Welcome to another chapter! The holiday season chewed me up and just recently spit me out. Thank you for your ongoing support and I apologize profusely to anyone who assumed I had given up on this fic! I promise to see it through to the end. I plan on relaxing for the rest of the day and getting straight to work on the next chapter tomorrow!
I cut this chapter down a bit from my original outline to ensure it's not too much to sit and read in one go. No important details were left out, I promise! This is another emotionally-charged chapter but I promise that the next few chapters will have some more excitement to them!
A collective breath of excitement emits from the bystanders around me on the platform. The train is rolling in ever so slowly but not yet coming to a stop. It's still early, but plenty of residents are here and anxious, either expectant of their new food rations or waiting on a special package.
Before the war, a train from the Capitol meant the loss of children to the reaping or their return in a small wooden box. For a brief time, it meant Peacekeepers coming in to suffocate the district.
Now, the train has developed a new meaning. At the very least, it means everyone can expect a decent meal tonight. Some receive medicines from the Capitol or correspondence from friends in District Thirteen. Somehow, it's become one of the few things that the people of this district can rely on.
Dr. Aurelis stressed the importance of Peeta and I being present when the train arrives. I almost didn't come, though, because the disillusioned doctor seemed to believe that our goods would be stolen if we didn't claim them right away. How could he think so little of my people? Despite all that's happened, elitism is still alive and well in the Capitol.
We end up somewhere in the middle of the line, but it doesn't move very quickly. The train attendants are careful to tick off each name on a giant list of residents and watch each one as they gather their packages.
"How were you able to get my rations off the last train?" I ask Peeta skeptically.
"I asked," he shrugs. "They didn't seem so worried about it at the time."
Perhaps theft is common in the other districts. A quick, horrible flash of riots and looting in larger districts cross my mind. But we've got a national news station now. Wouldn't they cover such events?
"What's with all the security?" I ask the first train attendant we come across as another searches for our goods.
He ticks Peeta and I off his list without asking for names, giving me an uneasy look as he does so. I sometimes forget that in the eyes of the nation, I've been portrayed as a lunatic, a once great hero fallen from grace.
"There have been a few incidents," he says shakily. "People like to get their hands on rare gifts and supplies, even if they aren't meant for them."
I try not to look up at the man anymore. When we receive our packages, Peeta wishes him well and we walk away. We're only a few feet away when I hear Peeta begin to snicker.
"What?" I snap.
"Look at you!" A foolish grin spreads across his face as he teases me. "You're infamous! You'll kill them all with one glance!"
"It's not funny," I reply, giving him a glance that just might kill everyone in sight. He chuckles again.
I want to find the humor in it, but there's none to be found. I don't understand how he can laugh about it. Perhaps it's easier for him because nobody thinks he's an insane danger to society.
For a moment, my envy becomes so great that I consider lashing out at him, letting him know just how it feels to have all the world turn its back to you. He thinks he knows, but he doesn't. I want to make him feel it. The hurt. The anger. The everlasting shame.
Something in my mind ticks, turning a mirror toward my current state of mind. What has gone awry inside me, making me want to hurt the one person who has stood by me? I strengthen my resolve. I work to calm my breathing and look away from him until the moment passes.
"I wonder what he was able to get us." I force myself back into friendly conversation. I find that giving myself little tasks helps to calm my emotions. The project at hand should suffice.
"Probably not everything we need," Peeta admits, "but we can ask around."
I know what's inside the boxes we carry. The one in my arms is much lighter than expected, especially considering that the material inside will be so emotionally heavy for us. But I asked for this and I have to force myself to face its contents.
When we finally reach my home in Victor's Village, I'm starting to change my mind. I don't think I can handle all we'll find inside.
"We can always start this another day," I suggest to Peeta, trying to sound as casual as possible.
"Why?" His befuddlement reads on his face. "We've got nothing else to do today. Getting started is no problem."
Peeta isn't getting my point, building my unease to a new height. Is it just me? Does he have nothing to be afraid of?
"There's a lot of memories in here that we really don't need to relive, that's all," I say.
He huffs dramatically. "Well we don't need this stuff to relive anything," he quips. "We've done that plenty without any help."
He holds the boxes in his hands up a little higher than usual for an extra second and I think of his debilitating flashbacks that break him down both physically and mentally. They don't occur frequently, but when they do it's almost too much to witness. He sometimes yells during them and I gather enough information to set the scene: where he is, who he's battling, who's there with him, and the always brutal outcome. I'm silently thankful for my nightmares, which reveal very little of my thoughts and emotions. They end with me waking in a panic that Peeta can't quite decipher. I tell him what I see, but there's been plenty of times that I've kept certain details to myself.
"Plus, there's a lot of things that I kind of miss in here," he says, "in one way or another."
I don't understand how could Peeta be so sentimental about the past. There are those I want to remember, of course. That's why I'm doing this. But we met these people under the most horrific of circumstances. To say I miss it all would be far too strong.
Upon entering the house, we bring everything to the kitchen table. It's the same place we worked on the memorial. It only makes sense that we'd work on this here as well.
For a moment, we step back and just stare at the boxes ominously. Fear creeps over me as I think of all the different ways I may react to what lays inside. Peeta makes the first move to open a box and I follow suit, a steely expression locked on my face.
"This is fantastic," Peeta breathes. There's brushes, pencils, paints and pastels just waiting to be used. He examines them wistfully, like a young child who's just received a shiny new toy.
My box is different. I understand now why it was so light by comparison, but its contents are much more disturbing. Ever so neatly preserved and arranged in plastic casings, I stare at them and they stare back at me.
Photos, photos, and more photos. Some are of the living. Most are of the dead.
The first several layers seem to be pocket-sized head and shoulder shots of tributes taken during the interview portion of the Hunger Games and Quarter Quell. Each is arranged by district. I'm gaping at the first photo clearly marked "GLIMMER HAYSWORTH - DISTRICT 1" when Peeta seems to notice my shock.
"This isn't what I wanted," I ramble off as the green eyes in the photo morph into a vicious, snarling mutt in my mind. "I didn't want all the tributes. Just a few."
I start picking out the photos I had in mind. Rue. Mags. Seeder. Wiress.
"I know," says Peeta. "I asked for all of them."
There's an unease in his voice that let's me know he expects the argument before it starts.
"Why would you do that?" I feel betrayed by his deviation from my plan. I want to remember the people who saved my life, the people that I love. I want to forget the rest. What's so wrong with that?
"Because you can't just remember the parts that you feel like remembering." I expect a war of words to brew, but Peeta sounds calm and steady as he speaks. He prepared for this fight. "It's unfair to exclude them when they played such a big part in it all. I want to remember all of them."
"I don't," I snap. I'm glaring at Peeta again. I find myself doing this far too often.
He shrugs his shoulders and looks at me knowingly. "We will anyway."
I don't need Peeta to tell me that I'll always remember the games. I can almost see the point he's making, but refuse to bend to his will. Instead, I turn over the box and let the photos spill out.
We cover the entire table as we sort through the lot. Without any communication, we begin to arrange the photos by significance. It's only then that we realize just how much is missing.
"This is all wrong," I say, holding up the two photos of Finnick Odair on the table. In one, he's in his quell interview, dramatically reciting a poem, milking his sex appeal for the Capitol audience. In the other, he's a fourteen-year-old boy, completely unaware of what his life would become. Neither are the Finnick we knew.
Peeta nods slowly. "Well, Aurelis is a Capitol doctor. I doubt he could get much outside of the Capitol archives."
I eye the photos, forcing myself to run through the list of everyone I want to remember. It's uncomfortable, but I know Peeta is doing the same.
He speaks first. "We need something new for Finnick."
"And we're missing Prim," I add. There's a photo of Effie, Cinna, Portia, our prep teams, and for some reason, the terrifying snake eyes of President Snow, but nothing of my sister. I find the icy gray eyes of Alma Coin and think of District Thirteen. "And Boggs, Jackson, the Leegs, the camera crew.."
Peeta is leaning over the table now. "I don't think we're ever going to find anything for the other residents of Twelve."
I hold back a shutter as I think of charred photos in the ash of the firebombing. "Madge," I barely whisper. So many of them have been forgotten.
I burst out at the photos watching me from the table. "This is almost useless!"
I turn away from it all, trying my best to avoid the almost inevitable meltdown that occurs every time I dig into the past. This was a bad idea.
Though he's trying to be quiet, I hear the movement loud and clear. When he puts a hand on my shoulder from behind, it doesn't surprise me.
"I can call Plutarch and get some other photos," he offers. "There's got to be loads from the propos."
Suddenly, it hits me. I scoff, not at Peeta, but at the memory of my last few phone conversations I had with Dr. Aurelis.
"He did this on purpose," I turn to Peeta and read his confusion.
"Dr. Aurelis," I explain. "He told me he wants me to reach out to more people. Open up the lines of communication or something like that. He didn't send me everything so I'd have to ask people."
The odd look on Peeta's face tells me Dr. Aurelis hasn't been having this same conversation with him. I know Peeta hasn't been calling up old acquaintances night and day. Maybe his involvement with the district overhaul has kept him out of the watchful eye of the concerned doctor.
"Well, are you going to ask anyone?" Peeta says with a small, forced smile.
I look past Peeta to the photos once again. I want to be left alone, but I've given myself an overbearing emotional task. It needs to be completed. Just as Haymitch sent me messages with silver parachutes during the games, Dr. Aurelis sends me one in tiny brown packages now. "You don't have to do this alone."
"You already said you'd call Plutarch," I begin to negotiate, "but I can call someone else." Though Plutarch saved my life and proved to be an ally, there's something about him that I just can't shake. He makes me uncomfortable. It would be easier if Peeta spoke to him.
To avoid further conversation, I open the final, much smaller box.
"Who are you going to call, then?" Peeta questions skeptically.
An older, larger photo lays at the bottom of the box. I pull it out immediately and place it among the others. My parents' wedding photo that had been left in District Thirteen. On top of it, I place the rest of the contents of the box: my Mockingjay pin, looking brand new, and the small pearl Peeta give me during the Quarter Quell. My heart swells with relief knowing these precious items are back in my possession.
"Annie," I answer, tapping the wedding photo lightly. "I want a picture of Finnick like that. I know there were photos taken at their wedding."
Peeta's face smoothes out and he smirks with amusement. "I didn't really think you had another person in mind," he says. "I thought you just wanted to get out of calling Plutarch."
He's mostly right, but I feign shock at the idea that I wouldn't want to speak to the man who was instrumental in the downfall of the Capitol. The moment passes and we're left in the silence with several pairs of eyes staring from the table.
My hand is still lightly poised above my parents' wedding photo. Peeta looks down at it, cocking his head to one side, and I realize it's probably the first time he's seen the image I find so iconic.
"We should start with this one," he suggests.
I couldn't think of a better place to start.
Dusk is settling over District Twelve. It's getting too dark to see regularly, but neither of us want to move from our carefully entwined position on the couch to turn on a light.
We've avoided the most intimate of acts since the disaster that was our first time. Every time things go too far, one of us brings everything to a halt, too afraid of the outcome. It's not very appealing, so we've slowly had to work through the anxiety together.
As I lay content in the blissful aftermath, I make a mental note that Peeta's now skilled touch pleases me just fine.
"It's been days since I called Plutarch, you know," Peeta reminds me as he twirls a rogue strand of my hair between his fingers. He's not being assertive, but I know what he's implying. I haven't kept up my end of the bargain.
"I'm going to call her," I assure him. "I'm just waiting for the right time."
It's a poor excuse, but I feel the need to keep defending myself. "What if Plutarch sends us pictures from the wedding? Then I won't need to ask."
"I didn't specifically ask Plutarch for pictures of Finnick and Annie's wedding," Peeta says. Then after a long pause, he adds "And I bet she needs someone to talk to."
Annie, the mad tribute from District Four who only made it through the war because of the strength of her husband. Now he's dead. Is she alone or are there others in District Four trying to help her?
I went mad for a brief time after my loved ones died and the Capitol fell. Maybe she's even worse now than before. Maybe she needs the same human interaction I need.
"It's late. I'll call her tomorrow."
The noise is so low I can barely make it out, but I think Peeta sighs. "It's only dinnertime. I'm sure she's awake."
"Fine," I bend under the force of his persistence. "I'll call tonight."
It takes almost another hour, when I'm sure that Peeta is good and busy making dinner, before I allow myself to pick up the telephone. Each ring feels like an eternity. One. Two. Three. Four.
I'm just about to give up when I hear the rattling on the other end.
"Hello?" Annie says. The voice is unmistakable. Soft but nervous, kind but insecure.
Already I'm losing focus. I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "Hi Annie. It's Katniss Everdeen."
"Katniss?" She replies, mystified. It's hard to gage her reaction over the phone. As the memories flood back to me, I imagine the same is happening to her. I wonder if she's got her eyes shut and a hand over her free ear.
"How are you?" I force myself to ask, trying to avoid the inevitable moment when I'll bring up Finnick and all hell will likely break loose.
"Alright." There's a note of distress in her voice that tells me she isn't. The stretch of silence lingers before she keeps up the pleasantries. "And you?"
"Alright," I lie. There, the conversation comes to a standstill. What could I possibly say right now that won't make things worse? There are no words that could make things right for either of us.
Perhaps because she's a bit mad or perhaps because she's been changed by despair, Annie speaks up in a way I'd never had expected.
"Why are you calling, Katniss?"
"Finnick," is all I manage at first. I receive no reply. When my composure snaps into place, I try to form a useful thought. "I was hoping you might give some extra pictures from the wedding. I'm making a book and I'd like one."
These long pauses are starting to become unbearable. There's a few shuffling noises. I really wish I knew what Annie was doing on the opposite side of the line.
"What kind of book?" She finally asks.
I struggle to find a way to describe it without sounding ridiculous. "A book of memories. Just something with pictures and stories of people who.."
"Died?"
"Who we've lost. Yeah." I don't know why I try to soften the blow. Annie and I both know that Finnick was not simply "lost." He died a brutal death, torn apart by Snow's mutts and then blown to pieces. We couldn't even return his body to his family in a small wooden box like they would in the Hunger Games.
I'm in the moment now, watching Finnick's perfect eyes swimming with fear and anticipation as the rose-scented creatures work to end his life. His expression is begging for me to drop the holo and end his misery. My gut clenches and I wretch a little.
"I'm so sorry he's gone!" I mean to be calm and gentle, but it comes off more like a yell. Surely Annie's fallen off the edge of sanity by now. It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Annie's reply comes out like a hum. "It's okay, Katniss. I miss him too." I'm surprised by how serene she sounds given the circumstances. "He'd be proud of you."
"I don't think he would," I reply quickly and honestly, thinking about how little I've done with my life since the fall of the Capitol. Perhaps with the exception of Haymitch, everyone in society has been more useful to the reconstruction of Panem than me.
"No, he would," Annie replies confidently. "He wanted you to see it through, kill Snow and make it back home. He thought that was worth dying for." I start to feel queasy again.
"Plus, he wouldn't fault you. He understood how people's minds work," Annie adds. When I'm able to swallow the sentence, I start to feel relieved. I think she's referring to the assassination of President Coin, because there's no way she could know the troubles I've had with my mind since returning home. But the idea that Finnick would understand my life now brings me just a little bit of peace.
"I have a photo for you," she continues when I don't respond fast enough, "from the wedding."
"Is it both of you?"
"Yes, with Peeta's cake. Will that do?"
A slight smile forms on my lips for the first time during the conversation. "That would be great."
With that, I've sealed my end of the deal with both Peeta and Dr. Aurelis. I've got a photo on the way and I've reached out to someone from my past. It wasn't pleasant, but it's done. I'm trying to find the best way to say goodbye without rushing her off the phone when she speaks up again.
"I'm thinking of sending you another picture in a month or so, if you'd like it," she says. I find her words a bit confusing.
"Why in a month?" I inquire, unsure of where this is going.
"Because the baby won't be here until next month," she states plainly, as if I should have known all along. "Didn't your mother tell you?"
Something in my throat sticks and I can hardly find the breath to answer. "We haven't talked in a while."
"She's been my nurse ever since I found out," Annie informs me. "She's been lovely. You should talk to her."
I feel a sudden pang of resentment at the realization that Annie Odair has a better relationship with my mother than I do. I could call my mother, but do I even want to speak to her? What could possibly be said that would change anything?
"That's great news. Congratulations." I try to sound enthusiastic, but I'm not feeling much of anything at the moment.
Annie seems to get the hint. "Well, I'm about to cook supper, so I have to get going," she says.
I've already said my goodbyes and started the pull the phone away from me when I hear her voice call out loudly.
"Katniss?"
"I'm still here."
"You should call again, okay? This was nice." There's a telltale sound as Annie presses her telephone down into the receiver.
Nice? The whole conversation felt raw and awkward to me. Maybe it's because Annie, the girl I've always known to be not quite right in the head, had managed to be far more logical than me. Maybe I am going mad.
I mention as little as possible to Peeta. Satisfied that Annie is contributing to our project, he leaves all the details of our brief conversation be.
Rather than enlighten him, I keep it all inside, clinging on to details that are inconsequential to my reality.
As the days go by, I find myself getting frustrated with Peeta. Why hasn't he noticed my odd behavior, my strange change in mood? Shouldn't a person who loves you notice these things?
The more I think of my mother, the less I think of myself. I eat when food is cooked for me. I shower when reminded. I speak when prompted.
Peeta is equally caught up in his art. At first, he spends a few minutes a day trying to sketch and paint out his family and Prim, the people we're sure we won't find in photograph form, for the book. But the paintings aren't coming out right. Peeta has trouble capturing the sweet sparkle in Prim's eyes or the robust curve of his father's cheek. Only a couple days later, he's consumed by the project.
A sudden, screeching clamor from the next room awakens me from my daze. I don't bother asking what's happened. My feet fly up from where they rest on the couch and find the floor in an instant. I've developed a sort of system for dealing with Peeta's flashbacks. The first, most basic step is to be there next to him and make sure he doesn't hurt himself.
But when I get into the other room, Peeta isn't crippled by dreadful memories. He's standing over the garbage barrel, sprinkling tiny pieces of a paper he's just ripped up into it. A curved wooden chair next to the kitchen table lays on its back, swaying back and forth ever so slightly against the floor.
"Sorry, I didn't mean it do that," Peeta says swiftly, not sounding very apologetic at all as he moves to the sink to wash the paint off his hands. "I got up a little too quick, that's all."
My breathing slows and I try not to be angry, but my frustration still bubbles up in my voice.
"Who was that?" I ask, pointing to the shreds of paper. Peeta turns his head back to look at me. I expect to see my frustration reflected back in his eyes, but instead I see something more surprising. I see disappointment.
"It was supposed to be my oldest brother," he says. "Instead it turned out looking like a cross between him and one of the doctors in Thirteen."
Once again, Peeta presents me with a moment in which I can't think of anything decent to say. I think he's learned that he can't always expect a response out of me. Sometimes, he'll try to gently coax it out when he knows I'm having trouble expressing myself. As the silence grows longer, I realize this is not one of those times.
"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm just going to try that one once more, then I'm done for the day, I promise." Then he's sitting back at the table, pulling out a new piece of paper, thoroughly unaware of my presence.
A sinking loneliness that's been creeping up on me for days hits me at its full force. It's sudden and unexpected, considering that nothing drastic has happened. Peeta did nothing wrong. There are no serious issues to be worried about, I tell myself. But I'm worried about absolutely everything. Peeta. My mother. Annie. Haymitch. Our past. Our future. Our legacy.
For the first time in weeks I'm rushing to the door again, preparing to lean over the outside railing as my thoughts threaten to make me sick. Then, a strange thing happens. I'm not running out the door. My foot pivots without my permission and I'm moving up the stairs, past my bedroom and around the sharp left turn of the hallway.
My feet come to a screeching halt. Three doors await me. One leads to a storage room, the other two lead to memories left untouched since before the firebombing. The door a few feet down and to my right is calling for me. Everything in my body is screaming for me to turn back.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old. I survived the Hunger Games. I helped overthrow the Capitol. I am back in my home in District 12. My mother abandoned me. My sister is dead. These are just old rooms.
Despite all my senses begging me to walk away, I force open the door and walk in as quickly as possible, closing the door behind me.
For a moment, I'm transported through time. For a moment, it's as if she's alive again.
If I were to very carefully brush the dust away, the room would be in the exact same condition that Prim had left it. Her hairbrush and hairpieces are still scattered on the table next to her bed. Her winter jacket is still hanging on the bedpost. Her closet door is open and inside, I spy the white blouse she wore on the day of my first reaping.
"Little duck," I croak out to the emptiness.
Her sheets are still folded over from the last time she got out of bed. I hesitate before running my fingertips over them. An extreme calm flows over me and my eyes close. Even in the warm summer months, they feel cool to the touch.
The moment passes and I'm struck by another sense. Nothingness. Prim is not here. She never will be again. What did I expect to find here? Hope? Comfort? None of it exists here.
I begin to wander just as I had in District Thirteen, but this time I'm in like a mouse stuck in a maze. I pace back and forth, examining every inch. My fingerprints make marks in the dust covering each of Prim's personal items. Finally, I make my way back to the bed and collapse on to it.
The sobs begin to wrack my body as I pull the sheets up over me, sending a flurry of dust into the air. I start to sputter, choking as I try to hold in my incoherent cries.
It doesn't take long before I hear the footsteps. He moves so fast that, judging by the crash I hear, he trips and falls on his way up the stairs. When the door swings open, I'm already sitting up, waiting for him.
"Stay out of here!" I shout when he appears in the doorway. "Get out!"
Peeta's eyebrows perk up as he looks around the room from his position in the doorway. The realization slowly spreads across his face. He steps back slowly and cautiously, as if his feet were inches from setting off a trap.
"Why don't you come out here then?" Peeta's shadowy figure reaches out its arms to me. I long to bury myself into them, but doing so would mean leaving Prim behind.
"I can't," I tell him, another fresh wave of tears spilling out of my eyes.
This time it's Peeta, the man who always knows what to say, who seems to be lost for words. I can't blame him. Are there words that can reign in the emotional wreck that I am right now? Perhaps he just knows that on some occasions, it's better to just stay quiet.
He stands there, silent and unmoving, until I cry myself out.
Ever so slowly, I see one of his feet rise up and inch through the doorway, lightly touching down in Prim's room. The other foot follows. He's trying to move stealthily, but he just doesn't know how.
I raise my head to take in the sight. When he notices me looking he stops dead in his tracks, but starts moving again a few moments later when I don't start screaming at him. He continues walking at a snail's pace until he's just inches from the bed.
"C'mon," he says gently, extending a hand out to me. "Let's get out of here."
I know I should go without question, but I still hesitate.
"I can't leave her," I reply, though I know it doesn't make much sense.
Peeta leans over, placing his warm cheek against mine. "You never did, Katniss."
I wrap my arms around Peeta, afraid to ever let go. There are so many opportunities when he should have turned around and ran. Not just today, either. In one way or another, everyone else is gone. But Peeta is still here.
With an extra bit of effort he pulls himself to a standing position, yanking me up with him. We stand there for a minute until I'm ready to release my iron grip on Peeta's neck. He brings me to my room where he sets me down and suggests I take a nap, then leaves again.
I can't rest, so I wait until Peeta returns with a mug of cider to give him the news that started all this.
"Annie is having a baby," I tell him. It seems like such a strange thing to say as he makes his way through the door. He doesn't seem too distracted by the idea. Instead, his face lights up.
"Really?" He says. Then the look of confusion kicks in. "Do you think Finnick knew?"
"No," I answer immediately, having considered the possibility many times myself since hearing the news. "We left for the Capitol in the beginning of February. I don't think anyone would have known by then. Plus, he would have told us."
"He would have told us," Peeta repeats. He sits on the edge of the bed and hands me my drink, rationalizing the situation. "I'm glad, though. I'm glad Annie has something to live for."
Peeta's words make my own selfishness melt. I realize that deep down, I really am happy for Annie. I'm glad that there will still be a little piece of Finnick left in the world. Their child will have so much potential to shape the future of Panem. I take a long sip from my mug before letting Peeta know what's really bothering me.
"My mother has been her nurse. She never told me a thing about Annie."
Peeta's eyes fall to his lap and I know that when he looks up again, he's chosen his words carefully. "Have you talked to her?"
"Once," I tell him, deciding to finally be honest. "Just long enough for her the tell me she's never coming back."
Peeta's arms stretch tight around me and I realize that neither of us have had much for mothers. The woman who raised him was abusive and unforgiving while the woman who raised me was cold and isolated.
"She's not a bad person." I speak my thoughts aloud. "She just didn't know how to be a mother. It's not something that I could do, either."
"You don't know that," Peeta says, trying to soothe me.
"No, I do know that." I lean back so Peeta can see my face. "What part of this situation makes you think I could be responsible for someone else?"
Much to my annoyance, a little smirk spreads across his lips. "I'm not saying it's going to happen tomorrow. It's definitely not a priority at the moment, but you don't know what your future will be like, either."
"I don't even want to think about the future right now, but I know what I want, okay?"
He doesn't press the issue. Instead, he pulls me back into his arms and flops over on to the bed so that's we're both laying down, albeit a bit awkwardly.
"Next month will be an interesting one," he sighs. "Plutarch is coming to District Twelve."
I prop my head up on one arm, realizing that I'm not the only one who has been clinging to secrets. "Why?"
"Well, he's coming to observe shooting for the cultural show," he says, but the lump in his throat tells me there's more.
"And?"
"He wants to interview us. He's trying to put together a special presentation about life after the fall of the Capitol. He just wants to see what we've been up to and ask a few questions. I told him I didn't think it was a good idea, but he's pretty insistent."
Suddenly, my mother feels like the least of my worries. Plutarch Heavensbee is coming to District Twelve to report my status back to the rest of Panem. But I've been here wallowing in my own self-pity, useless to the nation at hand. They already think I'm mad. Film crews will only make it so much worse.
"That's a horrible idea," I croak out.
Peeta laughs. "I know, but he's already got a few of the main players in the rebellion to agree. Apparently, they've got something worth showing. Even if we say no, Plutarch will probably try anyway."
My gut clenches. "Who's agreed?"
"I didn't ask."
I'm conflicted as to whether or not I should be mad at Peeta. Surely his secret is much worse than mine, but we both were looking for a way to escape the truths around us. Panem is calling us back. Did we really think that the rest of country would leave us be until our dying day? No. Panem has given us our time to rest and mourn. Now it wants us to give it some answers.
"He wants to see the book," Peeta continues. "I told him I'd do what I can."
"That's why you've been covered in paint, muttering under your breath for days?" I ask.
Peeta shrugs. "I guess. I just want to make sure I get the portraits right, you know? So that everyone who sees it will remember them the same way we do."
"So you're going to let him interview you?"
"I think I am," Peeta says with a bit of confidence shining through his voice. "I haven't got much to say. I'm not going to start talking about the government or anything, but I think that people need that reassurance that life goes on."
It makes sense. Peeta has spent so much time in the public eye that people wonder about him. They like him. He could change the world with his words, but instead they'll settle for seeing him alive, much like they did upon seeing my first propo.
"I didn't give any answers on your behalf, though," he clarifies. "He wants you to call him."
I snort. I've done so much to avoid speaking to Plutarch, but the man just can't let it go. It's either going to be a phone call or a knock on my door, but either way, he'll find his chance to speak to me.
I don't know if I'm ready to let Panem see me. There's so many things I could be doing for the country, but I haven't done much at all. All I've got is blueprints for a memorial, a book that will be partially filled with old memories and a home issued to me by the Capitol.
There's only one remarkable thing about me: I survived. I hope that's enough.
"Why don't you call Plutarch for me?" I try to persuade Peeta. "You can tell him I'll do it."
