Note: Thanks to everyone for reading! I love all of your reviews, good or bad! This chapter was pretty difficult to write, but I hope that everyone enjoys it. Bear with me as I'm starting summer classes soon, but I'll be sure to update as soon as possible.

You're never going to feel as full as you felt
So let's go outside and we'll play William Tell
Take your time drawing your bead
I'll stand as still as you need
'Cause you're so good at talking smack,
You heart attack
But you're the apple of my eye anyway

-"You Won't Know", Brand New

Chapter Four

I wake up finding myself tangled once again in the sheets of Peeta's bed. I don't remember moving, so I assume that he carried me here. My neck is stiff from falling asleep against the wall, and I feel dehydrated from crying so much. I get up, my bones creaking wearily and walk to the kitchen. The glass is no longer on the floor, but instead it's been swept up in a dust bin. The only thing remaining is the mess of blood smeared across the tile. I catch a glimpse of my knees, which have jagged cuts across them from crawling. I sigh, wondering how many more scars I can accumulate on my body before it finally deteriorates.

I feel the silence of the house pressing in on me and realize I have no idea where Peeta is. I shuffle around downstairs, calling his name in a raspy voice but find no answer. I have never seen his whole house before. When I push the door open to what I assume is a guest bedroom, I feel something alive, deep inside of me, stirring.

I've found his studio. Well, almost. It once was a bedroom, maybe one of his brothers', but it's been transformed. There are canvases everywhere, leaning against every surface, some finished, some still in progress. The room smells heavily of oil paints, and it reminds me of the lingering scent that sometimes clings to Peeta's clothes.

I step in, careful not to touch anything, and look around. I see a picture of the Cornucopia, gleaming in the hot sun and immediately cringe away from the it. I bump into a larger canvas and turn to catch it before it falls. I look up at it, transfixed. It's the largest painting in the room, and it's sitting in front of the bay window, bathed in the morning light. It's so real, so heartbreakingly real that I have to grit my teeth so I don't sob and clutch myself to keep the pieces together. I feel the grief inside of me stretching, trying to push its way out of my body, but I gasp for air, fighting back.

It's a painting of the last happy memory I have. A distant one, one that feels so far away that I almost forget it existed. It's Finnick and Annie on their wedding day. Annie's bright eyes are gleaming with joy as she looks down at her hands, which are clasped with Finnick's, whose eyes are glued to her face, as if trying to memorize every small detail of it. She's wearing one of the dresses that Cinna made for me, one that I wore during the Victory Tour after the Games. There's a net wrapped around their shoulders; a custom from District 4. I lift my finger carefully, hovering over the painting, and I can almost remember that day…

"Are you ready, Annie?" I ask.

Annie is sitting in the small quarters that I share with my mother and Prim, looking out of the small strip of window that we're allowed to have for Buttercup's sake. She has a finger pressed to the window, eyes fixed in concentration as she follows the trail of a ladybug that's making its way through the grass. She turns her wide eyes to me, mouth parted slightly, as if forgetting where she is. I give her a tentative smile and she bites her lip and beams in return.

"I think so." She whispers.

I nod, helping her up and straightening her necklace. It's long, and made of pearls that match her earrings. My stomach clenches, remembering the pearl hidden inside of my dresser. I'm not supposed to think about him anymore, I remind myself. I walk her towards our floor length mirror to let her take a look at herself. She stops, gazing at the dress, made of blue silk, in the mirror.

"Thank you for letting me borrow this dress. I'm sure you looked very pretty in it." She murmurs.

"It looks even better on you, I promise." I touch her arm lightly. It really does. She looks radiant in it, even if she doesn't realize it herself. I didn't mind giving up the dress at all. In fact, I feel much better knowing that it's no longer sitting in my closet in District 12 collecting dust. Better knowing that now it'll be associated with happier memories. Not the Victory Tour. Not when my life was being displayed on camera, when I was forced to twirl in his arms, forcing a smile, pretending to be in love…

"It was his favorite dress on you." She says softly, then pauses, watching me through the mirror. "Peeta, I mean. He seemed to… remember… when he came in earlier" She says even quieter.

I feel my heart ache. I don't want to think about him now. Not today. Not on a day that's supposed to be so joyful. I can't think about him. I cast my eyes downward, staring at my feet, not knowing how to respond.

"He's still there, Katniss."

I nod at my toes, not knowing what else to say. I don't believe it. I could never believe it. He's lost, and he's never coming back…

I bring myself back to the studio, back to the painting. I don't want to think about Annie now; it's too painful. I turn away, trying to forget the look of sheer bliss on their faces, and find Peeta standing in the doorway. He looks horrible. Dark circles hang under his bloodshot eyes, and his hand, which is now wrapped, has turned slightly purple.

"Peeta…" I start, but the look in his eyes brings me to a halt. His jaw clenches, and his eyes are hard, staring at me with such intensity it makes my heart thump in my chest.

"Did I…" He starts, walking towards me with his arms outstretched. He stops, a few feet away, and shudders, shaking his head as if reminding himself to keep his distance. His hands still hover in the air. "Did I hurt you?" His voice is low, defeated, cracking at the end. His eyes hover on my knees, which are smudged with blood.

I stare into his eyes. He looks broken. I imagine myself cupping his cheek with my hand, rubbing the dark circles underneath his eyes, but I tear myself from the thought. I'm not supposed to want that. He wouldn't want it either. I bite the inside of my cheek.

"No."

His face floods with relief, but a moment later his eyes fill with determination.

"I need you to leave." He says firmly.

I feel like I've been slapped.

"W – What?" I stutter.

"Please," He whispers, "You don't get it. I thought I hurt you. I could have. I can't bear to think of what I might've done. I can't take that chance anymore. Please, I need you to understand."

Understand? How can I possibly understand? He's the only person I have left that hasn't abandoned me. I think of my mother, who can't look at me without seeing Prim. I think of Gale, who ran off because I don't know how to love him the way he wants. I think of all the people that have died because of me. If he leaves, I'll have nothing left. Yet he thinks he needs to protect me from himself.

I was wrong: he doesn't think of me as a monster. He thinks of himself as one. Anger thrashes inside of me, making my temples throb.

"I'm not leaving." I say steadily, my eyes hard on his, hands clenched in fists.

His eyebrows come together, and a look of frustration crosses his face. "I could have killed you last night." He says harshly, his face turning red. "I wanted to. Did you know that? I wanted to wrap my fingers around your throat again. Does that make you want to leave?"

I feel like my insides are trying to escape. Anger boils in my stomach, clawing its way up my throat. My veins feel like they're pumping ice water and I feel the room sway around me. He wanted to kill me. Somewhere inside him, he still wants to kill me, I repeat to myself. Instead of scaring me, it makes me more furious, more determined to show him the truth. This isn't him; this is the Capitol's creation. I gnash my teeth together.

"No." I whisper, tears spilling over my cheeks. Haymitch told me I needed to open myself up to him. I don't know how else but to tell him the truth. "Because I'm already dead."

"Don't say tha –" he begins, pain filling his eyes.

"No." I interrupt, my voice rising, "You listen to me. I'm already gone. But you're not. There's still good in you, I know it's there. And I'm going to help you see it. I don't care whether you want me around. I'm not going anywhere."

It's the most I've spoken since I've been home and yet it's not enough. Without thinking, I close the distance between us and throw my arms around him, pressing my face into his chest. I don't care that I'm not supposed to do this.

Peeta's body tenses at first, but it only makes me grip him tighter. He eventually relaxes, and his fingers tangle themselves in my hair and his cheek presses against my head. I listen to his heartbeat which is thumping erratically against my ear. My insides loosen as I close my eyes and breathe in his scent.

Haymitch was right. Peeta needs me. I can't be selfish anymore. I have to put all of my effort into this. I have to make him remember who he is. He needs me. As I listen to his breathing steady itself, I feel somewhere, underneath the creature growling inside of me, the recognition that I might need him too. And that frightens me more than anything.