Chapter 1: You Came Home
My life has fallen into the rut of a routine monotony since coming home from house arrest in the Capitol three months ago.
I basically feel like I'm still under house arrest, especially with only a drunken neighbor across the street, in a Village that now boasts some of the only standing, structurally sound buildings in the entirety of the district. But I can't say I necessarily mind it – house arrest, self-imposed exile…. whatever one calls this limbo, is a damn time better in your actual home.
Even if there's not much home left.
Everything in District 12 is so quiet. Eerily, ghostly quiet. I've had enough noise and action to last me a lifetime, but still, after three months, it is starting to grate on my nerves.
I like the solitude, yet I don't like the quiet. My brains and my emotions are still a layer of contradictions at best, a jumbled mess at worst.
Or maybe it all makes sense and no one has bothered to tell me.
Every day is the same: I wake up, screaming from a nightmare more often than not, and pad downstairs in my sprawling, and now decidedly empty mansion in the Victors' Village. I feed the cat, Buttercup – I still have no idea how he managed to traverse through the wilds beyond Thirteen and make it all the way back to Twelve. He may be a mangy beast, but I still make a point to give him as much love as I can, even if I feel like I have none to give. Even now, I feel sorry for how I abused and screamed at him the first night I found him in my house, waiting for Prim.
Prim. Prim, who will never come home…
I then cook myself a meager breakfast. I am talented enough in home ecc so that I know how to prepare the basics, at least when the fridge is stocked. When the fridge is empty, I have to call the Capitol to arrange for a new food shipment to come in by hovercraft. The skies are the only way into the district still, planes having to land on the Meadow …. where all the bodies are buried…. because everything beyond the Village is still bombed out and probably even contaminated with lingering effects of radiation. The railway lines leading into Lucy Gray Baird train station have all been torn up, according to my mentor; Haymitch did some reconnaissance across Twelve with some toy gadget of his – he called it a "drone," when I saw him fiddling with it out on his back lawn and asked what it was for.
Sometimes, if the cupboard is bare and I can't get through to the Minister of Agriculture (some guy named Hoover), I don my daddy's hunting jacket, string up my bow and go out into the woods to hunt.
It took me several weeks before I got the courage to venture back out beyond the fence. I finally did it mostly because I need to keep my skills sharp. The fence itself is hardly an impediment anymore – there are several collapses in the chainlink where the barrier was clearly just flattened by the firebombs that were dropped here after the 3rd Quarter Quell.
Here, amidst the trunks that, though gnarled, are finally starting to sprout some greenery again, I can appreciate both the solitude and the silence. Be comforted by it. When the sun is starting to sink in the sky, I head back across the Meadow, trying not to retch at even the brown mounds of earth where the land was disturbed to dig the mass graves. I don't know who completed the burials, and I only vaguely know when: it was during the war. President Coin had sent in a sweep team to search for possible Twelve survivors. None were found. 35 people were sent out to conduct the post-mortem; only 25 came back.
My evenings are spent curled up on the couch, Buttercup lounging next to me, watching holoTV. I only perk up during the news bulletins where something is mentioned about Twelve – last night, it was reported that any lingering effects of radiation are mostly gone from most of the districts, and of the remainder (Five, Nine and Twelve), the radiation has been isolated into one area through aerotechnology. Specially designed hovercraft are completing this task; I've heard them flying overhead, noisy, but considering my aversion to quiet anywhere except in the woods, I welcome it. Haymitch might not, but then again, for the first time in quite a while, we Victors hardly matter.
We are only District 12, population: 2. And who knows if anyone from Twelve who did survive the war will want to come back here? The media reports are saying the refugee crisis is still pervasive and urgent, people spreading out wherever they can. My mother is one such person. I try not to think about her, beyond the fact that I probably should call, despite my bitterness arguing that she should call first, if she really cared.
Besides, I have other people I'm worried about.
When I'm not hunting, taking my meals, or watching trashy Capitol soap operas on holoTV (some things don't change, even after war), I find myself curled up on the loveseat by the window, particularly on rainy days, gazing out longingly through the grimy panes. Longingly being the word Haymitch used when he stopped by one day and saw me keeping this strangest of vigils. A vigil in which I know what I am waiting for, and yet I don't know, all at once. Though Haymitch had smugly, knowingly smirked at how I was "pining" (again, his words), in his stormy-grey Seam eyes, there was sympathetic, even kind, understanding. It didn't matter; I still burst into tears and yelled at him to get out.
He's right, though. I don't know why I'm waiting, even if, several weeks on, I have come around the admitting to myself as to what I am waiting for. But Peeta is gone, and he isn't coming back. I wouldn't blame him if he didn't.
So I am in for the shock of my life when, trudging back through the gates of the Victors' Village one sunny, spring morning, that I pull up short when I see an unfamiliar figure kneeling beside a patch of dirt in the front of my house.
At first, my shocked brain tells me it must be Haymitch, but this man is too well built, his blonde hair cleaner than the drunk's. The golden strands sparkle in the sunlight. He is patting the earth down around a flower, now planted in the small plot of land that was set aside for every Victor's mansion – a garden if we chose to use it.
I have to be seeing things. Or maybe I'm dreaming a happy dream for once, and am loathe to wake up, though I ought to.
"Peeta….."
The figure responds to the whispering of the name, whispered like a prayer, and he rises, brushing the dirt on his trouser leg as he turns to face me. He squints in the sunlight, causing other parts of his attractive face to scrunch up, but he is still as handsome and strong as he ever was.
"Hey."
He looks surprisingly well. He is carrying himself strong and sure, and for the first time in forever, it seems, I see no rage or violence in his countenance. Haymitch once said that we would never get the old Peeta back, but seeing my district partner, standing here and looking healthy…. I dare to hope….
"You came home." My thrilled astonishment is making my agape mouth upturn almost infinitesimally into an amazed smile, not entirely noticeable, but my grey eyes are clearly dancing in jubilation.
"Yeah…."
An awkward silence permeates from both of us. Peeta finally breaks it, turning into himself bashfully as he gestures behind him, shuffling to stand aside a little so I can see what he's planted. "I, uh…. picked these. Out by the edge of the forest."
My gaze shifts down, orbs widening when I take in just what he has transplanted. Smoky grey meets summer-sky blue again. "It's primrose."
Hearing my sister's namesake causes me to crack, break, and I lurch forward to sag into Peeta's arms. His limbs wind about me, holding me firm and strong, and I rest my head on his shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, Katniss…." he whispers, his breath tickling my ear, and I shiver – both from the sobs that threaten to overtake me, and the happiness that he is here, with me, again in my arms. My shattered expression, capped by lips slightly, heartbrokenly, parted, lifts into a hopeful, radiant smile of relief, and I dip my head into Peeta's neck, my lips brushing the pulse point, then the hollow of his throat.
I feel Peeta's breath hitch, and I draw back, searching his eyes gently. Tenderly, I reach out to touch his face.
"When did you get in?"
"This morning. Hovercraft dropped me off by the meadow. I saw the flowers growing and brought them here. I…. I wanted to surprise you. If you're upset, I understand…"
"No, I'm not upset," I shake my head. I take his hand, lacing his fingers through mine and I start to drag him up the stone steps to my door. "Come on. Can't have you sunburned and you need to rest…"
"Katniss." I turn to look at him, trying to ignore the pang I feel when he pulls his hand out of mine, though he doesn't do it harshly. Peeta appears deeply unsure, eyes hangdog and downcast as they lift to gaze at me. "If it's all right, I think I'll sleep in my own mansion for now. Haymitch is the next door over. I…. I don't trust myself with you. To be alone with you."
With a sinking feeling that claws ice around my heart, I know what he is referring to. Still, I try to laugh it off by smiling at him, teasing, "Why, Mr. Mellark, you mean to say you're not liable to control yourself around a pretty district girl?" My voice lilts, accented, as I obnoxiously imitate the Capitol dialect I've been hearing on those daytime dramas. I sound pretty close to Effie Trinket, and have to further giggle at how affronted she would be by my making fun of her. I fan myself, a little. "Gracious! I feel as though I might faint. Such a handsome man who says he can't resist me…"
"That's not what I mean and you know it." The words are firm, but the tone in which Peeta delivers them is gentle and sad. All mirth dips from me, even as I was doing it for his benefit.
"Oh….." My face falls. "I…. I understand. Of course. I'll…. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"If I can, I'll try." Peeta's voice is wary, and even though my brain tells me he's more wary of himself than of me, my heart still wonders if it's a little bit of both. Tears glistening, I have to turn away quickly, pulling my heavy mansion door closed behind me, but I don't do it fast enough. I'm sure Peeta hears my choking sob before it slams.