Chapter Thirty-Seven: Pumpkin Spice
"Love, they tell me. But love doesn't bring and never has brought happiness. On the contrary, it's a constant state of anxiety, a battlefield; it's sleepless nights, asking ourselves all the time if we're doing the right thing. Real love is composed of ecstasy and agony."—Paul Coelho
Peeta kisses the top of my head before heaving a sigh and leaning his forehead against mine. As his hands slide down the length of my arms and begin to lace our fingers together, I pull back slightly to search his face.
He seems tired and troubled and full of uncertainty, with dark circles beneath his eyes and a stress wrinkle etched deeply between them. A knot of guilt tightens in my chest in knowing I'm the cause of his apprehension, and there's nothing I can say or do to make it any better. Apologizing at this point is redundant and leaving isn't an option. His involvement in this isn't something I can change or erase—only regret.
For now, the only thing we can do is stand here in silence, pondering the severity of the situation as we pretend not to hear the muffled, disjointed sobs of Mr. Mellark on the other side of the door.
"What's going to happen?" I finally ask. "I mean, now that your dad knows everything. What do you think he's going to do?"
Peeta furrows his brows and sucks in a breath at my question. When he parts his lips to speak, my gut twists unpleasantly as I anticipate what he's possibly about to say—that his dad is turning us in to the police, that we can't stay here, that it isn't worth the danger.
Instead, he shrugs before mumbling, "I really don't know, Katniss. No more than you do. He insisted on seeing your mom the moment I mentioned how sick she was. We didn't get to discuss anything after, and he didn't really say much at all when I was explaining things before that, either."
I retrieve my hands from his, nod curtly, and cross my arms over my chest as I fix my gaze unblinkingly upon the floor. My eyes are prickling with the threat of tears, and I know that looking at Peeta, trying to speak, or even being touched by him at the moment will result in some sort of embarrassing emotional outburst. Every part of me wants to fall apart, and it's taking all the strength I have to keep myself pulled together.
"There's no chance in hell he's going to tell Coin and Snow where you are if you're worried about that," Peeta reassures. "He's really pissed at me for not telling him anything until now, though—and I say that lightly. You know, with just finding out about my mom and their falling out… and now this. But please don't think he blames you for anything—"
"Why wouldn't he blame me, Peeta? All of this is my fault!" I cut him off, my voice shaking the more I try to keep it steady. "When he asked me to work at the bakery I highly doubt he expected it to bring such misery to your family or to put you in danger like this! If I were your dad, I'd want me as far away from you as possible right now."
After a short pause, Peeta replies flatly, "You know what, Katniss? You're absolutely right. Everything is entirely your fault." My heart immediately jumps into my throat; the shock of his agreement leaves me feeling as if I'd just been smacked.
What he'd said is the truth, but it's still heart-shattering to hear him acknowledge it. When he reaches out and begins to lightly graze my cheekbone with his fingertips, I flinch and fight the urge to smack his hand away. However, knowing I have nowhere else to go and can't afford an argument with him right now, I merely purse my lips and remain as rigid as stone as he continues.
"It's completely all your fault that my mom is a manipulative, abusive witch and ran over me. You totally had everything to do with your mom marrying a psychopath who disabled her and tried to kill you. Coin obviously was going on your orders to run a corrupt station since before you were even born—"
Relief pours over me as I note his reprimanding sarcasm. He shakes his head as if exasperated, and though he's trying to convince me not to be, I only feel guiltier for having irritated him.
"Of course no one blames you for any of this. It's not your fault what's happened, Katniss! It's not your fault that people hurt you. It's not your fault that people you care for get hurt. Surviving isn't something to apologize for, and neither is asking for help. I hate that you always think you're not worth saving or protecting or that you have to face any of this alone. You see what's going on in that room between our parents? That is the very picture of regret. The worst case scenario isn't danger or dying or being arrested, it's playing it safe and living with the consequences—living with yourself—when someone you love is lost and you know you could've done something to prevent it, and I think my dad fully understands that right now."
Peeta's face is completely flushed, his jaw keeps clenching, and from the trembling, adamant tone of his voice, I have no doubt that he means everything he's saying.
His blue eyes are dark and intense, with tears on the brink of spilling down his cheeks as he looks at me. I have an impulse to reach up and wipe them away—so I do; I move my hands to the sides of his face and sweep my thumbs beneath his bottom lashes. His eyelids flutter shut as he places his hands on top of mine and, after a moment, he brings them to his lips to plant a multitude of little kisses on my knuckles.
"I never want that to be us. I never want to feel that sort of grief when it comes to you," Peeta whispers strongly before stepping closer and wrapping his arms around my waist. I shut my eyes as he leans down with the intention of kissing me, but I only feel his breath against my lips as he whispers, "I love you, Katniss, and I'm not just saying words. Please don't underestimate how much I'm willing to prove it."
"I don't want you to prove anything," I chide dismissively. "You've already done way more than you should for me."
"I haven't even gotten started yet," Peeta counters with a short, sad chuckle. "Proving to you that you're loved is a constant battle, and I'll never surrender."
I start to reply but I'm stopped almost immediately by the feel of his lips upon mine. A startled whimper escapes my throat, but I reciprocate without a second thought. It's much better to find relief in a kiss than it is to cry, after all. It's nice to just feel for a moment—to be out of my head and lost to the millions of worries that reside there.
All too soon, however, Peeta pulls back and with a wistful sigh and a sorrowful look, tucks a tendril of hair behind my ear as he murmurs, "Anyway, I guess we'll talk more about what we'll do when Dad is composed enough. He said something about talking to Haymitch tonight, but I'm not sure how he'll feel after all is said and done with your mom, or if Haymitch will even be available to come over. Regardless, I should at least call soon and inform him that you're all still alive."
"For now, at least. And just barely," I mumble as I absentmindedly fiddle with a blue pearlescent button at the top of his flannel over-shirt.
"And the more you talk like that, the more you're allowing them to control you from a distance. Stop letting them have that power, Katniss. They don't deserve it," Peeta admonishes sternly, lifting my chin to meet his weary gaze. "They're going to pay for what they've done—and hopefully very soon. Eventually, this will all just be a bad memory. I promise."
I want to tell him that he can't promise things like that, but instead of arguing the point and creating unnecessary tension, I simply give a half-shrug and nod in reply. Beneath the mask of assurance he's wearing for me right now, I know he's just as terrified and uncertain as I am though.
After exchanging forced smiles that don't come near to reaching our eyes, Peeta decides to call Haymitch and give him a heads-up about everything. He makes his way to his room for a bit of silence since Prim has the TV a little loud, and invites me to come along to listen if I want. I begin to follow him down the hall, but halfway there, an overwhelming mixture of anxiety and dread washes over me like ice water, stopping me instantly in my tracks.
Like angry hornets, a dozen worst-case scenarios swarm around in my head—such as Haymitch backing out because of the danger involved in the situation, or the FBI deciding against their pursuit of Coin. An intense feeling of impending doom settles within my chest, and I'm suddenly unable to breathe. Everything begins to spin and I feel unbearably nauseated—which, aside from the stress, is probably exacerbated by the fact that my stomach isn't used to having so much food in it. Bile rises into my throat, and I don't even have time to explain or excuse myself before I duck off into the hallway bathroom.
Luckily I manage to close the door behind me and sprint to the toilet before vomiting most of the delicious food that Peeta worked so hard to cook this morning. Afterwards, I just sit in the floor and allow myself to cry, feeling horrible in every way. Not only am I consumed with guilt for being weak and wasting food by throwing it all up, the impact has caused my ribs to start throbbing with excruciating pain again, and though there isn't anything else to empty from my stomach, dry heaves sporadically keep coming against my control. I take deep breaths to calm down and, after a few minutes, my stomach finally settles itself.
Sitting here now, I can think of a thousand things I could have done differently. I should have put up a fight in the woods so Snow would have shot me. I should have let him kill me right then and there instead of prolonging the ordeal and allowing the possibility of casualties. That or I should have shot him a few more times when I had the chance or at least rolled him over the cliff to make sure he was really dead. Hindsight is always 20/20, though, isn't it?
What Peeta had said about underestimating how far he'd go to 'prove his love' also keeps replaying in my mind. The thing is… I don't underestimate it. I wish I was overestimating, actually. Love is like a double-edged sword; it can be the greatest strength that keeps you going in the face of adversity—it gives you something to fight and live for, but that very love can also be your greatest weakness and the weapon that inflicts your demise. I don't want him getting hurt, or worse, killed because he feels some sort of need to prove his devotion to me.
Finally, I stand up and walk over to the sink to splash some water on my face and gargle some mouthwash. As I do so, I take a quick glance in the mirror and grimace at my reflection; I look like pure hell.
My face is red and puffy, and my eyes are completely bloodshot. Peeta's going to know I've been in here crying as soon as he sees me, and it'll make me feel even worse when he tries to make me feel better… because he can't. As optimistic and well-meaning as he is, nothing can make this go away—and it's not his fault nor his duty to make it so.
After spending a good twenty minutes in the bathroom, I gather my composure and reluctantly leave with the intention of finding Prim. I realize I've been so caught up in my own distress that I've completely neglected the fact that she needs me now more than ever. I make my way to the living room, but she's not sitting on the sofa, watching TV, as I'd expected her to be. There isn't a variety of other activities she could be doing, so I walk to the kitchen, assuming where I find Peeta, I'll also find Prim—and I'm correct.
Peeta is mixing something with a giant wooden spoon as Prim watches him earnestly, her cheek propped lazily upon her palm. I'm a little taken aback to see him cooking, since only a few hours ago, he'd made a breakfast so indulgent it could've easily fed me and Prim for an entire week or so if we were still living with Snow. I can't help feeling greedy for eating so much, especially when I didn't help prepare or pay for any of it, and knowing that I just vomited so much food into a toilet, it seems wasteful to eat again so shortly after.
On the contrary, turning down food that someone has already gone through the trouble of cooking for you is also extremely wasteful, not to mention rude, and I'd hate for Peeta to think his food made me sick.
"You're cooking again?" I ask as I sit down at the table. I'd meant to come across as slightly teasing, but from the way Prim cuts her eyes at me and subtly shakes her head, I realize it sounded more like a statement of disapproval. "I'm just saying, I think we still have a mountain of leftovers from earlier that could last us an entire week," I add with a shrug.
"I'm not cooking, I'm baking," Peeta states in a factual manner. He doesn't even bother to look up at me as he continues to mix the contents of the bowl with vigor. "Pumpkin spice cookies to be exact. October is only a couple days away, and these are one of our biggest sellers at the bakery during the fall. I figured I'd get back into the practice of making them— and Prim offered to help decorate."
"Not complaining or anything, it just seems like an odd time for it," I reply as I cross my arms on the table and lay my head down on them to watch. "You know, to be doing something so ordinary when God only knows what Snow and Coin are up to right now.""
Whatever's going to happen is going to happen whether or not Peeta makes cookies, Katniss," Prim says, raising her eyebrows pointedly at me and shrugging before turning her attention back to Peeta. I give her a hard look and a sarcastic thumbs up, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Anyways, remember what Mary Poppins said? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down. Cookies won't make the bitter stuff go away, but at least it'll make things a bit sweeter until it does."
At first I'm confused by Prim's casual mention of Mary Poppins, wondering if she'd merely been parroting something Peeta had told her. Realization quickly dawns, however, that it was one of the movies we'd watched when we stayed in his basement. I can't help feeling a bit saddened by the fact that the majority of Prim's happy childhood memories will be forever tainted by the horrific events that surround them.
"How very insightful, Prim. Medicine is supposed to eventually make you feel better, though. This situation is more like swallowing rat poison and calling it sugar," I respond dryly.
Peeta stops mixing and smiles at me as he brings a spoonful of cookie dough to my lips. Though it smells delicious, and I'm sure it tastes that way too, my stomach recoils at the thought of eating anything at the moment, so I lean back with a slight grimace and an apologetic shake of my head.
"Sorry. I'm sure it tastes amazing, Peeta. I'll eat some later. Right now I just… don't have much of an appetite."
"No need to apologize." Peeta shrugs and hands the spoon over to Prim, who takes it without a word and begins to nibble at the cookie dough as if trying to make it last forever. I lay my head back down on my arms, and when I glance up at Peeta, I notice he's staring at me in concern.
"What are you looking at?" I snap self-consciously.
"You," Peeta answers. "Are you feeling okay? You look a little fevered."
"Oh no, I hope you're not coming down with what I just got over! I felt horrible," Prim interjects with a dramatic shudder.
She promptly places the wooden spoon down on the table and, with a sympathetic look on her face, makes her way over to me. Before I can object, she starts to soothingly rub my back—which, admittedly, does make me feel better, so I close my eyes and give a small moan of approval.
"You can go lie down in my bed if you need to," Peeta offers, but I shake my head.
"No. I'm fine," I reassure. "Just worried, but that goes without saying."
"Well, if you need—"Peeta begins to reply, but stops mid-sentence and finishes with a slow and breathy, "Hey Dad…."
I immediately sit up straight, my gut tightening and my heart racing. I watch with bated breath as Mr. Mellark takes the seat across from me, looking haunted and dazed as he sighs and places his head in his hands.
The room falls silent with anticipation as we wait for him to say something—anything, but for the most part, he seems speechless. I can't say I blame him; I understand how devastating it is to remember how vivacious my mother was in her youth, only to be presented with the lifeless shell she's become. Even though I've had years to adjust, it's still tough to accept; I can only imagine how shattering it must be for Mr. Mellark to be hit with this all at once.
I avert my eyes away from him after a moment, not wanting to be rude or disrespectful for staring too long, and glance over at Prim who is sitting next to me, looking down at her hands where she keeps fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. I then look over at Peeta chewing nervously on his bottom lip as he places balls of cookie dough on a metal tray, his brows drawn together as he takes tentative glances at his dad every so often.
"How long…" Mr. Mellark finally starts to speak, but his voice—weak and raspy—cracks mid-way. He clears his throat and leans back in his chair as he wipes at his bloodshot, tear brimmed eyes. "How long has she been… like that?"
"Years," I answer shortly.
"Long enough. Maybe she can get better, now that we're away though," Prim adds in a tiny yet determined voice. "I think it's possible, if we help her to remember things."
Mr. Mellark nods slowly, his face pensive and somber as he stares down at the table again. From the far-away look in his eyes, it's apparent that he's not really seeing anything at all, though.
"I hope so, Primrose," he replies after a moment, looking up at with her with a small, sad smile. "I'll certainly do all I can to help, now that I know. Maybe I can bring some old photos and home videos? I can also tell her hundreds of stories from when we were young. I don't know if it'll do much, but… it couldn't hurt to try, right?"
I don't know what to say so I simply nod and remain silent. I don't want them getting their hopes up by being overly optimistic. Mom's been like this for so long that recovery almost seems impossible.
Almost. I admit that lately, with her brief glimpses of lucidity—such as the moment we shared on the cliff, I've also wondered if it's possible that her condition can be helped with time and proper care. On the other hand, I'm also not naïve enough to believe she could ever be 100 percent as she was before; that would be expecting a miracle. Still, a mere 10 percent improvement would suffice if that 10 percent returned her ability to recognize and remember us again.
"I think it's a good idea, and even if it turns out it doesn't help her, I'd still like to see and hear all those things," Prim states, her voice just above a whisper. I'm a bit astonished by the familiar way Prim is talking to Mr. Mellark. Then again, I remind myself, she has spent more time with him, one-on-one, than I have, such as the evening Peeta and I had our first date. "Mom's been this way most of my life… it's hard to remember her being any different. She doesn't really remember me, either. Sometimes she'll mention me, but she thinks I'm still a baby."
"I'll be sure to bring them over then, if only so you can have them. I've got everything I need up here." He points to his head. "And in here." He points to his chest. "I don't need those old things to remember because I've never forgotten." Mr. Mellark gazes at Prim with a mixture of sorrow and sympathy as he assures her softly, "Just remember: it's much more her loss that she can't remember you. If there's one reason for her to get better, it's just so she can witness the wonderful young lady you've become, Primrose. You too, Katniss."
Prim and I both mumble 'thank you' in reply, but I can't think of anything else to add. The thought of seeing pictures and video of my mother when she was happy and healthy fills my gut with such a heavy hollowness that I almost feel as if I'm going to be sick again.
While I'm happy that it might give Prim answers to the many questions she has about the mother she barely knows, to me it'd be the equivalent of being haunted by a ghost. It'd be painful to be reminded of how lively, loving, and beautiful she was in the past only to be forced to correlate her with the tragic, desolate stranger she's become. Perhaps it might be seen as rude, but—unlike Prim—I plan on avoiding these bittersweet mementos at all costs.
I glance over at Peeta, who catches my eye and nods with a wink before picking up the tray of cookie dough and heading to the oven.
"How did she even get like that? I mean, was it gradual? Did it happen overnight?" Mr. Mellark stops and takes a deep, ragged breath, his brows knitted together as he shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I know things have been really rough for you girls. I don't mean to make it worse by asking about your mom. I'm just... trying to make sense of everything."
"Things got really bad after she married Snow. He hurt her all the time, forced her to take drugs… she was always crying…" I answer quietly, my voice trembling as much as the rest of my body. "Losing the baby was the thing that really pushed her over the edge, though. She just kind of gave up after that and hasn't been the same since."
"She had a miscarriage?"
"Well, she gave birth, but he didn't live long. He died from internal injuries," I explain, hoping he won't ask for details about how he got those internal injuries. "It happened within a year after my dad died... and I'm pretty sure the pregnancy was the only reason Mom got married. The whole thing was rushed. From what I remember, she didn't even wear a dress when they went to the courthouse to sign the marriage license."
"She was pregnant before she married him?" Mr. Mellark inquires hoarsely, his eyes narrow and contemplative as if trying to solve the answer to a difficult riddle. "By how many months?"
"I was really young then so I don't know exactly, but I think she was around 2 or 3 months. Basically she got pregnant, married Snow, lost the baby and then her mind. And now here we are," I reply slowly, wondering why he'd be concerned about something as trivial as how pregnant my mother was when she married Snow.
There's nothing anyone can do to change the past, and nothing good can come from dwelling on all the dreary details of it. Besides, right now, I'm more worried about the present and the people who are consciously aware of the situation we're in.
Peeta puts a lid over the bowl of remaining cookie dough before coming around the table and stopping behind me.
My cheeks burn and my body stiffens when he places his hands on my shoulders and gently squeezes them as he leans over and plants a small kiss on the top of my head. When he finally walks away to take a seat, I glance anxiously over at Mr. Mellark, but from the far-off look on his face he appears to be deeply lost in his own thoughts. He seemingly hadn't seen Peeta's open display of affection towards me or he simply isn't fazed by it.
The silence is thick as Mr. Mellark releases a long breath and leans forward, placing his elbows on the table and covering his face with his hands. He then rubs the center corners of his eyes as if trying to rid a headache—or, I realize, wipe away any forming tears before they have a chance to fill his eyes. It's odd to see someone as jovial as Mr. Mellark as distraught as he is. I find myself wanting say something to make him feel better, but there really isn't a bright side to any of this—so instead, I just continue to sit awkwardly and say nothing.
"I called Haymitch, by the way. He said he'd be able to come over after dark, around 8 or so, if you wanted," Peeta informs. "He wouldn't say much on the phone, but from the tone of his voice I think he might have some kind of plan about how we should handle all this—said he wanted to talk to us early tomorrow if we can't tonight."
"Tonight's fine," his dad replies as he steeples his hands and rests his chin upon his fingers. "The sooner the better." "I'll send a quick text and let him know then," Peeta says, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone.
"In the meantime," Mr. Mellark suddenly stands up, runs a hand through his hair, and rubs his eyes again as if trying to regain his composure, "I'm going to head back to the bakery real quick to pick up some clothes and things, and then stop at a store to buy an air mattress. The study here looks big enough to fit one in—"
"What?" Peeta asks, evidently taken aback by this revelation. "You're moving in?"
Mr. Mellark gives him a weary look and a nod that says everything that needs to be known without a word having to be spoken. However, he still answers with, "Of course I am, Peeta. You're only 17—"
"Almost 18—"
"And, still, far too young to be dealing with this on your own. When I cosigned the lease on this place for you, I was under the impression that it was only going to be you living here. As unsafe as it is right now, and with Iris the way she is, there's no way in hell I'm going to look the other way and leave you guys alone here to handle everything. Like I said before, when it comes down to it, if worse comes to worst, you let me take the fall for this."
"Whatever," Peeta concedes with a loud exhale. "Be careful that you're not being followed on the way back."
"That's a given, son, but thanks for the advice," Mr. Mellark says, arching an eyebrow.
"I'm just saying, if they came by the bakery earlier to inquire about your tire tracks, they probably plan on watching you like a hawk to find out if you're hiding Katniss, Prim, and their mom," Peeta says. "Seriously, watch your back."
"The inquiry about the tire tracks was more than likely just a ruse to intimidate me," Mr. Mellark replies with a dismissive shrug. "I'm pretty sure they need much more evidence than tire tracks to arrest me or get a search warrant. Besides, I'm skeptical if there even were any tire tracks left after the heavy downpours we had all last night— it'd be highly unlikely, at least. In any case, they didn't stick around for long, and they didn't ask me to come down to the station. If they follow me, there's not much they can do once they reach the gates anyway."
"Still… just be careful."
"I'll give you a call before I head back, both from the bakery and the store. If anything out of the ordinary happens here, be sure to let me know, okay?" Peeta closes his eyes, his jaw clenching as he nods in reply. "I'll be back as soon as possible. Keep the door locked after I leave and don't answer for anyone until I'm back—"
"But what about Haymitch?"
"Well, you can let him in, of course. I should be back far before then, though," Mr. Mellark answers before walking out of the kitchen.
Peeta, Prim, and I sit in silence until we hear the front door open and close as he leaves. "Well, this took a turn I didn't expect," Peeta says dully.
"Really?" I ask, giving him an incredulous look. "Please tell me, what you did expect about all this?"
"That's a fair point," he says with a shrug as he stares down at the table. "I know he's right, about moving in, how there's strength in numbers and all that. It's just going to be… weird."
"How?" Prim asks before I can. "You lived together before and work together all the time. I thought you two were pretty close?"
"We are… but then we aren't. It's hard to explain," Peeta replies. "And, yeah, we lived together, but it was a big house and I usually spent all my time in the basement and he usually spent all his free time at the bakery. It's just going to be a little odd living together in such close proximity. Especially with you living here, too," Peeta nods towards me.
"Why?" I ask a bit defensively, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Well, for starters, it's going to be a little awkward when he sees you sleeping in my bed—"
"No, it won't be. Because I'm not going to," I state quickly, my cheeks heating up. I look away from Peeta and shrug, but I can feel his eyes on me—and Prim's as well. "I don't think it's appropriate for me to be sleeping with you when your dad's here. I don't want him getting the wrong impression."
"What? That you're my girlfriend, I love you, and I sleep better with you in my arms?"
"You know that's not what I mean," I counter, rolling my eyes. "The last thing I need right now is a sex talk with your dad. The reports of my death would come true if that happened… because I'd die of embarrassment."
"Trust me, my dad is not about to give you a sex talk, Katniss. That'd embarrass him far more than you. To this day, the only thing he's ever even said to me about the topic was giving me a box of condoms on my 15th birthday, telling me to wrap it up if I'm going to do it, and basically running out of the room afterwards," Peeta replies with a snort. "If it makes you feel any better, he likely assumes we already have."
"How in the world would that make me feel better, Peeta?"
"Because it'd be kind of pointless to discuss, not to mention extremely uncomfortable for all involved. He was young at one time, too. He knows that once you start, there's no going back—and you won't want to. Setting strict restrictions will only lead to sneaking around, and knowing my dad—and the situation we're in right now—he'd likely just pretend to be oblivious," he replies in a matter-of-fact way before adding with a shrug, "It still wouldn't make it any less awkward, though."
I stare at him in surprise, unable to form words for a moment. Sure, we've made-out a few times - sometimes very intensely; just yesterday, in his car, I ended up being completely naked , with him touching me in the most intimate, pleasurable ways possible.
Although I'd put a stop to things going further, it's safe to say that if he'd been persistent enough, I probably would've done anything he wanted. Knowing this fact scares me a little. It's unnerving how Peeta can so easily penetrate my defenses and, from the way he's talking, he's perfectly aware of it too. He thinks that when things progress between us I'll never say no to him… that I'll even sneak around to be with him. I can't help feeling rebellious and indignant at his implication.
"Have you two…?" Prim starts to ask, wiggling her eyebrows as her mouth tugs up into an impish, curious grin.
I look at her with wide, scandalized eyes and shake my head, "No, we haven't. Not that it's really any of your business, Prim." I then turn back to Peeta, who is biting his lip to keep from laughing, and narrow my eyes at him as I state icily, "And if you have any plans for that to happen soon, prepare to be extremely disappointed. I'm definitely not sleeping with you, in any sense—especially with your dad around. End of discussion."
His smile instantly flat-lines and changes to a frown as the mischievous sparkle dulls in his eyes. "You know I didn't mean anything—"
"Well, you know what I did mean, and I meant it!" I retort, cutting him off. "Now can we stop talking about this? Prim shouldn't even know about these things."
"I already learned about it all in school," Prim states with a roll of her eyes and an indignant sigh. "I'm not a baby, Katniss."
"I really didn't mean to offend you," Peeta says, his face wistful and apologetic. "Honestly, I don't mind where you sleep, as long as you sleep well, and I don't expect anything out of you. I just want you to be happy, okay?"
"Happy," I scoff with a short, bitter laugh. "I don't even remember what that feels like."
Even as the words spill out of my mouth, I'm aware that it's cruel of me to say. I basically just told Peeta I've never felt happy with him, or if I ever had I didn't remember it. My hands are shaking and my heart is thumping wildly against my chest, and I know I'm overreacting, but I can't bring myself to take the words back.
After a moment of silence between us, he stands up and mumbles, "I need to check on the cookies," while purposefully avoiding looking at me. Prim nudges me with her elbow as he walks away, and when I turn to her, she shakes her head and gives me a stern, disapproving look before nodding in Peeta's direction and mouthing 'you hurt his feelings', and when I shrug, she mouths 'say sorry!'
I close my eyes and clear my throat, fully intending to do as Prim suggested and apologize—instead, however, I stand up and walk briskly to the bathroom, shutting the door loudly behind me.
I sit down on the toilet and place my face in my hands. Why did I do that? What is my problem? Not only did I hurt Peeta's feelings by lashing out at him over an extremely petty reason, I take the coward's way out and lock myself in a bathroom instead of saying sorry. However stressful the situation with Snow and Coin is, it's no reason to take it out on him.
After a couple of minutes, I stand up and take a deep breath in an attempt to build my determination and go apologize. I walk over to the bathroom door, but as soon as I put my hand on the doorknob, a knock comes from the other side.
"Katniss? Can we please talk?" I hear Peeta's muffled voice.
I quickly unlock the door and open it, but when I catch Peeta's eye and begin to walk out, he places his hands gently on my shoulders and pushes me slowly backwards into the bathroom. Confused and curious, I watch in silence as he shuts the door behind him and turns to me with raised eyebrows.
"What?"
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice shaking as his eyes search mine. With a slight shrug, he licks his lips and continues, "If I've ever made you feel pressured or unhappy—"
I shake my head and take a step forward, holding my hands up for him to stop.
I place my palms on the sides of his face and look him in the eye as I state with conviction, "Never, Peeta. Anything that's happened between us, I've wanted just as much, and you're one of the few things in my life that makes me happy. I'm just… beyond stressed about everything right now, wondering what Snow and Coin are up to and I'm really sorry I lashed out at you." Although it still feels foreign to say and even more so to hear myself say it, I whisper quickly and quietly, "I love you, you know."
With just those three words, it's like watching ice from the coldest day of winter melt from Peeta's face and be replaced by the sun on the warmest day of summer. The twinkle returns to his eyes as he gives me the sweetest, most genuine smile.
"I love you, t—" he starts to reply, but he doesn't get to finish because my lips won't let him. As we kiss, my hands slip beneath his shirt and begin to trace circles on his lower back. For one short moment, I just want to forget everything horrible that's going on and lose myself to the feeling of being alive while I still can. And I know with Mr. Mellark moving in, moments like this won't be easy to come by.
Pulling away slightly for a moment, I ask against his mouth, "What's Prim doing right now?"
"Decorating cookies. A whole entire dozen of them. Should take a while," he answers before capturing my lips again.
In an instant, Peeta and I are showering each other with a flurry of quick kisses, but they soon slow down to form one long, sensual kiss that causes warmth to pool between my legs and pleasant shivers to race down my spine. I moan into his mouth as I lose myself to the delicious taste of pumpkin spice on his tongue, and when my back makes contact with the bathroom counter, our mouths never part as he picks me up and sits me on top of it.
He parts my legs and stands between them as I wrap my arms around his neck and hook my ankles together at the base of his back.
His hands glide up my thighs, to my hips, and a startled gasp escapes me when he cups and squeezes my backside. With a deep groan that emanates from his chest and transfers to mine with a tickle in my belly, goose bumps on my skin, and a dull throb between my legs, he scoots me closer to the edge of the counter so our lower bodies can touch more intimately. The hard bulge in the front of his pants is prominent as he thrusts his hips forward against me. In reply, I roll my hips up to meet his, and soon an almost frantic rhythm of friction builds between us.
Our breath has become loud and labored, our hearts beat fast and hard against our chests, and not a thought fills my head besides how much I want him to touch me like he had before. I want to feel that beautiful, pleasurable release he'd given me in his car.
So when our swollen lips part for a few seconds of air and our bodies slow, I begin to trail open- mouthed kisses along his cheek, his jaw, his neck, and his ear before finally murmuring into it, "Peeta… can you…" I hesitate with a sigh, wondering if I should be so bold.
"Yes, anything," he replies with a kiss to my neck, his fingertips trailing up my bare midriff. "Just ask."
"Touch me?" I whisper against his ear, thankful that I'm not looking straight at his face. "The way you did before… in the car…"
Almost immediately, he undoes the top button of my pants and pulls down the zipper beneath. I can hear the smile in his voice as he answers with, "My pleasure."
"Maybe I'll see to it," I suggestively tease, completely red faced as I lift my hips off of the counter so he can remove my pants and underwear. I feel overwhelmingly self-conscious and I find myself avoiding his eyes, or even looking down to see what he's doing. I'm not sure we should be doing this, or if it's even the appropriate time for it considering what's going on, but... I don't really care. I need a distraction—we both do—and… I just want to feel good right now; I want pleasure to conquer the pain.
I close my eyes and lean back onto my elbows when I feel his fingers start to caress me below. I purse my lips and bite them to keep my moans and sighs as silent as possible. It becomes nearly impossible, however, when he inserts one of his fingers inside of me and eventually adds another, pumping them faster and faster as he continues to massage the sensitive nub above it with his other hand.
My lower body moves with his hands against my volition, and I get so enamored with his touch that I'm taken aback when he leans over and captures my lips. It takes no time at all, however, to get lost within the pumpkin spice heaven of his mouth once more.
As he pulls away, I lean my head back with a groan before murmuring hoarsely, "I love the taste of your kisses."
"Is that so?" he replies, sounding a bit playful. I nod as he lifts my shirt and trails kisses down my midriff. While his fingers still move slowly within me, the other hand leaves the sensitive little bud and moves up to envelop one of my bra-covered breasts. His fingers move faster inside me again as I feel his fingertip flick across the sensitive nub, again and again, very quickly. Except… this time it feels different than before, it's much more powerful. In fact, it makes my whole body shudder involuntarily and a slight, pleasurable tickle has me wanting to both shut my legs and open them wider.
The pressure that had been building in my abdomen quickly comes to a head and explodes with an intensity I'd never felt before. Aloud moan escapes me as shockwaves of pleasure ripple throughout my entire body. I quickly cover my mouth with my hand and open my eyes wide with alarm, hoping Prim hadn't heard me. It's only then that I realize Peeta's hand is still cupping my breast, and that it had been the whole time.
Confused, I glance down to find Peeta smirking up at me, his face between my legs.
I immediately try to close my legs and cover myself with my hands before asking with narrow, suspicious eyes, "Did you just…?"
He winks at me and answers, "You love the taste of my kisses, and my kisses love the taste of you."
"Ugh! That's so gross!" I shake my head in disgust as I jump off the counter and quickly put my pants back on. "I can't believe you'd do something like that! What if you get sick, huh? How are you going to explain something like that to your dad?"
"I very highly doubt I'll get sick, Katniss," he dismissively replies with a small chuckle.
"It's not funny, Peeta! It's disgusting!" I state, feeling mortified beyond belief. Why in the world would he even think to do something like that?
"I beg to differ," he says, raising his eyebrows pointedly as he plops a finger into his mouth and begins to suck on it. When I realize it's one of the fingers that he'd just had inside me, all I can do is stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes and shake my head. He steps closer, but I move back just as much. There is no way in hell I'm letting him kiss me after that. "Katniss, I assure you, it's not as weird or taboo as you're probably thinking. In fact, it's a pretty normal thing. Couples do it all the time," he explains with a slight shake of his head, looking thoroughly amused at my disgust.
"Couples? Which couples then? Name one," I challenge, arching an eyebrow. "And, anyway, how would you even know? Do you watch them?"
Peeta scratches his head and just as he's about to answer, his phone begins to ring. I watch as he retrieves it from his pocket, looks at the caller ID, and says, "It's Dad," before answering and exchanging only a few words. When he hangs up, he shrugs and tells me, "Just letting me know he got to the bakery all right."
I nod as I awkwardly cross my arms and mutter, "We should leave now. Prim's probably wondering why we're taking so long in here, and you already ruined the moment anyway."
"I won't do it again unless you ask me to, okay?" Peeta assures with an earnest smile.
"Trust me, I won't," I scowl.
"I've just… heard most girls like it, so I thought you might too. In fact, you really looked like you were—"
"Even if it felt good, I'm not very fond of kissing a toilet, Peeta!" I mumble haughtily, unable to look him in the eye as I make my way to the bathroom door. "Also, I'm not kissing you again until you brush your teeth—and even then, I'm not so sure."
"Duly noted. Anyway, this toilet of yours needs to take a quick shower," he says with sheepish smile, which strikes me as a little odd after everything that just happened between us. He then holds out his cell phone to me as he informs, "Here's my phone. If my dad calls just tell him I'm in the shower, okay?"
I step forward and take his phone without a word, and when he leans down to kiss me, I promptly cover my mouth with my hand, giving him an icy glare as I shake my head in disapproval.
"Sometimes I forget how pure you really are," he says with a small laugh as he sits down on the edge of the bathtub.
"Yeah? Well, sometimes I forget that you can be a condescending jerk," I retort.
"I wasn't trying to be—" He shakes his head with a groan and starts over. "I only meant it as a general statement, Katniss, not as an insult or anything negative. If anything, I meant it as a compliment—"
I open the bathroom door to leave, but before I do, I reply to his 'general statement' by showing him the middle finger on my right hand.
When I see Prim in the kitchen, I take a deep, steadying breath and try my best to appear as though nothing out of the ordinary just happened. It's easier said than done, however, because my face is as red as a tomato, and there are still little tremors coursing throughout my body from what Peeta had done to me.
I'm in a state of confusion and curiosity: I'm appalled by what had happened, of course, but it had also felt more amazing than anything I'd experienced in my entire life.
Peeta had reassured that it was a regular thing that all couples do, even seemed amused by my shocked reaction— which, admittedly, made me a little more perturbed about the whole thing. It's not a secret to him that I know very little about sex and all the little details it entails; mostly I just let my body react on its own accord and take cues from Peeta's reactions about what makes him feel good. So why in the world would he just spring something as weird as that on me without any sort of warning? It's not just the fact that it seems so unnatural, but it also doesn't seem like it'd be healthy or sanitary, either. If he got sick because of doing something like that to me, I'd feel horrible, not to mention extremely mortified if someone like Mr. Mellark found out about it.
Without a word, I sit down at the kitchen table and watch as Prim paints different things such as happy faces, stars, and hearts on the pumpkin spice cookies. They smell absolutely amazing; I find myself craving them after tasting Peeta's kisses.
"I heard you guys totally not having sex in the bathroom, just so you know," Prim states in a deadpan voice without even looking up from the cookie she's currently decorating. "I was going to knock on the door to ask Peeta where the other nozzles were since this stupid piece of junk decided to crack on me in the middle of decorating." Prim points to a broken plastic icing nozzle laying on the table and shrugs. "You guys sounded rather busy, though, so I came back in here and figured it out on my own."
"Peeta and I were not doing that," I indignantly reply, taken aback by her bluntness. "We were just talking about… things."
"Yeah, if by things you mean thing, and that thing is attached to Peeta's body—"
"Stop being nasty!" I snap. "Also, you have no idea what you're talking about so just shut up."
"I'm younger than you, but that doesn't make me stupid," she snorts and glances up at me knowingly. "And it's not like I'm judging you or going to tell anyone or anything. I just thought you should know that the bathroom probably isn't the best place for it, at least if you don't want to be obvious. The counter makes little bumpy-squeaky sounds against the wall, and… well, you're not exactly the quietest, you know, and the bathroom echoes. I figured you'd rather hear it from me than Mr. Mellark."
My cheeks are so hot they feel as if they could burst into flame at any second. Prim seems to have her mind fixed on what she heard between Peeta and me, and I don't know how to convince her of the truth because without context, that's probably exactly what it sounded like on the other side of the door.
Hell, even with context, what we were doing was far from innocent. So instead of defending myself and continuing a circular argument, I abruptly stand up and grab a cookie from the tray.
"Well, I'm off to spend some time with Mom. Ironically, she seems like the only sane person around here today."
Surprisingly, when I enter Mom's room, she's sitting up against the headboard with a smile on her face, seemingly content with staring at nothing at all.
I quickly climb into bed beside her and wrap my arm around her shoulders. Resting my head lightly onto hers, I retrieve her hand and open her palm face up so I can place the pumpkin spice cookie into it.
Slowly and gently, I fold her fingers around it before coaxing it to her mouth in an attempt to get her to eat it on her own. Instead, she leans her head forward to breathe in the scent of it. I watch with curiosity as she closes her eyes and smiles, as if the smell has brought a wonderful memory into her mind. It's at times such as these that I truly wonder what she's seeing.
After sniffing the cookie for a few minutes, she suddenly takes my hand and brings it to her stomach. Placing my palm flat onto her bone-thin abdomen, she lays her own hand over mine and explains with genuine elation, "He's kicking now! Do you feel that? That little kick, kick, kick?"
I feel nothing but skin and bone, but I nod anyway as I remove my hand.
"You need a football in there, baby boy," she says to her stomach, her tone noticeably more dejected as she continues to lovingly caress her flat belly.
I suddenly have an overwhelming feeling of déjà vu, and it takes me a moment to realize that this same exact thing actually happened years ago when she was pregnant with my brother. She was around 4 months along, and she had only just married Snow about a month or so before. The abuse was just beginning then, but it was nowhere near to what it'd eventually escalate into.
I remember Mom would go from extreme moments of happiness and excitement about the baby to secluding herself in a room and crying herself sick, and while it could've been from a mess of things such as hormones, uncertainty of her marriage, and missing my father, these dramatic ups and downs were frequent, daily occurrences and they'd happen in the blink of an eye.
While my mom occasionally acting out moments of lucid memory isn't anything new, they've usually always been from before she married Snow or before my dad died. This is definitely something new for her, and I'm not quite sure what to make of it. I don't know if remembering things after Snow, such as being pregnant with my little brother, will prove to be a good thing or not.
The rest of the afternoon goes by uneventfully.
Then again, I opt to stay in Mom's room to avoid Prim and Peeta, and more inevitable embarrassment. Peeta only comes into the room once to get his cell phone after his shower, assuring me with a hint of amusement that he brushed his teeth as he leans over and kisses me on the forehead.
I'm still annoyed with him and disgusted by what he did, but I can't really find it in myself to be angry with him. After he leaves again, I decide to take a small nap to get my mind off of everything, and I wake a little while later to Mr. Mellark coming into the room with a big cardboard box.
"Sorry to wake you," he whispers apologetically as I sit up and rub my eyes. "I'll just sit this in here and come back later—"
"No, it's fine. I should be awake anyway," I say before yawning and stretching my arms. "Is that the pictures and stuff you were talking about earlier?"
"Sure is," Mr. Mellark replies as he places the box down on the floor. Frowning and furrowing his brows, he glances down at my mom sleeping, and sits softly on the edge of the bed. He takes her hand in his and rubs his thumb over the top as he quietly says, "I don't know what's more painful, to know she doesn't remember the things I could never forget… or to realize it's mostly my fault that she's forgotten them."
"It's not your fault at all," I reassure strongly, surprised that he'd even think to blame himself for my mother's condition. "It's Snow's fault. He did this to her, not you. You weren't even there. You had no way of knowing what was going on."
"Exactly," he says, giving a small hollow laugh. "I should've been there. I should've known what was going on. I just…" He closes his eyes and slowly shakes his head. "I should've done everything different."
"Mr. Mellark?"
"Avory," he corrects with a slight, sad smile, and raises his eyebrows at me. "This isn't work, dear. And even there, it's still Avory."
I nod timidly and start over, "Avory?" He nods his head for me to continue and I avert my eyes, my hands shaking as I ask, "You and my mom, you used to be good friends, right?"
"We were best friends," he affirms with nostalgia in his eyes and a smile curving his lips. "We were inseparable. She lived next door and, for a long time, we were the only two kids on the block. Even as teens, we did everything together."
"What happened? I mean… why did you guys eventually drift apart? If you don't mind me asking," I whisper curiously, feeling as if there's a piece to the puzzle I'm not getting. If they were so close, how could they just go for years without talking, without wondering how the other is? I mean, I'm not the absolute closest to Gale, but I could never go years, or even months, without wondering about him.
As I think this, my stomach fills with sudden dread.
Until now, I was so worried about the people directly in front of me— mom, Peeta, Prim, Mr. Mellark—that I didn't even think of how Gale and his family might be affected by this.
I close my eyes and try to put it from my mind. At this point, there's nothing I can do about it anyway.
"Life." Mr. Mellark answers quietly. He swallows hard and shrugs as he continues in a trembling voice, "And death, and marriage, and babies, and work. Before you know it, so much time has passed and so much has changed—"
He doesn't get to finish his sentence, however, because at that moment, Peeta appears in the doorway and announces, "Haymitch is on his way up."
When all the greetings and formalities are dealt with, Haymitch asks to see my mom—which, for the most part, he seems unfazed about— and afterwards, we all proceed to the kitchen and sit around the table.
Before he explains or offers an opinion on the situation, he asks—or rather, demands— me to tell him about everything that happened last night. After I tell him all I can remember, with Prim adding some details I'd forgotten, he then proceeds to ask rather nosy questions about the way we lived and what I know about Snow and Coin, which honestly isn't very much, and other seemingly random things.
About an hour passes as he continues to ask us questions, and it isn't long before I become extremely impatient. We asked him to come here to give us some answers, after all, not the other way around.
"So can we get your opinion on some of this, or did you only come here to ask things?" I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms as I sit back in my chair.
"Sure, here's my opinion," Haymitch flippantly states with a shrug as he takes a pumpkin spice cookie off a plate in the center of the table. "I don't think he was really going to kill you."
"And you know what my opinion is about your opinion? I think you can shove it up your—" I heatedly begin, feeling indignant and offended at basically being called a liar. He wasn't there. How the hell can he say that? I notice Mr. Mellark looking at me from the corner of my eye, and quickly decide against finishing what I was going to say.
"Kindly untwist your panties and let me finish, sweetheart," Haymitch retorts. I purse my lips and narrow my eyes disdainfully at him, but I wave my hand for him to continue. "Right. As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I don't think he was going to actually kill you. I think he wanted to scare you into believing he would, and it seemed to work pretty well. But if he really wanted you dead, he would've killed you a long time ago."
I snort in disbelief as I keep my eyes unblinkingly fixed on the table.
"So why didn't he?" Prim asks, her voice so quiet it's almost a whisper.
"Because he had an incentive to keep you guys alive. Well, at least until you turn 18," Haymitch answers, his voice slightly laced with excitement as he leans over and opens a tattered old brown briefcase he'd brought with him. He thumbs through some paperwork and retrieves a couple sheets before turning back to us with a smug smile on his face. He hands the sheets of paper over to me, stating, "I think this is a pretty good reason why."
"What is this?" I frown as I look down, not fully understanding what I'm seeing. It's obviously from a bank, and there is a bunch of numbers, but I have no idea what it's supposed to mean.
"Bank statements," he answers simply as he leans back and takes a bite out of a cookie. "More specifically, though, they're you and your little sister's savings accounts."
Peeta quickly leans over, his eyebrows drawn together as looks down at the paper in my hand. When he sees the balance number, he inhales deeply and whispers, "Wow."
Prim and Mr. Mellark stay in their seats, but they're both looking over at me with curiosity. I'm sure my eyes are as round as quarters, and I find myself momentarily speechless. This has to be some sort of mistake.
"But… I never knew… this can't…." I start, unable to string a coherent sentence together. I take a deep breath and look at him skeptically, "So you're saying this balance right here, this is real money that will be mine when I turn 18? This isn't old or a joke or anything? This is actually real?"
"That's what I'm saying," he reassures with a nod. "All 118,592 dollars and 65 cents will be yours when you come of age. Maybe even more if interest is added onto it by the time your birthday rolls around."
Prim's mouth drops open and she immediately grabs the papers out of my hand to see for herself. The money in her account is less than mine, with a sum of $89,934, but it's still far more than either of us could ever dream of having. I feel as if I'm in a dream or something; this is too surreal. This can't be real life. These sorts of things… they just don't happen. Not to me, anyway. All these years, we've lived in filth and poverty and to even fathom having this sort of money… it just seems utterly bizarre.
"How in the world is there so much, though? I thought Snow spent all of our dad's life insurance money…." I ask slowly.
"Your mom only kept 20% of the life insurance for herself and put the rest into your savings accounts. Apparently when you two were born, your parents opened the accounts and put money in them every time they'd get paid, so there was already a substantial amount before the life insurance money was added to the pot. Your dad knew the job he had was risky, and so he took out multiple policies… which obviously added up to quite a bit," Haymitch explains in a matter-of- fact tone.
"I wondered about that," says. "Iris and Vance were always very conscientious about the girls' futures. It makes sense that they'd set up savings accounts for them."
I listen to everyone else carry on a conversation, but I say nothing. I feel numb and overwhelmed all at the same time. I hold my breath and close my eyes to keep tears from welling up in them. I don't want to cry here, not in front of everyone. When I feel Peeta's hand cover mine under the table, it takes all the effort I have to keep my composure. I flip my hand and place my palm against his, entwining our fingers and giving his hand a little squeeze to let him know I'm okay.
"So if we make it through all this, I have enough to go to college?" Prim asks, her voice full of awe and hope and childlike wonder.
"From the looks of it, more than enough," Peeta answers confidently. "And you will make it through this."
"What about my mom, though? I have no doubt Snow wanted her dead last night," I ask, seemingly taking the conversation of money off course as the thought pops into my head.
"That's because he probably did want her dead—and he wanted you to do it. My guess is that he was planning to blackmail you if you'd actually gone through with it. He would've forced you to tell people your mom abandoned you or something, making you completely at his mercy. Then, come birthday time—cha-ching and buh-bye! Basically, he saw you as a dollar sign. At best, he saw you as an obstacle. Once he got that money out of your hands, you would've either run away or had a tragic accident," Haymitch explains as if it's the most logical thing in the world.
"Why did he keep my mom alive all this time then? Why did he choose now to do this?" I ask.
"Oh, lots of reasons," he states with a shrug, grabbing another cookie from the plate. He takes a bite, chews, and swallows before continuing, "He wanted to keep you scared and helpless—he wanted you to see what he'd done to your mom and fear he'd do it to you or your sister. He also knew you'd feel inclined to take care of your mom and wouldn't readily abandon her, because unlike him, you have a conscience. Also, like I said, I think he planned to use her as blackmail against you. There are a ton more reasons, but the gist of it is that he could use her as leverage against you."
"But…" I pause and bite my lip for a moment as I try to gather my thoughts. My mind is racing in a million different directions with questions, and I don't know where to even begin. "If the incentive to keep us alive was our savings accounts, why did they stage our deaths? Why not just track us down or report us missing?"
"That's a really good question," Haymitch says, drawing his eyebrows together in contemplation. "Honestly, I don't really have an answer for that yet. I have a few theories, but nothing solid. It's possible life insurance is involved, but it's unlikely. At least, it wouldn't add up to what they could get if you were still alive. On the other hand, they could be doing this as a ruse to get you out of hiding, to say you're alive and find out who helped you…" He sighs heavily and rubs his chin, his eyes narrowed as he wonders out-loud, "Or maybe it could be something I haven't even thought of yet, maybe something gone wrong on their side of things. It's definitely something I'm going to try to figure out, though."
Everyone's quiet and solemn for a moment as we contemplate what a potential motive could be for reporting us dead. With the amount of money in our accounts, the only motive I can see for reporting us dead is if they actually thought we were dead.
"So how do you suggest we go about this situation?" Mr. Mellark asks, breaking the silence. "I know a hospital isn't really feasible right now, but do you have any suggestions about what we should do about getting Iris some sort of medical care?"
"I was going to have Madge come over and check her out as soon as she can," Peeta replies quickly. "If you remember, she just graduated with a nursing degree last year. I figured she might be able to do something that could help."
"That would be some help, at least it's something for now, but she really needs to be seen by a professional doctor. We need to know the extent of her condition, and how we can help her get better," Mr. Mellark says, looking troubled.
"Here's what I need you all to do," Haymitch announces, his voice strong and serious. "As painful as it might be, I need you two to write down all the things you've endured and seen over the years. Every threat and every time he hurt you, your mom, your sister, or the family pet. Hold back no detail you can think of that can be held against them, no matter how small you think it might be."
He pauses and raises his eyebrows at us in question, and we nod in reply.
"Second of all, I need pictures taken of any scars, scrapes, bruises, and any other visible injuries he's inflicted on your bodies. Lastly, I need you to both state on video what you've gone through, specifically what happened last night. Hold up a newspaper or something to show the date. Let the FBI know you're willing to testify as a witness in return for protection.
I'll then send everything to the FBI, which I'm hoping will speed up the process of getting them arrested, and if everything goes as planned they'll put you all in a witness protection program until that happens. That means you'll be provided with around the clock guards stationed in the building and all your medical needs will be attended to—physical and psychological. As it is, the FBI already has a crazy amount of things against them. They're just waiting to strike when the time is right, I guess."
"The time was right a long time ago," Peeta dryly remarks.
"What other things do they have against them?" I ask hoarsely, my throat dry and my hands shaking.
"Well, for starters, this town has a remarkable lack of crime. Do you know why that is?"
"Bribes? Blackmail?"
"Basically. They make a huge profit in drug sales, and while they dabble in producing their own, they also do it by going through the users to get to the dealers. They make deals with the users, offering drugs or amnesty for names of dealers. They take down the dealers, only using a portion of the drugs seized for evidence—enough for a felony charge—and hoard the rest for themselves, therefore eliminating competition and also gaining profit with little effort. They then recruit the small time dealers, or the lower tier of the pyramid so to speak, by giving them a percentage of money or drugs depending on how much they sell. Most choose to sell in the big cities so they don't draw attention to themselves, or this town in particular."
"I also know from experience that they'll subtly threaten to ruin your business if you don't give them free things," adds Mr. Mellark. "It pales in comparison to what you said, but it's just another layer of corruption—and they do it to basically every business owner in town. It's been going on for years."
"Exactly. I haven't even scratched the surface of all their corruption, and I'm sure a lot of it is better off not being known. Anyway, the FBI is currently compiling evidence a mountain high against Coin and his little gang, and it's only a matter of time," Haymitch says.
"So when do you need all this stuff?" I ask, my stomach full of dread. I don't like the idea of testifying against Coin and Snow, but I don't see any other choice in the matter. This situation isn't exactly in my control anymore, not that it ever was.
"As soon as possible," Haymitch replies. "The sooner you get it done, the sooner I can turn it in."
"I'm going to try to get everything done by tomorrow evening, at the latest," I state with determination. "I want this done and over with as soon as it can be."
Haymitch nods and looks down at his watch with a heavy sigh. He then stands and picks his briefcase up as he says, "Well, I'll plan on stopping by around the same time tomorrow then, and hopefully I'll have more answers for you. If anything changes, you have my number."
He shakes hands with all of us and gives a salute before turning to leave.
Peeta and Mr. Mellark start to follow him to the front door, but I stay where I am, feeling completely dumbfounded by everything. Though Haymitch can be rude and pompous at times, I still feel as if I should say something to show my gratitude for all he's doing for us.
"Haymitch?" I suddenly ask as he reaches the kitchen doorway.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"Just doing what I'm getting paid to do, sweetheart," he replies.