When memories hurt,
more than they heal,
when life is a mystery,
when pain isn't real.
When the past comes up,
and bites you on the face,
when with each passing breath,
you are losing the race.

A/N--Hey guys :). I want to thank all my reviewers :). 25 chapters, guys, and very nearly 200 reviews!!! Yayy for Peeta. Yayy for 'The Truth'! Here, you will find out a little more truth, and a few more lies. Let me know what you think, as always :).

Here's a shout out to 'camuslover' & 'hpfreakerster' & 'LovelyMidnightSpark' for loyally reviewing. You guys have awesome reviews that always make me smile :). Thanks so much!!!

I don't know how much longer this story is going to last. I feel like we're getting pretty close to the end, but at least a few more chapters, and maybe a lot more. It depends on you and Peeta!

Disclaimer--NOT MINE! I mean, do I really have to tell you 25 times that this stuff belongs to Ms. Collins, not me?

Enjoy :)!

Everything will be okay. I tell myself. They will all come back. This will go away. But it's a wasted effort. I know what's going to happen. Maybe the Capitol won't kill them, maybe they'll just make them Avoxes. Cutting out their tongues and reducing them to a life a silent servitude. It's not a comforting thought. But neither is that which tells me I will never see them again, no matter what happens to them. My family is gone to me, now, and there is nothing I can do about it.

It smells like iron and salt--blood. Not realizing why at first, I look around, blurry-eyed, trying to find the source of the gore. Then I realize. It's my lips, the inside of my cheeks, my gums. I've been nervously biting down so hard that I drew blood. I have bitten my fingernails down to the quicks. It's odd, because Katniss is usually the one with the bad nervous habit of biting at her body, not me. I spit into the carpet a couple of times, spewing blood everywhere. It brings a strange sort of selfish satisfaction to know that I am messing with the Capitol, if even in a small, small way.

I don't know how long I sit here, staring at the bloody carpet, before someone opens the door. It is a peacekeeper, one of the ones that I don't recognize. A new shipment must have come in from the Capitol recently, sometime just before my house burned down. "You need to leave now, Mr. Mellark," he says, and I nod, but don't move. "Mr. Mellark. I'm terribly sorry, but you can't stay here any longer. You need to leave."

I stand up, not really comprehending the action, walk to the door, pass the peacekeeper by without saying a word. "Have a good evening, Mr. Mellark," he says as I disappear down the hallway.

I pass quite a few people that I recognize, and even more that I don't. They all offer words to me, whether they be a 'good evening', or an 'I'm so sorry'. I don't respond to any of them. My feet drag as I walk through the halls and make my way out of the Justice Building. It sickens me to even think of ever going in there again. The place where I said goodbye to myself once before, and now to my family. At least when I went away from them, I actually told them goodbye. At least they had each other. But not me, I'm alone in this. I feel like I will always be alone.

"Peeta!" A voice calls from somewhere behind me, momentarily breaking through the haze of regret and remorse, and if I'm being honest, self-pity. "Peeta, wait up!" I turn around, but it's too dark to see anyone. Outside, under the stars, or at least the ones that I can see. Not much of a moon tonight. It doesn't give off enough light for me to see more than ten feet in either direction. Whoever is yelling for me is farther away than that.

I keep walking. It can't be important, anyway. Not much could still be important to me, after what I've just witnessed. I keep replaying the image in my head. My family, lined up in front of the firing squad, Matza's face twisted in a snarl of defiance. My father's head hung in shame. None of them able to look me in the eye. I hear the guns, in my head. They fire again and again, and no matter what I do, I can't shut them off. They are muffled through the cloud of my brain, but they are still loud enough to give me a headache.

"Seriously, Peeta, stop." A hand clamps down on my shoulder, but I am beyond fear at this moment. I turn to face the body that is attached to the hand. It is Gale, standing by me, his hand on my shoulder, his eyes sincere and worried. It breaks through my shell, a little, seeing someone like Gale being actually nice to me, when he has no reason at all to be. "Are you okay?"

I mouth the words back to him. Am I okay. No. I don't feel okay, I feel broken, damaged, beyond repair. Beyond any kind of help. I don't even think Katniss will be able to fix me now. I shake my head, and it feels like I'm trying to move it through something sticky, like syrup, rather than just the air.

"Look," he says, hesitantly. "Let me get you home. Or...wherever you want to stay tonight, okay?"

I look at him, not able to answer for a minute or two. But I know where I am staying tonight, and it isn't going to be my house in Victors' Village. "The bakery?" My voice sounds so small and weak. But I don't even have the incentive to feel ashamed for showing Gale this part of me. It just doesn't matter anymore. Not anymore.

Of course I'm lying to myself a little bit. Some things still matter. Katniss and Prim, for one. Haymitch still matters to me, if only in a strange, small way. Portia, she matters, and Cinna, although I don't know him very well. And Gale matters, despite the fact that I have to actually remind myself not to hate him, he still matters to me. More than just because he matters to Katniss, and the domino effect. But he actually matters to me, Peeta, for reasons that I can't really comprehend, but are there nonetheless.

We walk to the bakery in silence, and when we arrive, he goes in silence, disappearing into the night from which he entered. And I am alone, with my poisonous thoughts and wretched memories. I want Katniss to be here, holding me. I want Prim to tell me that everything is going to be okay, but to tell me in a practical, honest way, that lays out a plan in order to make it that way. I even want Gale to come back, so I'm not alone anymore.

I walk into the kitchen, looking around at the cakes and loaves of bread, half frosted, half done, halfway ready to be displayed. Some part of me snaps off from the rest, and without realizing why, I start cleaning up. Not putting stuff away, but finishing what was being worked on when this place was left to itself. I finish frosting the cakes, making intricate designs that Matza would not be capable of. I finish slicing bread, or displaying it just so on the plates, making it look appetizing. Then I sit the new stuff in the store window, moving the day-old bread to some shelves farther back. That is where the cheap stuff is kept. I move the really old bread and cakes back to the kitchen, sitting them in cabinets where they won't be seen, because no one wants bread that old. That is the bread that my family and I had to eat before I won the Games. I eat some now, remembering, and living in those memories.

"I want some real bread!" Matza complains. I nod my head, but am not really into it. This is real bread. It tastes fine, exactly like it's always tasted. Challa hits Matza on the back of the head.

"You're old enough to stop complaining about it by now!" He hisses at him. They start at it, and I watch, munching on my hard piece of bread. It tastes fine to me, exactly like it's always tasted. Exactly like it will always taste. This is the way that things are for me, for my family. Exactly fine. Always, exactly fine.

I'm young, and I get joy out of watching my brothers fight. Just like I get joy out of watching my mother tell them to stop, and my father tell her to "Let boys be boys." He winks at me, smiling.

I smile back. Here, now, I smile back to my father, who has always loved me and my brothers more than we probably deserve. And he still loves us, and he will love us until he's no longer here. But for now, I can smile at him, though he will probably never know that I am sitting here, in his kitchen, thinking about him when he is somewhere other.

Maybe seeing the Capitol and all their folly will scare Matza straight. Maybe it will make him worse, or maybe it will have no affect on him at all. I can only wait and see. And hope. Hope that I will see him again, that he will love me the next time.

I start to actually clean the kitchen, now. Wiping bread crumbs into a bag, washing off the counters. Picking up plates and knives, cleaning up the frosting smeared all over the place. Sweeping the floor. I put the flour away, and the sugar and other various ingredients that go into baking. Then I take the bag full of bread crumbs out back, and dump them into the pig trough. The pigs snort at me happily. I offer them a faint smile, wondering what they are thinking. Probably 'food, food', or something to that effect.

It's so dark out. I don't want to be alone in the darkness right now, so I go back inside, flipping light switches on and off as I walk past their reach. I go upstairs, where Matza, Challa, and I used to share a room. It just belongs to Matza and Challa now, and if they don't come back, then I guess it belongs to just me.

Challa or Matza, one or the other, has shoved my bed into his, making an extra big bed for himself. Assuming that Matza is the one who did this--Challa's really not the type to want more than he has--I take the other bed, the small one. It is soft, and comfortable, and smells like the past. The sweet, easy past, where I didn't worry about nearly as much, and my family was right beside me every step of the way.

The past before Katniss, who I really don't think I could survive without, now that I've had a taste of what it's like to know her, really, really know her. I will never go back from that. But I'll never go back from being a family, either. Being unconditionally loved. At least, from my father. Obviously, there were a few conditions to Matza's love, but that doesn't matter right now.

Most of my recent life seems to be passing by with me either catatonic or asleep. But there is nothing else to do right now, but sleep. Because the memories hurt more than they help. And I don't want to live in the past. I want to move forward, to a future without loss and suffering.

I sleep, with the thought of freedom burning its way into the backs of my eyelids.

A/N--well? Review!!! Let's see if we can pass 200, shall we? Thanks :D!