I wake up from my midday nap to the sound of knocking at the door. I groan a little, and roll out of the bed, jamming my swollen feet into a pair of slippers on the floor. Because of the enormous globe that is now my stomach, I waddle slowly to the door. I feel a sharp kick from the baby in protest at me for waking up.
The knocking persists. "I'm coming!" I shout a bit, just a few more waddling strides away. Finally I open the door and standing there on the doorstep is a bright-faced Susan.
"Hello, Mrs. Mellark. These are for you from Mrs. Everdeen," she says, holding out a vase of wild roses. I take the vase from her and set it on a little table by the door. "Oh, and this too. Have a nice day Mrs. Mellark! I have to head back to the clinic now ." She hands me an envelope and quickly makes her way back toward town.
I give the roses a glance, wondering whether I should move them to a sunnier room of the house. But I decide to just leave them there and go back to bed. It was a nice gesture, but roses are by far, my least favorite flower. I can't help but associate them with Snow. And these ones are a far too fragrant for my tastes; I'm practically choking on their scent. If I just starve them of sunlight for a day or two, then surely they'll die faster. I would just throw them away, but my mother did give them to me to try to be nice, and if she stops by later I don't want to make her upset if she'd find them in the trash.
After I've waddled back across the house and gotten tucked back under the covers, I open up the envelope. My mother's delicate handwriting is scrawled out across the page.
I hope you like the flowers. I know you've been cooped up in the house in these final weeks, and you are probably missing your outdoor hikes and such, so I thought bringing in a little nature would do you good.
I am sorry this is such short notice, but I have to make a trip to the Capitol before the baby arrives if we want everything to be ready. You still have two and a half weeks left and I'll be back in just a couple of days, so I will be back before your due date.
Now don't forget to…
Her letter went on, reminding me to stay healthy, eat right, get lots of rest, etc. etc. I guess I could just go ahead and throw the roses away. But, I'm already in bed. I don't feel like getting up again. I slide the letter back into the envelope and put it on my nightstand before rolling over and falling asleep again.
A few hours later I'm sitting on the couch reading a book when I hear the front door open. Peeta must be home. I smile a bit and shout over my shoulder for him to come over here. He doesn't answer back right away, and thinking he couldn't hear me I shout again, "Hey, Honey? Are you okay?"
I hear a loud shattering noise and quickly head towards the front door.
Peeta is standing there, the palms of his hands pressed tightly to his head, his eyes clenched shut. At his feet lies the shattered remains of the glass vase and the roses are strewn across the ground in a puddle. He opens his eyes and I see darkness in them and I know right away that he's relapsed from the hijacking. It must have been the roses. They probably triggered a memory of Snow or something.
I try to slip away quietly so he wouldn't notice me, but his gaze flicks up at me; his eyebrows casting dark shadows over his eyes making him appear even more menacing. My heart is racing in my chest and I feel a light kick from within. Out of instinct, my hands fly protectively to my stomach.
"It's you," he growls, glaring at me, his voice rough and deeper than usual, "You're the mutt. You're the one that's made my life a living hell! You're the reason for my pain!"
He's shouting so loud, I swear that the windows are shaking. He steps towards me, the broken glass shards crunching beneath his shoes. He looks at me, his eyes narrow slits of hate.
My head is telling me that I need to reason with him and pull him out of this, but my instincts are telling me to find safety. Peeta doesn't have relapses often. In fact, the last one was well over a year and a half ago. I'm still trying to decide if I should calm him down or find safety, but his next words make my decision for me, "I'm going to kill you, Katniss."
Before he takes another step I turn and dash back toward the bedroom. I slam the door shut, but he followed me and his foot jams into the frame in time to catch it. I stumble backwards into the room and look for something to distract him with. My eyes catch a pair of shoes and I grab them and lob them at his head, one flings by his right ear, but the other makes a direct hit on his eye. While he is distracted for just a moment to press his palm into his eye in pain, I scramble for the bathroom. The lock on the door can keep him out at least for a little while. As I turn the lock on the door, the knob twists violently in my hand from the other side of the door and Peeta slams the door into me.
I double over as a shot of pain courses through my abdomen and I silently beg that the baby is okay. Peeta takes a few casual steps toward me, his eyes teeming with bloodlust. As he gets closer, I'm forced to step back away from him until I'm pressed against the wall. He puts a strong hand on my jaw and firmly turns my head in his grip.
"I can snap that pretty little neck of yours with just a twist of my wrist," he says, his voice quiet and sinister, "Wouldn't take much would it? But, no, I don't think I'm going to do that. You've made my life a living hell. So much, pain. No, I won't grant you the mercy of a quick death. I want to watch you suffer."
I know he doesn't mean it. The words are just put in his head from the hijacking. But I'm still scared. A sudden sharp pain pounds in my stomach and I feel a trickle rushing down my legs.
No. No this can't be happening. Not here. Not right now.
Terror grips me as I realize fully the gravity of this situation. My water has just broken.
Peeta's hand releases my face and he takes a step back in disgust from the puddle on the floor.
My muscles clench within me again and I shout, sliding down to crouch on the floor, hoping that somehow if I squat down then I would be able to relieve some of the pain. Peeta is just staring down at me, and through pain-blurred eyes I glance up to him. His face shows that he is confused, and he's losing that menacing expression he had a moment ago. Another contraction seizes me and unprepared for it, I shriek. The pain is so much worse that I had imagined it would be.
My scream must have been enough to pull Peeta back to reality. He bends down, his face a range of emotions from fear to shame to compassion. He bends down beside me quickly and drapes my arm around his shoulder to help me stand, but as we rise up, I shout again as yet another contraction comes. He slides his arms below me and carries me out quickly to the bed, sitting me up against the backboard.
He rushes to the phone and dials a number, "She's not…here," I say through grit teeth. I know the first person he'd call would be my mother. "She went to the…the Capitol this morning." I roll a bit to the side as his weight presses down into the bed beside me and his arms wind around my shoulders. My voice shrinks to a barely audible whisper, "I'm scared Peeta."
He presses his lips into my hair and whispers back, "Me too, Katniss. Me too…"
