's my birthday. As far as I'm concerned, I shouldn't ever have had one again. I'm not entirely sure I should have had one to begin with. If I hadn't been born on this day eighteen years ago, how different would things be? I can't help thinking of all the lives that would still be preserved today. Would Prim still be around? Would she even have been born if I hadn't, triggering that sequence of events?
Maybe it would have been just as well. Then she never would have had a life to lose in the first place.
The others insist on celebrating my birthday. Well, by that, I mostly mean Greasy Sae. No doubt, she's acting on orders given to her by Plutarch himself, who probably would have made a nation-wide event of the whole thing if I weren't so unpopular for ratings right now. No, the Mockingjay who murdered the wrong president is not the right person to be making a fuss over at this point. That's fine by me. The last thing I want is any more attention.
Haymitch, of course, can barely be bothered. Though I will admit that I have been seeing more of him lately than I had before. At least he's leaving his house again. I still haven't been over there to see what kind of state it's in. Oh well. Maybe I shouldn't judge. My house would probably be every bit as bad right now if Plutarch weren't paying Sae to make sure that I'm not doing anything rash, or just plain stupid.
Peeta seems more excited for my birthday, though that may only be since he's been entrusted with the task of baking my cake. Things have been a little tense between us since his episode a few weeks ago, but we've still both made efforts to try and cross that barrier. Regardless of how I feel about celebrating, I think Peeta baking my cake will do him some good, so I don't try to fight it.
At least somebody will get something out of this whole affair.
It's not really anymore exciting of a day than any of the others since I've been back, which suits me just fine. It starts out with our usual breakfast get-together, but with a special treat.
"Cheese buns?" Peeta asks, holding a bag up as he steps inside. "They're Katniss's favorite," he informs Sae and her granddaughter.
For a second, I just stare at the bag. "You remember?" I murmur, more to myself than to him.
"So that is real," he says. "I kind of wasn't sure."
"Yeah. It is," I admit. "But you shouldn't have."
He shrugs. "Why not?"
Why not? Well… the truth is, there is no real good reason why not. Except maybe the old standby, that I don't deserve it.
"It's for your birthday," he continues. "I didn't get you anything."
"I didn't expect you to," I say.
"I know," he says. "But it helps me to bake. Consider it a part of my rehabilitation, letting me make these for you."
Of all things, a smile begins to creep across my face. Because as weird as it might be, knowing this does somehow make it easier to accept his gift. I take it from him with a nod, and head into the kitchen to put them on a plate. Peeta follows.
Sae enthusiastically praises him before they start in on their buns, but as I take one of my own, I can't help looking over at him, examining him. As if sensing this act, his eyes rise up to meet mine, and he offers me a small smile. Something rushes through me. What is it? There's a warmth to it, but also something bittersweet as well.
As I bite in, I'm pleased to discover that he also hasn't forgotten the recipe for these things. They taste exactly like they did before he was hijacked.
The rest of the day between breakfast and evening is business as usual. I find it in me to get out and go hunting for a little bit. I don't come up with much, just a couple of squirrels. Then I feel tired, and head home again. Maybe we can have them for dinner, if I have the energy to skin them once I get back.
It's when I approach my home that things start to get aggravating. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter have already returned, with Peeta in tow. They insist on throwing me a small party, and have begun decorating.
"We wanted it to be a surprise," Sae tells me.
"But I don't want a party," I tell her.
Sae fixes me with a smile. "You've overcome a lot to live this long," she says. "You deserve a party." Her voice is gentle, but firm.
I want to fight her on it, but I'm still so drained from hunting that I don't have it in me. Besides, I realize, how big of a party could it really be? Few people are even in town to invite. I go over the potential list. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter, obviously. And Peeta. Maybe Haymitch. Thom? I don't really know many others of the recovery crew, and not many people have started to return to 12 just yet.
Besides, I doubt any of them will have much energy to celebrate, either.
I don't care. I really don't. But I decide to go ahead and let her do it. What's the worst that could happen?
I'm proven wrong a few hours later, after the party finally starts. I'm miserable. I don't want to be here at all. Actually, what I want is for everybody to get out of my house and leave me alone. No. Come to think of it, I still wouldn't want to be here, even then. Because what's the point? I'm awful. I hate myself. I shouldn't be alive.
"You shouldn't be here," I blurt out in the middle of the celebration.
There's a pause in the air as everyone looks at me. I can tell that no one even knows what to say. They probably agree. They shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be here. I should be in jail. In some executioner's block or something.
"Well we are, girl. So shut up and deal with it." Haymitch growls.
I feel an anger burn inside of me at his comment. I know I don't deserve any kind of gentle treatment. But it doesn't make it any easier to actually hear it from someone else.
Sae gives Haymitch a look, then turns back to me. In a much gentler tone, she asks, "Why do you say that, dear?"
I'm still looking Haymitch over as she asks this. He just looks back at me, and we sit there in silence for a long moment. So it's still the case, is it? That Haymitch really is like me. I see it in his grey eyes, that he knows what's going on inside my mind.
"Because I killed everyone," I spit out. "They're all dead because of me!" I turn to Thom. "That huge hole in the Meadow. You wouldn't have to be digging that if it weren't for me."
"That's not true, Katniss- " he tries, but I cut him off at the pass.
"It is true," I protest. "Because I refused to follow orders. That got everyone killed. Isn't it?"
There's a dead silence as I wait for anyone in the room to answer. They all look frozen to their spots. None of them have any idea what to say. It's because they know I'm right, they have to know it. But at the same time… at the same time, a part of me is hurt that no one rushes to comfort me. To tell me it's not true. I mean, I know I'm horrible, but do they have to rub it in like this? Haymitch, I never expected to comfort me, but what about Sae? Peeta?
When no one does respond, I turn on my heel and run out of the room, leaving the stunned party behind me. I don't really go far-just into the kitchen - but it's enough just to be away from all the eyes and expectations and judgements. Suddenly depleted of energy, I sink into a chair at the kitchen table, bury my head in my arms on the tabletop, and feel myself begin to cry.
I don't know how much time passes while I sit here like this. Honestly, time doesn't seem to have much meaning for me anymore. Is it a couple minutes? An hour? Has an entire night passed since I left, and everyone has gone home? And that door I hear opening, is that Greasy Sae coming in to cook the breakfast I know she only comes by to make because she's paid to do so?
It is Sae, but when I glance up, I see it's only been about five minutes since my outburst. She sits down in a chair besides me, and wraps her arms around me.
"Don't!" I protest.
"Why not?" She looks at me, confused.
"You don't need to pretend anymore, Sae," I tell her. "I know you're only doing this because the Capitol hired you to look after me. Just stop."
I can feel her muscles freeze in her arms at my words. But she doesn't remove her arms from their embrace. Instead, if anything, she tightens them around me. Pulls me to her while she rocks with me. I don't want her here in my space. Do I? No. I don't know. She shouldn't be here, anyways, because I don't deserve it. She shouldn't be so close to someone as awful as me! But I don't have the strength to push her away or tell her this, even though I know that I should.
"You poor thing," she says softly.
"I deserved it all!" And that's when the tears begin to fall.
Greasy Sae just rocks me in silence for a long, long time, letting me cry in her arms. She shouldn't - I know she shouldn't - and the right thing to do would be for me to make her stop, to let her go help someone who truly deserves to be comforted. Because they didn't ruin the lives of everyone in this nation the way I did. Because they weren't so blinded by vengeance, they let their own sister get blown to bits.
But I don't do it. I can't. Because now that the tears have started, I can't make them stop. And all I want is this comfort, to feel safe in someone's arms, even though I doubt I'll ever truly feel safe ever again. How could I, after everything? I want this comfort, even though I know I don't deserve it. Greasy Sae makes soothing noises and pats my hair as she lets me cry myself out.
"You've been through so much, dear," she tells me after I have finally calmed down. "And you didn't deserve a single bit of it."
"I did!" I mean to yell it, but it only comes out as a sob.
"No," she says evenly. "You were just a child. You're still just a child, who's been through too many grown up things. You and Peeta both."
I mull over her words while I ride out this current wave of sobs as she rocks me gently. Is she right? I won't deny that a huge part of me finds solace, finds vindication in her words. I was only 16 when I went into the Games for the first time. For all my survival knowledge, and efforts to keep my family alive, I was still a child.
What about after I came out? I was a murderer. It's safe to admit that much now, at least. Now that doing so doesn't lead to accusations of treason, to whippings and executions. I was a murderer. But only because I had no choice in the matter. Did I? I could have died in that arena and spared everyone all of this. I wish I had. I wish I had died, and then Prim would still be alive, and Finnick would still be alive, and all those people whose lives were lost in that hospital would be alive, and… my mind begins reeling at the mere thought of everyone who would still be alive right now if I had just died instead in the arena.
All I ever wanted was to save my sister.
And protect Peeta.
At least I managed to do that much. But was that really anything noble? Is Peeta happy that I kept him alive in the arena, after everything he's been through? Or does he feel he'd be better off dead, too? I remember Finnick's comment when the took us away on the hovercraft after the clock arena. I wish they were all dead, and we were too. It would be best. I couldn't think of a good response then, and I certainly can't think of one now. Except Finnick actually is dead now. Just the thought makes another round of sobs well up in my chest. It seems to come from someplace deep inside me, some lonely, desolate place that knows nothing but anguish and heartbreak lie around every corner for the rest of my life.
If Finnick was right, that it's for the best that he's gone, then why do I feel this way? Why can't I find peace in knowing he's someplace better? But no. He's gone. He's wherever Prim is. Where Rue is, and Boggs, the rest of Star Squad. My father. The victims of the hospital. The fallen tributes of the Hunger Games. Maybe even Coin and Snow.
There's a horrible thought. What if they're all in the same place, after all that? But maybe not. Maybe they're gone forever. In fact, they probably are. It's too much to hope there might be something else after this. Life after death was never a subject talked about much in 12, but it did come up once in awhile. Those who had lost someone-which admittedly was most of us, be it from the Games, or starvation, or the coal mines-often hung on to the archaic belief. I suppose it gave them something to hold on to, when the darkest moments of loss hit them. After I lost my father, I didn't know what I believed. It wasn't until Rue that I realized a big part of me wanted it to be true. That I wanted a place with no Games, no war to exist, after what she had been put through in this miserable excuse for a life here. Even when I sang her to sleep, I know I was hoping she was heading for a place like the Meadow in the song I was singing.
But I know now, that it's too much to hope such a place does exist. I think when we're gone, we probably are really gone. And I find myself spiraling down that path of despair again.
"Katniss." A voice reaches me, tethering me back to the present. I feel a pair of hands on either shoulder, holding me firmly. "Katniss," it says again. Except it sounds different this time.
I blink, and I'm back in the room with Greasy Sae. And now, Peeta has joined us. That explains why the voice sounded different the second time. One of them must have been his. I shake my head to clear it. It's jarring to be back, but comforting, too.
"I think maybe what she needs is a good night's sleep," I hear Sae tell him. Well, yeah. Wasn't that what I had been trying to tell them from the start? It would be better to just leave me alone all together.
"Will she be okay?" I hear Peeta ask. The answer to that is no. Obviously I won't be okay. And he isn't okay, either. Wasn't he just holed up in his own house because of an episode a few weeks ago?
"With time," I hear her respond gently. "The first year is the hardest. You'll see. All the firsts without them, and, well- you know."
The house begins to empty as the few "friends" that had come over for my birthday take their leave. Sae leaves me curled on the couch to bid them farewell, a task I know should fall on me. But I'm too weak to do it.
Finally, she returns to the room. I wonder if she's the only one left, until I pick up on an all too familiar tread behind her. So Peeta is still here, too.
"We should get her up to bed," I hear her tell him. If he responds, I don't hear it. It's not a good idea, though. Because if I fall asleep, I know the nightmares will hit. I haven't slept well since before the Quell. I glance over to Peeta, who watches me with sad, understanding blue eyes. He knows. Does he remember? How he used to hold me at night, how his arms were the only thing that could make the nightmares go away?
Suddenly I'm overwhelmed by the want to ask him to stay here tonight. If I'm forced to go to bed, I want him to crawl in next to me, to make the nightmares leave like he did before. But just as suddenly, I remember what's happening. How he was hijacked. And asking him to sleep in the same bed as me is a dangerous idea. The truth is, I'm still scared to be in the same room as him, even if it does seem he's worked through the worst of the tracker jacker venom.
"I'm fine," I tell them firmly. They both look at me in surprise; it's the first I've spoken in close to an hour. I guess they both thought I had checked out for the night, at least mentally. I kind of had. But I can't stand sitting here, listening to them plan to make me do something I know would just make me miserable. I'd rather they leave, and I be left to my own devices.
"Katniss-" Sae tries, but I just shake my head.
"I'm fine," I repeat, shaking my head. "I don't want to go to bed."
"Are you sure?" she asks. "It might make you feel better."
"No. It won't." It's Peeta who answers, not me. We both look over at him, surprised. Sae, surely, because she didn't expect him to side with me on this issue. But I know, somehow, that this means he remembers.
"Well…all right," she finally agrees. "If that's what you really want, Katniss." I nod. Greasy Sae promises she'll be back in the morning for breakfast, right on schedule. Peeta just watches silently. But just before they turn away, as I'm closing the door, his eye catches with mine. He gives me a final look before he follows.
I'm alone, at last, in this big, empty house. Just as I had asked for. It's just me and the ghosts now. For a second, I'm tempted to call Peeta and Greasy Sae back here. I don't, though. I might as well get used to it being this way. I'll be living this way for whatever short amount of my life remains. I return to my seat on my couch, and collapse.
I wake up in the middle of the night, screaming over my latest nightmare. Something awful, with Snow and Coin, and watching my little sister be blown to pieces again. I feel more than I've felt for a long time. Anger, hatred, sadness. Despair. Hopelessness. I don't know what to do. My heart is beating hard, and I pant as I try to orient myself to the here and the now, my eye adjusting to the darkness and catching sight of every minor thing in the process that I'm convinced is another monster that's been sent to take me out. Great. I knew I was crazy. Did I really need the extra proof?
When I finally catch my breath, I slump onto my back and stare off into the darkness. I'm not exactly thinking about anything in particular. In fact, it's the opposite. I wish I could turn off my thoughts and all my emotions, and never deal with any of it ever again. Life would be better that way.
My mind begins to wander. It's been so, so long since I've had a truly good night's sleep. Even before the Games started, I had had a very hard time staying asleep ever since my father died, and I became haunted by nightmares of him trapped in the mines. I begin to wonder how I ever had one to begin with. I know the answer to that between the Games. It was Peeta.
Peeta. What's he doing right now? Is he asleep? Does he sleep better now that half his memory has been wiped? Does he remember the nightmares of the arena as well as I do? Something tells me he probably doesn't sleep all that well, though. I remember that night, in the sewer below the Capitol streets before the mutt attack, when I caught him lying awake on my watch. It wasn't until I talked to him, encouraging him to get some rest, that he finally fell asleep.
I also know he is haunted by what happened in the arena. Which means he does have memories of some kind. Bad memories. The kind that do keep you up at night. The real question for him, of course, is whether or not they are real or not real. I guess for the question at hand, it doesn't really matter. A lack of sleep is a lack of sleep. Still, I know Peeta stayed in the Capitol because he was receiving therapy. He seems better now than he ever did during the siege on the city, or especially back in 13. All that treatment has to have accounted for something, right? Maybe he does sleep better. Maybe I should follow up on that therapy. Call Dr. Aurelius tomorrow. It hasn't helped so far, but have I really given it a chance?
Then again, would it really do me any good? At this point, it seems impossible to ever come back from this feeling of desolation. I should have just died in that same explosion at the City Center, or in the sewer attack, or in either arena, or any of the other number of times I could have died, but didn't seem able to. I just can't seem to die.
On and on it goes, my mind going in circles. I think I drift off to sleep once or twice, but snap back awake almost immediately. Which is fine. I don't think I want to go back to sleep now, anyway.
After the slow, painful wake of night, I drag myself to the bathroom and splash some water on my face and smooth my hair back, an attempt to at least somewhat freshen up before the usual breakfast crew arrives. I know they're going to be looking for signs I'm unstable after what happened last night, and I don't really want to give them any further cause to watch me. Even though the truth is that they're right. I just don't want them to know it.
When they do arrive, they look surprised when they see I'm already up and waiting for them. Sae gives me a once over, then looks downright pleased, as though somehow I've proved her right. Good. Maybe she'll leave me alone for the time being. At least until I know what I'm going to do.
We eat breakfast, and they leave. Another notch in the old routine. I hear a knock at the door later in the morning. It's Peeta, standing there with a bag of something in his hands.
"Do you feel better?" he asks as he follows me to the kitchen.
For a second, I think about it. Not because I'm not sure - I know I don't feel better - but because I don't know what I should tell him. At last, I decide to just go with the truth. "No," I admit.
"I didn't think so."
Immediately, I feel defensive again. "I don't want to hear about it," I snap.
"Hear about what?" He asks, looking confused.
"About what you and Sae were talking about last night," I explain. "About going to bed and getting better and stuff. She doesn't understand, Peeta!"
"Yeah," he agrees. It surprises me, because it's not what I expected. Peeta is pretty big on the belief that we can get better, when he's not being sidetracked with an episode. I look at him now, seeking an explanation. He just shrugs. "She doesn't understand, what it's like to go through what we've been through."
Well, that's the truth. No one understand what it's like to have gone through all this. No one except for Peeta and myself. Suddenly, I find myself with the urge to launch forward into his arms. But it doesn't seem appropriate somehow.
"I think she is right about one thing, though," he continues. "This first year is going to be hard. It was hard after the Games, too. Our first Games, I mean," he says. "And now we have a lot more we have to figure out." He catches my gaze and holds it. Then his eyes flit away. "But I think… I think we need each other, Katniss."
"What do you mean?" I ask. He's right, I can just feel it. But I want to hear his reasoning out loud for myself.
"What do I mean? I mean exactly what we just said. We're the only ones who have been through what the other has gone through… for the most part," he explains. "And… and there are things… gaps in my memory I could really use your help on."
I don't respond, just stare off to some point behind him. I knew this was the case. I remember thinking it when the Real or Not Real game was first devised, that most of what haunts Peeta will remain up to me to clear up. But I honestly don't know if I can give Peeta the information he wants to hear. Can I? How could I?
He's watching me now, those blue eyes of his trained on me, taking in my reaction to this. I don't know what to tell him. In truth, I don't know what to think myself. "I… don't think I can," I whisper.
I can tell he's disappointed by this answer. But he does his best to mask it. "Just little things," he says, clearly trying to backpedal. "That's all I meant."
When he leaves shortly after, I watch him from the window as he crosses the lawn back to his own house. He really has come a long way since our days in 13. Even since the day of the execution, the last time I saw him before he returned to 12. He's strong again. That limp is still there, but some of the steadfastness seems to have returned. He seems more and more like the boy I knew before. Like the Boy with the Bread, who warded off my nightmares in the dark of night. But he's different now, too. He seems so much older now. Of course; what we've been through has aged us both about a thousand years. Yet, at the same time, he seems somehow more vulnerable.
Something familiar twists inside me, and then I feel guilty. That feels familiar, too. I think about Gale, kissing that other pair of lips in 2. I think about my sister, who will never get to kiss a pair of lips. At least, not as far as I know. I don't think she was kissing anyone before… before she was taken. It's not fair, it's not right that she never got that chance, and I did, when it was never something I had originally wanted.
But deep somewhere inside of me, as I watch him cross the lawn, I know how much I liked kissing Peeta.
"Peeta?" I call, poking my head in through his front door. It's rude, I'll admit, but I tried knocking first. When there was no answer, panic began to set in. What if he's in trouble? What if he's having an episode, and needs help? What if… what if an unforeseen complication of the tracker jacker venom caused some sort of health issue? What if he's dead? It's paranoia, I know this on some level, but the anxiety takes over before I even have a chance to combat it. Fortunately for me, Peeta's front door is unlocked when I try it, though that also worries me as well.
"Katniss?" I hear his voice come drifting down the hallway.
"Yeah," I answer, feeling a little more secure as I close the door behind me, making sure it's locked this time. Then I unlock it, because if Peeta does have another episode, I might need someone to get in here fast to help me. Better to not take any chances.
"In here," he says. I follow the direction the voice came from. I find Peeta in his study, which it appears he has actually turned into an art studio. He sits behind a large canvas, studying it intensely, only taking a second to glance up at me and raise his eyebrows in greeting.
"Hey," I say, standing in the doorway of the study, watching him. It's weird being in here. Our houses are almost exactly the same-every house in Victor's Village is, for that matter. But while mine remains relatively untouched now, Peeta has strewn paintings and supplies all over the place. And in the middle of it all, he perches on a stool, paintbrush in hand, as he plans his next stroke.
"Hey," he says. "Did you knock?"
"Yeah. Sorry, you didn't answer and I panicked."
"No, it's okay," he's quick to assure me. "I'm sorry I didn't hear it, that's all. I would have let you in myself."
"It's okay," I say. "Um, it looks like you're busy, though. I can come back later."
He shakes his head, and finally tears his eyes away from the canvas so that he's looking at me. "No. Stay. What brings you over here?" he asks with a smile.
Now I pause. I don't really know how to answer. Even I don't know what force prompted me to come over here. "I just… wanted to see what you were doing," I mumble, feeling stupid.
He motions to the room around him. "Well, now you know." He smiles at me, making me feel less awkward.
"What are you painting?" I ask. I cross the room so I can take a look at his easel. The brown walls, the large, hot oven - I recognize the bakery immediately. Peeta is painting a scene from his home life before the Games.
"It helps," he tells me. "It helps me to remember them."
I'm quiet as I think about it. I realize I'm not quite sure what part of Peeta's memory is intact, and what was tampered with in the hijacking. "Do you remember it very well?" I ask, hoping against hope my question won't somehow offend him, or, worse, trigger something in him. He's gotten better, but I still never know when he's going to be set off.
"Yeah. They didn't really mess with the memories from when I was a kid. I still see them pretty clearly. I think."
"Oh. So just the ones that involved me, then," I say.
He looks bad. But he nods. "That's why I need your help," he tells me. "Because you can tell me things. You can help me remember what really happened."
I don't say anything, but I have my qualms about this. Mostly because I can't help wondering what makes him think he can trust me to tell him the truth if part of his hijacking was not trusting me at all. Or maybe he made enough progress in his therapy that he knows now that he can trust me? Still, a huge part of me suspects it's for the same reason I was nervous to play Real or Not Real with him during the siege on the Capitol. The things that really bother Peeta, that I know he's still seeking the answer to, I don't know if I'm ready to address. Or if I'll ever be ready to address them. Would there even be a point? There's not much left of me for Peeta to love. Just a broken shell of a person. A wasteland underneath.
"I don't think I'm the right person," I say.
He looks surprised. "Why not?"
"I can't help you," I say. "Peeta, there's not much left of me!" And then I can't help feeling a little shocked myself. Because I can't believe I finally said it. Finally said the truth about what I believe to be the case about me.
He looks a little stunned himself, as he watches me in the awkward silence that ensues. Then his face softens. "Katniss- " He begins.
"No," I shake my head. "I don't want to hear it. What's the use? You don't know."
Now he actually looks upset. "You think I don't know?" He asks. "I lost my family, too, remember? My entire family. And they took my mind on top of that!"
I just stare at him, not sure what to say. I feel guilty. In fact, I feel downright insensitive. Of course, Peeta does know exactly what it's like to go through all of this. I've just been wallowing so much in my own misery, that I haven't been able to see it. "You're right," I whisper. "I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "No. And they told me it was your fault, too."
This sends a jolt down my spine, as it begins to dawn on me what's happening. Something about the tense way he holds himself now, the animosity seeping into his glare... He was forced to revisit his own memories, and that must have set him off. And it's my own fault. For pushing him too far. How do I stop this before it's too late? I position myself so I can quickly make a run for the exit if I have to.
"Peeta, I'm sorry. You're right. I'm so sorry," I breathe, hoping against hope I'll somehow get through to him. To the real Peeta, who I know is still fighting not to let this hijacked version of him come through again.
He shakes his head again. I'm preparing to defend myself if necessary, but his words surprise me. "No, I'm sorry," he says. "I'm trying- I'm trying to fight it. But- " he shuts his eyes tight, trying to ward off the false memories.
"It's not real," I promise him. "It's not real, Peeta."
"I know," he gasps. "But- "
"Hang on, Peeta."
Peeta grabs onto the back of a chair, taking my words literally as he hands on so tight, his knuckles start going white. He keeps his eyes shut tightly while he takes deep, deep breaths, fighting the battle that wages on in his head. "You're here to finish the job. To kill me," he whispers.
"Not real," I whisper back. Then I repeat myself, louder this time. He takes a few more breaths, like he's trying to convince himself that it's the truth.
"No," he agrees at last, and a touch of conviction is unmistakable in his voice. "They hurt you just as much."
"Real," I say, nodding my head vigorously. I feel a round of tears threatening to make their appearance, but I stubbornly force them back. Now is not the time to cry. I have to stay strong.
Fortunately, this technique seems to be paying off. Peeta takes several more deep breaths, before he finally opens his eyes. When he does, they're clear and calm.
"Peeta?" I ask, testing the waters, just to be sure it's safe.
He nods his head. "I think it's passed," he confirms. "Thanks."
"For what?" I feel like the biggest idiot in the world for even asking, but I have to admit, I'm a little dumbfounded. I feel like all I did was make the problem worse. It was because of me he was triggered in the first place, after all. It's because of me they even did this to him in the first place.
"For staying. For helping. For getting me to grasp onto reality," he explains. "I think the chair helped."
"Oh. Good," I say, feeling like a little bit of a fraud. When I told him to hang on, I hadn't meant it literally. But Peeta seemed to take it that way, and it worked in the end, so does it really even matter?
"Yeah," he agrees. "Just like the handcuffs did in Tigris's basement. They helped me stay focused, and keep a hold on what was real."
I think back, remembering the way he had insisted on putting them back on after I had cleaned his wrists from the blood. He had just suffered an episode then, too, leading to the blood on his wrists. He had made me put them back on, and even slept with them on, chained up and everything. It can't have been very comfortable, though I can see why the pain would help him hang on to reality a little bit.
"You helped. Really," he smiles at me, and this actually surprises me, how much of a positive effect it has on me.
He agrees to going downstairs, and getting a drink from the kitchen. I just sit and study him closely as he moves about the room, trying to make sure he really is okay after that episode. But he seems like he is. "I think that's the fastest I've ever seen you recover," I finally admit to him.
"I think so too," he nods. "I've been working with Dr. Aurelius a lot on developing ways to stop them. I think we might finally be getting somewhere."
"I thought you had done that already," I reply, confused. I thought that was part of the terms holding him back in the Capitol before the would allow him to return to 12.
"We did," he concedes. "I had to get to a certain level of control before they would even allow me to leave. But I still had a lot of work to do. Still do, really."
"Oh," I say. It doesn't seem like enough, but I'm not really sure what else there is to say. "Well, you did look a lot better when you first showed up here. Compared to how you were before, I mean." And then I kick myself, because out loud, it sounds like one of the meanest, most insensitive things I could possibly say to him. Even if it is true.
But Peeta just smiles. "You remember that?" He asks.
"Of course I do," I say, feeling a little taken aback. "Why wouldn't I remember that?"
He shrugs. "You just seemed… a little out of it, when I showed up on your doorstep. Like you were half asleep or something."
I remember that day. "I guess I was, a bit," I agree. And then, for some reason, I tell him the truth about what had happened that morning. About the dream, about waking from it and hearing his digging, and running out to yell at the dead. How, for a split second after I saw him standing out there, I was convinced it really was a dream, it had to be. Because it was too much to hope that he really had come back. I tell him all of this.
There are tears in Peeta's eyes when I finish. His next words come out in just barely above a whisper. "Real or not real?"
I feel a lump in my throat, that he even has to question it. "Real," I tell him, on the verge of tears myself.
He smiles through the tears. "Then I'm glad I came back."
That makes two of us.
I stay up long into the night that night, not even wanting to try and fall asleep. I just know the nightmares will be bad tonight. But I'm also surprised by the amount of energy I have. It's more than I've felt in a long time. My legs carry me down the hall, into the room where my belongings that were brought back from 13 are still sitting. For the first time, I pull them out and really look over them. I hold the spile, so cold in my hand, and am immediately brought back to the Quarter Quell arena. Finnick and Mags, building that hut. The four of us lined up at its entrance, watching the nightly projection of the dead broadcast in the sky. The heat, the humidity, that pink sky entrapping us all. I quickly set it back down, the memories becoming too much for me.
Next, I reach for my parents' wedding photo. Here, alone in the night, I study it for the first time in ages. So much has changed since it was taken. So much has changed since my father was killed. It feels like it was another life completely.
I take each item, one by one, examining each and every one of them, dwelling on the specific memories they bring back. Savoring them in my mind, closing my eyes to try and get as clear a picture possible. The bow, my father's jacket. I even discover Peeta's pearl, hidden among the other items. I'm not sure how I managed to overlook that when I first looked through these.
At last, I get to the book. It's comforting, looking at this thing again, reading over all the entries that various members of my family have submitted over the years. Particularly when I get to the entries I know belonged to my father. It's one of the only relics I have left of him, aside from his jacket and a few pictures.
Turning the page, the style changes again, and my stomach twists. I know this handwriting, because it is my own. It is the start of the section that I worked on with Peeta. His drawing, so delicately, precisely done, caps off the page. I remember when I found this book during that first walk in 12 after the bombing, when I rescued a few of our belongings. The book fell open, and I had to shut it quickly, because the illustration belonged to Peeta.
It's strange, isn't it? How much can change in less than a year? I have Peeta back now. It's everyone else who is gone.
I pore through it, trying to keep my mind off all the memories threatening to overtake me, but it's no use. The tears begin rolling down my cheeks, and the next thing I know, I'm bent over, sobbing. Not that this is anything unusual. I'm either sobbing, or feeling nothing at all. In the end, I sob until I have no energy left for tears, or much of anything else. Then I curl up, right there on the floor, using my father's jacket as a pillow, and hold the book tight against my chest as I finally fall asleep.
I'm still in that same spot when I wake up the next morning. The mid-morning sun streams through the blinds. I'm aware that someone is standing over me.
"Katniss," a voice says gently, and hand shaking me equally as gently on the shoulder. "Wake up."
My eyes open just a crack. Two familiar blue eyes are looking back down on me. Peeta.
"Hey." He smiles when he realizes I'm awake.
"Hey," I say, sitting up. I feel groggy, and my body aches from sleeping on the floor.
"Did you sleep here all night?" he asks, glancing down at the jacket I have rolled up into a pillow.
I guess I did. The book is still in my arms. Peeta looks down at it, too, and a glimmer of recognition flashes through his eyes.
If he remembers all those days we spent working on this book, though, he doesn't say anything. He just helps me up off the floor, and joins me in the kitchen for breakfast.
"Want to go for a walk?" he suggests after the dishes have been cleared, and Greasy Sae and her granddaughter have left for the morning.
"Another?" I ask, remembering how well the last one ended.
He just shrugs. "Even I need a break from painting sometimes."
While this may be true, my guess is that Peeta has more on his mind than just needing a break from painting. Sure enough, after we've left Victor's Village, he shows his true intentions.
"Why were you sleeping on the floor last night?" he asks with a sideways glance.
I'm quiet. I don't really want to answer. Why, I'm not sure, exactly, except that it was a private kind of thing, my own tribute to the people I've lost. But it's Peeta. If there's anyone I can feel safe sharing that stuff with, I know it's him.
"I was just going through some stuff," I tell him. "Stuff that was brought back from 13 when they sent me back here."
"LIke what?" He asks, looking genuinely curious. I wonder how much of it he will remember. Some stuff, he probably would have no clue about, like my parents' wedding photo. Unless he saw it sitting in my house one of the times he came over after our first Games. Actually, knowing Peeta, he probably did pick up on that.
"My father's hunting jacket," I tell him. He nods; that was an easy one. Everyone in District 12 saw me in that thing. "My bow and arrows. My parents' wedding photo. The spile from the Quell arena." I look over at him, wondering if he remembers.
"I remember," he says, as though he was reading my mind. "I saw it in some of the footage they showed me."
I'd forgotten about that. How they'd used footage to turn him against me during the hijacking; and then they had used footage to try and bring him back once he was in the rebel's hands again.
"What about the plant book?" I dare to ask him. "Do you remember that?"
He's slow to respond, just looking out at the horizon for a long time. "I wasn't sure if I did or not," he finally confesses. "It was one of those things, where I wasn't sure it had really happened or if I had just hallucinated it."
"It was real," I say, noticing the crack in my voice. The idea that Peeta couldn't tell the plant book had been real makes me very sad. It was the only really normal memory we had together. "We worked on it when my foot was injured."
"We did?" He asks, looking concerned. "Why was your foot injured?"
The question is like a punch in the stomach. I have to remind myself that there is still plenty Peeta probably doesn't remember, even if he has made significant strides in his recovery. But there are still gaps he hasn't recovered, may not ever recover.
On the other hand, I'm not sure if I ever told him the real reason I had hurt my foot that day, even if Peeta had remembered the situation. "I had told you I had slipped on some ice," I tell him. "But that's not what really happened."
"It wasn't?" He looks at me, interested. "Then what did happen?"
My first instinct is to hide the truth from him, until I realize that it doesn't really matter anymore. It's no longer illegal to go beyond the fence. We're free. "I had snuck out to the woods," I tell him. "The Peacekeepers had cracked down on security and were whipping people left and right for insubordination, so I couldn't tell anyone where I had gone. But they turned the fence back on while I was out, so I climbed a tree to get back in, and landed on my foot when I jumped from the branch. That was how my foot got hurt."
"Wow," he says. "What made you go out to the woods?"
"I'm not sure," I admit. "I think I just wanted to see it one last time before I said goodbye. It was one of the few things I had left of my father."
He nods. "I wish I had more left to remember my father by," he says.
Once more I'm reminded that for as much as I've lost, Peeta has lost just as much. Maybe even more. His entire family is gone. And so are half his memories. "Don't you have anything?" I ask.
"Some stuff. A few pictures. Nothing as nice as your jacket."
We walk in silence for the rest of the way. I don't really know what else there is to say. I guess the only thing left now is to figure out where we go from here.
It's while I'm looking at the book again later that night that I get the idea. I'm flipping through the pages again, looking at my father's entries, looking at Peeta's drawings. When I rescued this book from the house when I came to see the rubble of 12, I couldn't stand to even look inside its pages. Seeing the memento from Peeta, knowing he was in the hands of President Snow, was too much for me to handle. But at the same time, it was almost comforting, knowing that it was at least there. That I still had a piece of him, aside from the pearl. And the same could be said about my father's entries.
There are still pictures of everybody. Or at least, of most people. Peeta told me himself he has some pictures of his family. Or at least he does of his father, but probably the rest of his family too. And Peeta is still such a good artist. That was something he never lost. I think back to his expert skill that I spotted immediately on that wedding cake he made for Finnick and Annie. If we can't find photos, then maybe we can draw them.
"I had an idea," I tell Dr. Aurelius the next day, during my weekly appointment with him.
"What's that, Katniss?" He asks, I can tell his interest is piqued. He sounds hopeful. So I tell him about my idea for the book, to put together memories of everyone that's been lost.
"I think it's a wonderful idea," he says when I've finished. "I think it could help you a lot."
"Really?" I ask, feeling a little proud, as stupid as that may be.
"Absolutely," he says. "Do you have everything you need?"
I don't, I realize. The district is still establishing itself after its destruction. Supplies come by train, and they're currently at a minimum. Food. Water. Building materials. But other things can be sent, too, if they're requested. Dr. Aurelius promises that he will see to it himself that my supplies for the book will be sent out on the soonest train possible.
I make Peeta go to the train station with me to pick them up. "What did you order?" He asks me, looking curious.
"Stuff," I say mysteriously. "I'll show you when we get back home."
When we make it back, he sits at the table and watches as I cut open the box and empty its contents on the table. All kinds of stuff is in there. A book cover, blank white pages, binding. Pens and paper and paints, though I'm guessing Peeta already has us covered in that regard. Still, he looks happy to see them. He picks a pack of paints up. "What's all this for?" He asks me.
"I want to make a book," I tell him. "Sort of like the plant book. Except, I think- I want to put in a page for everyone that we've lost." I peer over the box to try and gauge his reaction. Part of me is nervous he's going to hate it, I'll admit. Maybe it's too stupid. Maybe he won't want to revisit all those memories in his head. Now that I've actually said it out loud, I'm a little afraid it could even be bad for him. What it something about it sets him off, and he has more episodes?
But Peeta looks interested. "I like it," he says. Relief washes over me.
"Really?" I ask.
"Yeah," he nods. "It's a great way to memorialize everyone we've lost. And maybe it might even help me recover more memories along the way."
That was one aspect I hadn't thought of. But now that he brings it up, I realize he's right. Working on this book dovetails perfectly with his request to help him with his memories. Finally I feel like I might be doing something right.
"Okay," I say as I take a seat. "Who should we start with?"
"Isn't it obvious?" He asks. "We start with Prim."
I hadn't really thought of that. Or maybe it's really more that I didn't want to think of it. Because now that it's been brought to mind, I'm not sure I can really go through of it. "No," I shake my head. "I don't want to."
"You don't?" Peeta looks a bit surprised.
"No. I'm- I'm just not ready. To deal with it yet." I know I want to do something for her. Prim deserves to be immortalized in whatever way I possibly can, in every way that I possibly can. But the thought of confronting those memories, those thoughts right now, it just feels like too much for me. I know I'll lose it if I do. And I've been losing it a lot already. I've got to get a grip, before they ship me off to the Capitol again or something. Though maybe it's not a bad idea if they do. It worked for Peeta, didn't it? Still, I know I would rather be here in 12 than back there. Even if it does mean dealing with the ghosts. "I don't want to do my father yet, either," I add for good measure.
"Okay, got it. No sister, no father," Peeta ticks them off with his fingers. I'm grateful he doesn't question my request any further. "I have to admit, I don't really want to start with anyone in my family yet, either. So who does that leave us?"
"Lots. Too many," I murmur, as the full weight of this project finally begins to sink in. We go over everyone lost, but it's hard for both of us to make a decision. Peeta suggests Rue, but it's too close to Prim. I would be set off for sure. I suggest Finnick, but that's too fresh for us both as well.
In the end, we decide to go with Mags. It seems a good enough compromise. We both knew her well enough to have our own memories of her, but neither of us were close enough to her to seriously lose it by working on her page.
We set to work. Neither of us have any pictures of Mags, so Peeta draws what he remembers from memory.
Greasy Sae arrives with her granddaughter for dinner, surprised to find Peeta already there, and that we're both hard at work on something. We explain to her what we're working on.
"That's a wonderful idea," she tells us. And I can see by the look on her face that she means it. She looks over our shoulders, and asks whose page we're working on now.
"Mags," I tell her, not thinking to elaborate further. I'm so engrossed in our work, it takes me a minute to remember that Sae wasn't in the Quarter Quell with us. She watched it, I'm sure, but does she remember Mags? The way she sacrificed herself by walking straight into the fog so Finnick could get Peeta and me to safety?
"I liked her," Sae says quietly. "I was sad when she sacrificed herself."
She leaves us to our work while she sets to work herself on our dinner, and her granddaughter settles in to play with Buttercup. We take a break to eat once the meal is ready, then Sae does our dishes, and excuses herself and her granddaughter for the evening.
Peeta and I work late into the evening. When he's satisfied, we work on a list of everything we can possibly remember about Mags. It isn't much, I have to admit, because neither of us knew Mags as well as Finnick did, or Annie.
"Maybe we can call Annie tomorrow, and see if she can suggest anything," Peeta suggests.
I agree, saying it sounds like a good idea. I haven't thought much about Annie since I left the Capitol, which makes me feel awful. Watching Peeta's hands work as he cleans up the sketch, I try to imagine what it must be like to lose your husband after you'd only just married. I hope she's doing all right. I wonder if my mother spends very much time with her. Maybe I can ask her to look after her; check up on her sometimes.
It's nearly midnight when I let out a large yawn. "Me too," Peeta says, looking up from his work. "I'm exhausted. Though I can't say I really want to go to bed," he gives me a wry smile.
"Because of nightmares?" I ask quietly. I know the feeling all too well.
"Yeah," he says. "I still get them."
I don't say anything. Instead, all I can do is wonder if he remembers, the way that we used to protect each other from them late at night. I know he mentioned that one time in 13 that he had memories of nights on the train. But the implications then were all wrong. That those nights were about something else, and not about keeping each other's sanity. Does he remember?
"Stay here tonight," I say, and even I'm surprised when I hear myself suggest it. Is it even a good idea? It doesn't seem very wise, considering I'd be vulnerable to one of Peeta's episodes if he were to be triggered for some reason. But the more I think about it, the more I realize I want him to do it. Despite the fear of what might happen. "I have an extra bed."
"Do you think it's safe?" he asks warily.
"I don't know," I admit.
He shakes his head. "I don't know, Katniss. I can't risk hurting you again. I don't think it's a good idea. I should probably go home."
I'm silent as I watch him gather what little belonging he brought over with him. He makes a move for the door to leave. "Stay!" It comes out without permission, but I can't say I'm all that sorry I let it out. It's the truth about what I want. How I feel.
Peeta stops and looks at me, completely unsure of himself. I can tell he's debating with himself how to respond, if he should listen. If it's even a good idea, like I know he originally felt it wasn't. "Katniss- " He begins, probably to start some sort of argument to convince me why he shouldn't, why it would be safer for him to go home. So I cut him off at the pass.
"Please," I say, my voice taking on a near pleading tone. "Stay." With me. My mind fills in the blanks on its own, but I can't say it out loud. Not right now. "Are you really even all that dangerous when you sleep at night?"
This seems to get through to him. "I guess not," he says.
"You told me once that you don't scream or thrash around in your sleep. You just come to, paralyzed with fright." I'm not even sure why I'm telling him this. But I can tell, by the way he freezes in place, that it's still the truth.
"I did?" he asks.
"Yes," I nod. "But you didn't have to. I knew you didn't move in your sleep. Because I was there."
He looks conflicted as he thinks it over. The look on his face is familiar - it's the one he gets when he's trying to decide if a memory is real or not. At last, his body slumps. He gives in. "All right, Katniss," he says. "I'll stay here tonight."
I lead him upstairs. Since I've been back, I haven't bothered to go in any of the other rooms on my own. But I know there's one I won't be disturbing. Prim's old room. I can't bring myself to go in there just yet. There are too many memories, too many ghosts I'm not prepared to deal with. But one of the others should do. I pick one at the far end of the hall, just to give us that extra safety net, should it come to that. But I really don't think it will.
The room is untouched. I pull the covers back on the bed in a pathetic attempt to be hospitable. "The bathroom is just down the hall," I tell him lamely. As if this isn't the exact same floor plan that his own house is.
"I know," he says. I just nod again, feeling kind of silly. "Okay. Well… goodnight, I guess," I say, turning for the door. But just as I'm about to close it as I exit to the hallway, I turn back around and look at him. "Peeta?"
"Yeah?" He looks at me, his blue eyes curious.
"Thank you. For staying."
His eyes are soft and knowing when he responds. "Always."
I'm back! I know, I'm sorry that this story takes forever to be updated. This chapter has actually been finished since November (I worked on it for NaNoWriMo), but it was the April/Spring challenge on loveinpanem (over at Tumblr) that inspired me to get this edited and post.
Huge thank you to AmelinaZenitram (deinde-prandium on Tumblr), and feeding_geese (bigbigbigday006 on Tumblr) for cleaning up my writing, pre-reading, and providing advice!
