A/N: Thankyou so much to my AMAZING reviewers! Love you all. Your comments and praise mean the world to me! But this story has had like 800 or something views and only 4 or 5 of the readers are reviewing after every or most chapters. PLEASE, if you're reading this, please leave just a tiny or detailed review! I don't care how big or small, please just review :) I'm SO sorry this one took a while, but it's longer so yeah. And I haven't edited it or read it through because I wanted to get it up as soon as possible for you guys.

Oh, and guys? You all said this story could go in many different directions. I have a few ideas. The Quarter Quell is going to be different from how Suzanne wrote it. I hope you'll all like it when the time comes for me to write it, I haven't decided what I'm going to have happen yet but I have some ideas ;) And I just made up a name that I thought suited Peeta's mom, idk why. I gave her a whole new warm persona, too, or to Katniss she is anyway. :)

randomgirl18: Thankyou! I find description really easy, it just comes naturally, I read your Bella fan-fiction and it was amazing, if you do have trouble it doesn't show :) Try not planning much with your writing, just let it flow naturally and if you get a block go do something you enjoy and relax then come back to your story. Sometimes planning helps people, though, whatever works for you :)

Chapter 7: Painting Pictures

I hear Gale's heavy, rapid footsteps quickly approaching our home. I almost zone back into the Games but this time, manage to shake out of the memory. I know it's not achievement of the year for me, but it's a good start to making a recovery and I guess it's a milestone. Then my small sense of achievement and sudden positive energy fall flat as I realise I may never make a full recovery.

I push those concerns away and realise I've got a situation on my hands here. Nothing I can't handle, after all, I made it out of the Arena when the odds were never in my favour.

Anyway, Gale is quickly approaching the door. I shoot Prim a nod, she gives me a knowing glance, she's got me covered. Prim will distract and stall while I exit through the back door. I feel that warmth inside of my chest again, I feel so proud of her. She's basically playing the same part I did for my mother, I realise with a strong pang of guilt. I'm still in control, right? I'm just verging on… Insanity and paranoia. I won't let it get to that stage, she won't live through what I did. I forbid it.

I am quick on my feet, of course, and am out the back door before he can even knock our front one. Peeta lives directly next door, Haymitch to my houses right side with Peeta's home built to my left. That's always handy. Then I wonder if the close proximity allows Peeta to hear my screams… He has knocked the door and phoned to talk to me almost every day without fail, but I've became a master at evading him over the past few weeks.

At least I won't have to be concerned about Haymitch hearing, like I noted previously, he's just completing his mandatory stay at the Capitol for 'press events', he'll be home any day now. Plus, he'll be too drunk to hear anything. Or maybe he'll try and remain sober, since we won and need his support, who knows?

Whenever I call Haymitch, which is every couple of days, he's extremely vague. Most likely because the phone lines are obviously tapped and every call is closely monitored by the Capitol, and, ultimately President Snow himself. I shake off the burning hatred and rage conjuring up inside of me just thinking about that- that man, if you can even call him a man. It'll send me over the edge and I'll end up losing control and punching something, which I can't have happening.

Something still feels wrong, about Haymitch. He sounds so tired. Not fatigue/ lack of sleep caused tiredness, or his usual grumpy attitude, he lacks something… Motivation? No, he's dedicated to helping Peeta and I. Humour? Yes, but that's not all that's missing… Then it hits me. Hope. He's losing hope. But why? What has Snow been telling him?

He's most likely been threatening him, we all know I have lit up a spark. Maybe by standing up to the Gamemakers in the private session, scoring an 11, maybe by defying all odds when they were stacked against me and making it out alive, maybe by outlasting and killed the most skilled Careers 1 and 2 could offer, maybe by the flowers for Rue, the hand salute or possibly by threatening to rob them of having a victor. Maybe all of those have added fuel to the fire, but either way and whether I meant to or not, the flame of Rebellion is growing vastly every day. Things are changing. People are getting angry. They're feeling hope. So why isn't Haymitch? I'll hear all about it when he returns, I'm sure.

I'm grateful I have such a tactful little sister and vault over the fence separating mine and Peeta's large backyards. Then I climb over his garden fence so I'm standing between the sides of our houses, leaning closely into the wall and listening intently to what's going on in my house. I can't make out what they're saying, my ear being damaged in that explosion back in the Arena can't have helped much. I quickly decide it safe to walk to Peeta's front door and walk briskly up his path, to distract myself from remembering that horrible day in painfully vivid detail.

I'd never been more afraid in my life. Cato was more furious than I'd ever seen a person be in my whole life, worse than me in my worst moments of intense rage. I have a feeling he realised it had been me as soon as he'd calmed down. I shiver and wonder if Clove did, too. Then another image of that day pops up in my mind before I can push it out: losing Rue. Watching the life escape her every weak, hoarse breath she took and singing for her until her heart beat for the last time…

By the time I've knocked on the door, I'm fighting tears, trying to regain my composure. Thankfully I do, because it isn't Peeta who answers, it's Mrs. Mellark, his mother.

"Why if it isn't the Girl on Fire, Katniss Everdeen herself!" She beams when she sees me and immediately pulls me into an almost painfully tight hug that I return reluctantly, slowly and awkwardly by resting my arms lightly on her back as she squeezes mine with her arms.

She eventually releases me, after what feels like an eternity. "Yeah, um, good afternoon ."

"Please, call me Clara, there's no need for formalities here!" She smiles enthusiastically. "You saved my son's life after all, you're the reason he's alive today."

We saved each other. I recall myself telling Caesar that in our last interview, correcting Peeta after he said "She saved my life." I almost say it, but instead I mumble: "Oh, no, Mrs. Mellark, give Peeta the credit for that. He saved me countless times and put his-self at risk, too, for me."

"I said call me Clara," she laughs lightly but heartily, all the same. She really is nothing like the angry woman I saw scolding Peeta outside the bakery on that fateful day when 'Bread Boy' was officially born. I feel a sudden anger inside of me, remembering how it looked like she mistreated him and I recall him telling me she thought out District would finally have a winner this year, and how she'd been talking about me, not her own son. Why do I feel so… Protective and touchy about him? I ignore the feeling. "And no, no, you were so brave fighting and killing that murderous Career boy from 2, he really did hate you, Katniss. They all did. In fact, him and those other heartless killers were constantly going into great detail about how they despised you and how they planned on-"

I flinch at her words and feel annoyance returning, surely the Careers showed they weren't entirely heartless. Anyway, her words are making me uncomfortable and I'd prefer not to be enlightened on the details of how they planned on killing me or what they thought of me- I'll very likely suffer through it in my nightmares tonight if I hear anymore, so I cut her off: "Not to be rude, but I'd prefer not to know any more if that's alright, Clara," I manage to sound moderately polite.

"I understand. All I'm saying is, each of them deserve everything they got for saying those horrible things about you and my son, it was despicable," she said, her voice thick with disgust and loathing.

What she's said makes me even more uncomfortable and irritated. They were people. Kids, even if they didn't act or seem like they were. They were kids that myself and her son killed. Peeta, more in-directly than myself, but he was still involved. It's not like he had a choice. Like I said before, it's kill or be killed. She speaks as thought I should be proud of ending their lives, like they'd be proud of ending mine. But if I was, then I'd be no better than them. I feel like telling her all of this to enlighten her that even when people do or say bad, or despicable things, as she put it, they are still people.

However, I manage to bite my tongue and say more coldly than I intended to: "I should just go, I really don't want to discuss the Games any longer, goodbye Mrs. Mellark." I suppose I'm partially lying, after all, I did come here to discuss the Games. But not with her, with Peeta. I want to leave before I really do give her a peace of my mind, before I say something that I'll regret. Of course, she's a Mellark. They don't give up easily…

"It's Clara, remember, you can call my Clara," she says somewhat warmly, either not noticing or ignoring my harsh, cold tone. But I don't want to. I don't dislike , I just don't know her well enough to be discussing this with her, if I don't even feel comfortable telling Gale about it, then why would I want to tell her my deepest, innermost thoughts and feeling about it? "No, don't be silly Katniss, you haven't tried the new cake recipe yet! Oh, where are my manners? I was so engaged in our little discussion there that I forgot to invite you in! Come on in."

She opens the door further and smiles reassuringly in a welcoming, almost comforting way and I relax just a little as I step tentatively inside. "Actually, as much as I'm sure I'd enjoy your baking, I came here to speak with Peeta. Is he around?"

What I've said brightens her features even more. "Oh, of course, dear. He's upstairs, probably painting. Go on up and don't mind me milling around down here, I'm just cooking supper before his brothers and father get home from the bakery. I better make a start, they get home in just over an hour…" She says, starting to turn to walk away but turning back to me after her first step away. "It was lovely to meet you properly, I can see that fire behind your beauty even stronger up close," she adds thoughtfully.

I smile genuinely at her words. "Thankyou," I say solemnly, the same way I said it to Cinna when he transformed me from a pale, simple, bland, shy girl to a fiery, radiant, bold, rebellious Goddess. She nods with a smile and I make me way carefully up the large staircase, it's very similar to my own. His house only has slight differences in décor to mine that are hardly noticeable.

I have no idea which room is his, but I hear someone humming quietly in one so I knock quietly. The door opens and sure enough, it's Peeta. "Katniss!" Peeta exclaims, a paintbrush falling from his hand to the floor. He breaks into a huge grin, enveloping me gently in his arms and I return his embrace without even thinking about it.

"Peeta," I say, realising my voice is heavy and tearful. It's the same way I said it when I saw him amongst those rocks… He releases me and stares at me in concern.

He shuts the door to offer me a sense of privacy and make me more comfortable. I know he understands, because instead of asking if I'm okay, he says: "Katniss, I've been trying to visit and call for days… I hear you, every night. It really does kill me. But you're here now and that's all that matters. And I'm always gonna be right next to you, you never have to be alone, you know. Your pain is my pain."

I nod, because it's true. Before I reply, I glance vacantly around the room, my eyes scanning briefly over the tidy, large bed, other door leading to a walk in closet, another door that I assume is a bathroom and an additional one that's open, but I don't know what's in that room. I wonder, then I realise it must be his art room. That explains the paintbrush; he was painting when I came. Of course he was- that's his escape. Mines is hunting, being in the woods with Gale.

Then my eyes rest on a painting on a wooden stand across from his bed, against the wall; and I gasp in horror, I can feel my eyes widening significantly despite the stinging of my tears. Then another, then another. The first one is of us at the Tribute parade holding hands, on fire.

Fair enough, that's something to be proud of. It might make him happy, proud or more at ease but it only reminds me of the glares we'd receive from the Careers afterwards, especially Cato. Glimmer didn't seem amused at all, either, I must have looked prettier than her or something. Not that I care or ever did. Clove was glaring right through me and Cato looked like he wanted to kill us then and there, but Marvel didn't seem too fussed. He was never the sharpest tool in the box anyway, let's face it.

The second one was the Cornucopia bloodbath, and I shudder, it brings back the horrible images of little kids lying motionless and limp, having their necks snapped or being stabbed and left to bleed out in the dirt for the whole of Panem to see- including their family. That was horrific.

The third and final one is the one that truly gets me, it's the finale.

It's obviously from his perspective and viewpoint, I can see me on the other side of the Cornucopia scrambling backwards from Cato, clearly panicking because there's mutts about to tear me into shreds only a few feet from me, probably the most skilled killer that was in that Arena with us advancing on me, armoured with a heavy sword who despises me, an injured Peeta lying several feet away, almost motionless- and, well, my life was just really just hanging in the balance at that point, wasn't it?

It mostly focuses on the mutts and the detail on them is pretty impressive, I have to say.

There's Foxface with her fiery ginger fur, Glimmer with her golden, heavily textured fur and piercing green eyes, there's Clove and her eyes are so dark and hate-filled, they may as well be black. I can't see Thresh because by this point I must have already killed his mutt, I remember shooting it before we started fighting to the death. Then there she is… It's Rue. I feel the tears beginning to form in my eyes and the memories will flood back if I don't avert my eyes from his work.

I realise Peeta and I aren't escaping the horrors of the Games by hunting and painting pictures of the people we killed. How stupid and naïve was I to believe hunting in woods very similar to the Arena's woodland would distract me from the Games? Using a wooden bow to kill animals much like I used a silver one to kill kids, how would that offer me any kind of relief?It logically shouldn't. And it didn't, in fact, it sent me teetering even closer to the edge.

So if doing that with my best friend of years can somehow send me into hallucinations and a breakdown of some kind, driving me to eventually throw my sister into a wall- then how can painting painfully detailed pictures of the worst, most horrific parts of the Games help Peeta heal or sleep at night? It's beyond me. Worse yet, he's placed the completed ones right across from his bed! Where he sleeps!

Just before I open my mouth to ask him what all this is about, I swear my heart skips a full beat. There's a smaller painting on his bedside table. It's not the Capitol, it's not children killing other children, it's not children trying to kill us, it's worse than all of them combined. It's me.

I'm lying on the ground with what's either a sword or spear wound in my chest that's causing blood to spill all over my clothes. I've been attacked by tracker jackers, too, there's lumps all over me. I turn my attention to Peeta, eyes wide and horror-stricken. "Why?"

His expression is unreadable, but I think it's apologetic. It seems to be a mixture of sadness and regret, too. "Katniss, you remember those three moments, don't you?" he asks, motioning subtly to the three paintings I saw first.

I nod slowly.

"And you have nightmares about them," he said, it was more of a statement than a question, but I nod again anyway, since I'm too horrified, confused and stunned to speak.

"I used to, the first few nights we got back. Then I decided to do something about it, to find a way to help myself. To heal. So, I painted them, the worst moments, to remind me they already happened, so I don't have nightmares. To remind me we won, we can try and momentarily put those memories behind us until the Victory Tour. When I realised they already happened and they ended with us both surviving, the nightmares gradually stopped almost completely," he explains carefully.

I say nothing and avoid his gaze. I understand, I suppose. He's found a way to heal. This is his way. I'm ashamed to actually feel a sharp pang of jealousy, realising he's found a way to heal that actually works and I haven't. But that feeling fades away at his next words.

"They almost stopped. I began having worse nightmares. It wasn't me being killed. It was you. In countless different ways. Usually at the hands of the Careers, occasionally of the tracker jackers and once, at my hand," he continues, and I can't supress a shiver at the last part. "So I dealt with it in the same way. I painted a picture. But this time, instead of convincing myself it had happened and I'd gotten through it, I had to convince myself it didn't happen and I wouldn't have to go through it. Not then, now, or ever. I don't want to lose you, Katniss. Not in my dreams or in reality, not ever," his tone gradually softens.

Much like earlier with Gale, I don't know how to reply, so I don't. Instead, I just wait for him to either move onto a different subject or continue talking about his paintings. But he does neither, forcing me to respond.

I change the subject, it's too tiring to think about- how he doesn't want to lose me and he may or may not love me and he may or may not care about me more than he cares about himself. "What about the first painting?" I ask thoughtfully, and I'm genuinely curious. "That wasn't exactly horrifying, was it? It was a moment of hope."

He smiles wistfully. "I painted that to remind me it did happen. Not that I'd ever forget it."

I feel an unfamiliar feeling. Butterflies. Butterflies in my stomach. And I smile before I can stop myself. So does Peeta.

"Because, like I said, I don't want to forget," he adds.

"Neither do I."