A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews, etc. for my story. I'm so happy people are responding to it, and that you, like me, want to know more of Peeta's story. (At least the way I see it). Enjoy!
I do not own Hunger Games/Catching Fire/Mockingjay
I slump here on her front step, surrounded by the utter darkness of night in a place that reeks of death, waiting for the effects of my mistake to wear off.
I knew I couldn't visit her right away. Just show up at her door unannounced, expecting, well, I don't even know what. So, I settled for my second choice, which isn't saying much since here in District 12 I really only have two choices. So, after my train got in and I unloaded things at my house, I went next door. To Haymitch's.
He sat in his kitchen. I stood. He drank. I fired questions at him.
"I would have figured she'd be out hunting a lot, you know, like she used to," I said to him, wondering if I was even talking to a person, since he looked more like a pile of clothes, slumped semi-conscious in a kitchen chair.
"I don't think so," he answered gruffly, gripping his bottle. "I don't think she leaves the house at all." He avoided my eyes, keeping his focus on his shaky hands and liquor supply.
"Well don't you know? I thought you were supposed to be checking up on her!" I was more than a little pissed that he seemed to be dropping the ball with her, leaving her to figure out this new life on her own.
"Why would she want to go out anyway? It's not exactly easy to be around here, you know," he yelled, drink dribbling down his chin. "You don't get it now, Peeta, but you'll figure it out damn soon enough!"
There were about a hundred more things I wanted to say to Haymitch, none of them friendly. But, since he accounts for exactly one-half of the people I know here, I bit my tongue. The news of Katniss staying holed up in her house bothered me tremendously. It reminded me of myself, my isolation in the hospital, and how much better I felt when I started getting outside. My brain started going a million miles a minute, conjuring up some plan to get her outside of that prison of hers. I started envisioning her as a princess, trapped in a tower, and me as her rescuer, her savoir. So immersed in this vision I became, that I decided to actually act on it. To race to her doorstep, barge inside, grab her, and with my love and passion, free her from the sadness of her life. The alcohol was just supposed to be a shot of courage, an aid in making my vision a reality.
It wasn't like Haymitch was eager to share, but he was willing to part with one bottle. That's all it took. One bottle was all that was needed to mangle my recently recovered hijacked brain, send every part of my body into tremors, and leave my head feeling like it would burst open. I guess I was lucky that dizziness was part of the equation, because my attempts to get to her door were definitely made more challenging by the fact I was seeing about three doors in front of me. The other stroke of luck was that she apparently locks her door. Why, I don't know, given that there's no one here in this pit of ash to break in. Unless, of course…well, I tell myself, maybe she figured I would get here one of these days.
I sit in this spot because this is where I fell, overcome with drunkenness. It's not like I've never had alcohol before. There was the very rare glass of wine with my family, a treat on only the most special occasions. And there was that other time, before Katniss and I started the Victory Tour. I'd swiped a few bottles of Haymitch's stuff. Drank myself into blind oblivion in my house, angry and devastated by the distance between Katniss and me. I'm sure it was that experience that got me so angered at her drunken episode when the Quarter Quell was announced. Nonetheless, it's apparent that everything that's happened to my body and my brain has resulted in me being an extreme lightweight, and of course, Haymitch's stuff is not exactly light.
As the drunkenness wears off and my sobriety and sanity return, I can more clearly see that I was pretty much out of my head long before I drank Haymitch's liquor. It was what you might call a "hard day."
Goodbyes in the hospital started things off. Dr. Aurelius presented me with my release papers yesterday, a Tuesday morning, but I didn't feel like skipping out without saying goodbye, so I stuck around for the 2:30 session. I hadn't expected to feel the pain of separation again, like I did with Annie, but it was there. Hugs, well-wishes, tears, advice. Requests to stay in touch. These were all definitely real, no question about it.
After the goodbyes, it was time to gather my things, for real this time, and board a train to District 12. Of course the train wasn't exactly overflowing with passengers. No one but me going to 12, a dozen or so people going on to 13. But, I had a lot of unexpected stuff with me. Since there are no shops open in 12 and all supplies come on the train, Dr. Aurelius made sure I was supplied with enough goods to keep me going for my first couple of weeks. Apparently I will have to be placing calls and orders for more goods every so often until the day comes that shopkeepers set up in 12. From what I've seen here so far, I'm not getting my hopes up that it'll be any time soon.
How can I describe what it looked like when I stepped off the train? Bleak? That doesn't do it justice by a long shot. Desolate? Too nice. Rotting, stinking, horrific, Hellish, devastating? Too gentle. Basically, there is no way to describe it. I found myself standing there, stock still, looking at the gray barren waste before me. I started to squint. Pressing my eyelids closer together in hopes of changing what I was seeing. Creating a vision, hijacking myself to see what wasn't there. Turning gray to green, death to life. .
It was impossible, and soon I was choking on dust and ash and tears. I had thought, on the train, that maybe when I got here I'd head to the square, face the ghosts of my family's home right away. But it became obvious pretty fast that I will have to wait. I'm stronger than I was, but not strong enough for that.
I was surprised to see people in 12. They are the "clean-up crew" – now there's a job that takes courage. A couple of the guys from the crew helped me cart all the stuff to my house. I recognized them as guys from the Seam, but we didn't exchange a lot of conversation. Really, in this situation, what is there to be said?
Walking into the Victor's Village again was like a strange mind trip. One foot standing in the desolation, the other foot on living green grass. The paradox of it was just confusing me, and then I saw her house. Knowing she was probably just inside. So close to me. I just froze in my tracks, gaping open-mouthed at her house, feeling like a buffoon, because I'd made a decision to not go there right away, but the temptation was so powerful. However, the guys with my stuff had only one idea in mind, get this stuff unloaded at my house, the sooner the better, so the decision was made for me. Probably a good thing.
Once inside, I wandered around, feeling like a visitor. I took in everything around me: Prints on the walls. Upholstered furniture. A tasteful floral rug. All the features of a house, but is it a home? My home? I don't know that I've ever really thought of it that way, that it's mine. Sure, I lived here for awhile, but I lived here alone. The space above the bakery, with my family, well, that always felt like my real home.
It only took a few minutes before I had to get out. Get out of that strange space, the aloneness of it, and find some company. So, I went to Haymitch's, and that's what led to my current condition.
I don't even know the hour now. The middle of the night, I suppose. It's like a different world from what I knew. No lights except our own, no sounds, no smells, no movement. I sit up straighter, try standing to test my balance. Feeling steady enough, I decide to head home, to give the lonely, alien house a second try. I glance back at her house, a sigh of regret escaping my lips.
My house, as it turns out, is no better this time around. I try sleeping, but sleep doesn't come. I try reading, doesn't work. I study the tile floor in the bathroom, the blues and greens recalling water. Brings on some nausea clearly related to my earlier indulgence. So I go back outside, to this little piece of life in a sea of death. If only there was other life around here, somewhere else that offered hope rather than emptiness. It takes me quite a while of considering this, so long that the very first glimpses of dawn start to lighten the sky, before I find myself forming a plan. There is somewhere else here in 12 that has life, somewhere I've never actually had the courage to go. Afraid of silly things, like insects and animals. But that was before my fears changed, that was before I needed the affirmation that things actually live around here. I throw on some boots, and with just the shell of a plan, grab my shovel as well.
The woods. It's not pleasant getting there, having to walk through the remains of peoples' live, but I stay focused on the goal. By the time I reach the now deactivated fence, I just want to run for the woods and not look back. I see a gap in the fence and head straight for it. Being in the trees, it's a sudden relief, providing some hope in a hopeless place. The shovel in my hand is a reminder of the plan I concocted quickly in my head, and as I walk, I look around in the dim morning light for just the right plants. Plants that will add life, just like Annie said: sometimes life springs unexpectedly from the ashes. I need the new life. Katniss needs it. I gaze around at the different trees and plants, without blooms, dormant, but recognizable nevertheless. So many hours making sketches and paintings for Katniss's plant book, and I now recall their names effortlessly. Pine. Alder. Chokecherry. Elderberry. Primrose.
Primrose. I had never thought of it. I lean down, gently touch a green stalk out of which flowers will bloom soon. I realize there are primrose plants all around me. Even in their dormancy, there is a beauty to them, just like the girl named for them.
It's hard work, unearthing them. Their roots are so bound to the earth here. I have to scale back from my original plan of a dozen, and settle instead for five. Then comes the challenge of getting them back to the Victor's Village. I look around for a log or something, a huge piece of bark, to use as a skid to drag them, but no luck. The sun is rising above the horizon now, and I don't want to delay, so I do it the long way. Carry two all the way back to the fence, come back for the other three. It's hard work, but it feels good, helps me focus, sweats the rest of the alcohol out of my system, and clears my mind. Although I'm physically exhausted from the labor, I know I have a better self to present to her now than the one yesterday.
It takes a while to get everything back – plants, shovel, me. I finally just walk to my house, get the wheelbarrow, wheel it back to the fence, and get the plants to Katniss's that way. Once there, I start to work. Select the side of her house that's nothing but long lank grass. Start digging a flower bed. I'm so involved in my work, I don't even hear her footsteps.
"You're back," she says. I almost jump, but I try to keep it smooth. Her tone is matter-of-fact; I can't tell if it's good or bad that I'm back. Trying to keep it light, to not betray the desires that are just about wrecking me, I simply explain about how I just got released and even make a crack about her being in touch more often with Dr. Aurelius.
It's then that I turn to face her, to really see her. Our eyes meet, and neither of us looks away. I see her studying me, looking me over, but I can't draw any conclusion about what she thinks. As for me, I'm immediately overwhelmed by her vulnerability. She's so slight, pale, wispy, not strong. Somehow in my anticipation of this moment, in my dreaming of it, I'd tossed reality aside and imagined a healthy Katniss standing there looking at me. How stupid of me.
I feel a frown forming on my face, and am immediately mad at myself for it. I know she sees it, registers it, and she probably thinks I'm disappointed. But that's not it at all. It's just that I recognize her face, the look that she carries, that masks all her strengths. Because I remember it in myself. And I hurt so much for her because I know the long painful journey that she still has ahead of her. I resolve that at least she won't have to go through it alone.
She's suddenly flustered, trying to work out the mess of her hair, looking entirely too self-conscious. I'm about to tell her that she misunderstands, that I don't care how she looks, I still want her, but then she asks what I'm doing. I explain about the plants, how I dug them up for Prim to plant along the side of the house. I don't say the other part – that they are also for us.
A range of expressions flash across her face: confusion, followed by recognition, rage, and finally approval. But then she's gone. Gone into her house, and I don't know what to think. What am I supposed to do? Chase after her? Go home? Yell her name til she comes out? Not having a clue what just happened, I decide to just keep on as I was. Dig the holes, put in the plants, water them. I had hoped she'd help me. Maybe she still will. So, I work slowly. Very, very slowly.
I am just finishing, having extended the amount of time as long as possible, when a woman appears. Greasy Sae, I recognize her from before. We exchange a few words of greeting. She explains that she helps Katniss with fires, meals. This is a more hopeful sign. Haymitch may have completely cast her aside, but at least she's got someone here with her. Not wanting to intrude on them, I head home, put away the wheelbarrow and shovel, and clean myself up.
The burning question: What is the appropriate amount of time to wait until I see her again? My favorite answer: about three seconds. Sadly, that's destined to be unreal. I know I have to wait longer, to give her space. I think back to her expression, the way she looked me over. Can I read anything into that? Interest? Caring? Longing? I can't make anything of it, and I conclude that I should just be happy that it wasn't fear or anger. I suppose this could be looked at as a step in the right direction.
The rest of my day is a wash. I try different tasks, find myself completely unable to focus on any of them. I sit in front of my painting of Katniss, immersing myself in the way she feels. But, knowing the real Katniss is so near, I can't settle for the feeling of a painting. I want the real thing.
I have to face it. I was desperate to be closer to her, thought that would be better. But, now that I am, I know it's really not close enough. Not for me, at least. My desire for her, my need for her, is filling me completely, keeping me awake, making me restless. It's unrealistic, unfair to expect it to be reciprocal, that she's ready for me or ever will be. I can't help feeling the way I do, but what can I really expect from her, after what I became, what she must see me as? I know I'm not that monster, but I need some help in knowing how to convince Katniss of that.
I give my daily call to Annie. The purpose: to see how she's doing, see how she's coping. But, before I know it, the conversation has turned completely around, and it's all about me. I feel bad about that, but Annie doesn't seem to mind. "Just do whatever you did before, Peeta. It's the small things, the little gestures of caring. When you all lived there before, and you were taking care of each other, what did you do?" And I know what to do next. How to have a reason to see Katniss, and how to help her see me as I am now.
I bake bread.
Although it's something I've done my whole life, something that was part of who I used to be and who we were together, it feels like a beginning.