Chapter Forty-Nine: A Light in the Darkness

"There will come a day I know it, When you'll love yourself as I love you. And you won't view your scars as ugly, But a tally of times you made it through."

- e.h.

I run upstairs, realizing halfway up that I've made a terrible mistake.

It's too late now. I can't turn back. He's right behind me, catching up. Soon I'll be trapped. Like a wolf chasing a rabbit into a hunter's snare - I have no chance.

I miss a step, hitting my chin and biting my tongue. My cry is a whisper, as if shock has severed my vocal chords. The scream in my head is so loud it deafens my ears, but the ragged breath is silent on my lips. I make it to the top of the stairs, finally, and run into my bedroom.

Before I can turn to close the door, a crushing blow strikes my back and I fly forward, the top of my head hitting the dresser full-force. I steady my vision as lazy footfalls draw nearer. I scramble, crawling towards a corner of the room and tucking myself into a sitting fetal position, my arms covering my head.

"I bet you're wondering how I found you…" he drawls, his footsteps inching closer.

He pauses for a moment as if expecting me to respond. I simply tuck myself tighter, knowing it won't do a damn thing to protect me. I've basically made myself into an easy, unmoving target. I want to scream, but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper. No one would hear me anyway. Everyone's gone.

Pinpricks of dread crawl down my spine as his footsteps halt right in front of me. I don't dare open my eyes to look, but I can feel his shadow looming over me like a death cloak.

"Torturing the baker and his son was pretty fun, I must say… didn't take much until they were spilling their guts. I wish you could've seen it… how they begged and cried and pleaded..." I try not to let his words get to me, try to convince myself he's lying, but bile still rises in my throat. I know better. Peeta is most likely dead because of me. Maybe death is what I deserve too. But Prim… she doesn't. Maybe I can still save her.

My mind whirls with possibilities of running, escaping, of calling the police… but there's no way. No way out. He leans down and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. I meet his eyes with fiery contempt, fighting the urge to spit in his face - only because he could snap my neck in a second.

"Nothing to say, hmmm? They don't either, not anymore." I wince as he begins to twist my braid in his hand.

But then, with the sound of the front door closing downstairs, everything stops. He looks over his shoulder. Listening. Waiting.

A grin spreads across his face at the first footfall on the stairs.

Letting out a scream, I lunge toward the door, but his hand is still wrapped tightly around my braid. I'm forcefully tugged backwards into a headlock, his forearm digging into my neck and cutting off my air supply. I struggle, grasping at his arm with both of my hands, digging my nails into his flesh. His grip loosens just long enough for me to yell, "Go away! Call the-" I'm silenced by a clammy, calloused hand covering my mouth and a tighter chokehold on my neck.

"What-" Prim begins as she swings my bedroom door open. She freezes there - blue eyes round with fright and shock, mouth wide with a silent scream.

And then my sight gravitates to the gun in Snow's hand, aimed right at her head. I don't have time to react, let alone scream. It happens in a split second.

I don't see it. I hear it - the sound of a bullet jumping to life, the sickening explosion of flesh and bone, the thud of a tiny body hitting the floor. The smell of sulfur and metal tinges the air, filling my nostrils, my lungs… I can taste it on my tongue. It envelops me, smothers me… I can't breathe.

I can't breathe.

"NO!"

The word lingers in the air as I bolt upright, my eyes wide as they dart around the room - blue walls, Peeta's painting, sunlight pouring in through the balcony glass door, my blanket discarded in a heap on the floor.

The silence is broken only by the thrum of the ocean and the call of a lonely seagull. No Snow. No Prim. No gun. No blood.

A dream.

It was only a dream.

Grabbing my blanket off the floor, I lie back down and stare up at the ceiling, taking long, deep breaths to calm my still trembling body and racing heart. My eyes catch on a single stain no bigger than the palm of my hand - dark beige, bleeding through the white that had been painted over it years ago. It's barely noticeable when the lights are on, but my gaze gravitates towards it so much when I'm unable to sleep that it's become a focal point of familiarity. I wonder how it got there, who painted over it, and if it had ever caught my father's attention as it has mine. If I look at it long enough, it seems to grow bigger, darker, swallowing up everything around it until the stain itself is lost in its own shadow.

I blink and it's back to normal - just an unwanted blemish that doesn't belong.

With a heavy sigh, I glance over at my phone on the bedside table, fighting the urge to text or call Peeta. Considering we didn't get off the phone until around 5 this morning and it's only a little after noon now, he's probably still sleeping. I hope he's still sleeping. If he's not, he's probably cleaning up what's left of the bakery or dealing with his shit-show of a family. In any case, he hasn't sent me any messages yet, and seeing how he usually does as soon as he wakes, I assume he's not up for talking yet. In any case, he has way more important things to do than comfort me over a stupid nightmare. I should be comforting him. I wish I could. I tried to last night, but... I'm not sure if I helped or made him feel worse.

The bakery. Destroyed.

The words echo in my mind, along with Peeta's defeated voice as he said them. It wasn't Snow or anyone from that crowd who did it - much to my relief, because if it were any of them then the bakery would only be a warning of worse things to come.

No, it was his own flesh and blood. His brother. Proja.

Mr. Mellark found out through the surveillance camera notifying his phone last night. They tried to call Proja, the bakery... no answer, of course. By the time they got there the damage was already done. He did everything short of burning the place down. Windows broken, shelves thrown against walls and split in half, furniture sliced, scratched, and broken.

Spray painted obscenities everywhere. Ripped open all the bags of flour and made a snowstorm of the backroom. According to Peeta, it was all caused by his mother packing up and skipping town in the dead of night, leaving a note blaming Peeta and his father for making up lies about her and tearing the family apart.

As if there was a family to even tear apart.

Anyways, Peeta is of the opinion that the bakery is dead. There's no fixing it without a complete remodel that would take a ton of money, which he thinks would be pointless. The bakery was apparently on the verge of closing anyway, and with the bad rep the town is getting lately, sales would only continue to plummet. I asked if insurance would cover any of the repairs, but Peeta said no - not without a police report. Of course, Mr. Mellark refuses to file one against his own son, blaming himself for everything.

Peeta blames himself.

I blame myself.

If I had never told Mr. Mellark about Peeta's mother, none of this would have happened. All of Peeta's problems lately can be traced right back to me. I'm surprised he hasn't broken up with me yet - it'd make his life a hell of a lot easier. It'd definitely be simpler than him moving states away, to a place he's never been, just to be with me. It'd be the logical thing to do. I'm almost afraid to talk to him anymore, because I fear he'll come to his senses at any moment and break things off. I wouldn't blame him. Still doesn't mean it won't completely destroy me.

God, this house is so quiet.

Like a tomb.

Everyone's out shopping since Prim begins school tomorrow. We were both given the choice, given our situation and what we've been through, to either go to public school or be homeschooled online. I chose the latter and Prim chose the former. I don't need anything new, nor for anyone to buy me anything I don't need, so I didn't see a point in going.

Grandma seemed disappointed and worried when I told her I was feeling sick and wanted to stay home this morning, but she didn't argue the point. Just said she was there if I needed to talk, and that I should get as much sleep as I could for tomorrow.

I don't even want to think about tomorrow.

I need to get up, do something - anything besides lying around in bed all day, moping and worrying about things I can't control or fix. I can't find the energy to move, though. And I have no idea what to do here. I still feel like a guest tip-toeing around someone else's house.

Before, I'd have so many things to do on a Sunday that I wouldn't have time to lie around in bed for half the day. I had no time to be bored and restless. The weekends were spent hunting, cleaning, and cooking what I could for the rest of the week since, during winter, the sun would set as soon as I'd step off the school bus. In between all that, I cleaned our clothes and brought in as many pieces of wood that could stack against the living room wall. Sunday was also bath day, which meant warming a ton of water. It was tough, but at least I had a purpose then.

There is absolutely nothing of importance to do here. Hell, the other day I offered to do the dishes just to make myself useful in some way, and was informed there was no need - they have a dishwasher.

Every time my grandparents look at me, I see the pity in their eyes - and something else, something like guilt and heartbreak. They do their best to mask it with smiles and gentle words, but I know they view me as damaged goods. They're afraid of making the damage worse, so they treat me with kid-gloves, not expecting a thing out of me besides 'being happy'.

If only it were that simple.

It's amazing how different the atmosphere here is compared to back home.

Home.

Though I lived there all my life, it feels strange calling it home. Home is where you feel comfortable, happy, and loved. I never felt those things in a place - only in people. Peeta and Prim aside, that town was never my 'home'. It was my prison.

I don't feel like this is my home either.

Not yet.

It's definitely not a prison, but even as I stand in front of the ocean, the sun shining brilliantly on the waves, and the temperate breeze on my face, I just feel lost. And alone. And unloved. I feel like a burden. I don't want to exist, but I don't want to die either. I just want to be nothing. Just air or light. Something that doesn't feel.

My eyes catch on a lighthouse in the distance, up on a cliff, maybe a half-mile to a mile away. I see it at night, illuminating the dark, reflecting on the fractured ripples of waves. It's been a beacon of curiosity ever since I got here, but I've never explored any further than town. I've been hesitant about venturing out, in case of getting lost. But I figure, if I just follow the coastline, it's a straight shot there and back.

At once, I put all my reservations aside and start running. I'm drawn to it. I have to see it up close, touch it. I can almost hear it calling to me. I run and run and run. I run until my lungs hurt and my legs are weak, and I run some more. It seems like an eternity before I reach it, and also as if only seconds have passed. In reality, according to the time on my phone, it's only been 16 minutes.

I rest my hands on my thighs, catching my breath as I take everything in.

To say the lighthouse is a lot bigger in person would be an understatement, as it stands well over 100 feet tall. From my bedroom balcony, it had always looked smooth - as if the entire base was one giant block of white. But now, I see it consists of large bricks of stone and cement, painted white, with two large rectangular windows on the way up until it tapers off to a black watch tower at the very top. Beside it - or rather, built into the side of it - sits a small, white house with a red roof, its exterior chipped and weathered by the elements. There's no vehicle around, nor any other sign of human life.

It's such a magnificent and picturesque scene; one I could only witness in books before and hopelessly dream of visiting someday. It's a dream come true now - and it's more glorious than I ever could have expected. It'd take my breath away if I hadn't already lost it from the hike.

I can easily imagine Peeta setting an easel up here to capture every little detail perfectly on canvas.

With that thought in mind, I take my phone out of my coat pocket again, snap a few photos, and start to send them to him with a note of 'Wish you were here' - but then I stop. I stare at the screen for a minute or so before placing the phone back into my pocket with a sigh.

Maybe later, when things aren't so complicated. I don't want him to feel as if I'm pressuring him, especially with what just happened to the bakery. For all I know, he might choose to stay behind and help repair. And if he does, no matter how much it'd hurt and make me worry, I'd have no choice but to support him - or pretend to, anyway. It's either that or risk losing him altogether.

I take a few deep breaths, pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind before they spiral. Like everything else in my life at this point, I have no control over what happens. And I'm sick and tired of crying about it.

I trudge forward, closing the distance between myself and the lighthouse. Once I'm standing right in front of it, I look up, craning my neck at its towering height. I feel as small as a speck of dust in its shadow. Placing both of my hands upon its cold surface, I lean my forehead against it and close my eyes.

And listen.

The air is alive, roaring with the echoes of the waves, protesting as they collide with the cliff wall below. Seagulls cry out in the distance, and the wind whistles softly in reply.

Following the bend of the base, I reach an old wooden door on the other side. I knock on it, not really knowing why, but the wood is so thick that the sound likely doesn't travel far. I then turn the doorknob - which, to my surprise, is unlocked. I don't open it, though. It doesn't feel right, as if I'd be trespassing. I step back, squelching my curiosity, and turn to face the ocean.

I walk over to the edge of the bluff, which is surrounded by a fence of metal to prevent anyone from slipping and falling. My hands tremble as I grip onto it, noticing how it had been painted white at one time, but has since been disintegrated to flakes here and there. As I stare down at the white spray crashing against the jagged rocks about 60 feet below, all my thoughts are drowned out. There's something peaceful in its chaos, in the roar of its anger and urgency. I've always considered myself afraid of heights, and I should be shaking with fear right now - all it would take is one little misstep or a simple push to send me hurtling to my death. Instead, I feel empowered by that fact. It makes me aware of how much I actually value life when death is only a step away.

Mesmerized, I sit down, resting my arms on the lowest bar, my grip tight, and let my feet dangle over the ledge. I close my eyes as I listen to the sea's soliloquy.

A song suddenly comes back to me, and it fills my eyes with tears. I haven't heard or sung it in years… since the end of 8th grade, in fact. The music teacher had been throwing out old sheets of music she'd never used, and I asked if I could have them. She said I could, and I filled my backpack till it could hold no more. At first, I'd gotten them for burning to get the stove going-that, or for Prim to doodle on the blank backs. A great majority of them met those fates. However, a few I couldn't bear to let go of. I memorized the words and the notes, and I'd practice singing them in the comfort and solitude of the woods.

This one was my favorite, in the most melancholy sense. I sang it to my mother nearly every night for a month or two, hoping to wake something in her.

And now I sing it aloud again, my heart never forgetting the words, even after all these years:

"Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,

Make me a child again just for tonight!

Mother, come back from the echoless shore,

Take me again to your heart as of yore;

Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,

Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;

Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;

Rock me to sleep, mother,

Rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!

I am so weary of toil and of tears,

Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,

Take them, and give me my childhood again!

I have grown weary of dust and decay,

Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;

Weary of sowing for others to reap;

Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother,

O mother, my heart calls for you!

Many a summer the grass has grown green,

Blossomed and faded, our faces between:

Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain,

Long I tonight for your presence again.

Come from the silence so long and so deep;

Rock me to sleep, mother,

Rock me to sleep!"

"And here I thought sirens were a myth," an unfamiliar male's voice comments from behind me. I jump and immediately scoot back from the edge, hastily wiping the dampness from my eyes and cheeks before whipping around to see who startled me.

A man who looks to be in his mid-twenties, with bronze hair, a deep, golden tan, and the brightest sea-green eyes I've ever seen, stands a few feet away. He places his hands on his hips as he looks out at the horizon with a sense of pride, his face set in a lazy half-smile. I stay sitting where I am, completely taken aback by the intrusion, uncertain of what to do or say.

"How long were you watching me?" I try to keep the defensiveness out of my voice, but to think that the whole time I was here, someone was spying on me... it's just a little creepy. And embarrassing. I know he heard me singing, at least, and that's mortifying enough.

He moves past me to the fence, then leans onto it with his elbows.

"A couple minutes or so," he shrugs. "I was coming down the stairs when I heard you knock. And then you were over here crying, singing a sad tune… had to make sure you weren't going to jump or anything."

"I wasn't going to..." I stop short as the implication settles in. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of ghosts sitting next to me. For a split-second I consider asking if anyone had actually done that here before - if anyone had ever died, but I quickly decide it's better not to know. And judging by the seriousness lurking behind his gentle, jesting tone, I'm pretty sure of the answer anyway. I clear my throat and try to change the topic to a less awkward one, "Are you the keeper here or something?"

"Or something," he replies, sending me a sidelong smile. "I just assist. My wife, Annie, is the keeper- well, one of them. There are three others too. They each take a week here every month. The locals call them The Ladies of the Light."

I'm struck momentarily speechless by this.

Growing up - well, actually, until this very moment, I figured you had to be a man to be a lighthouse keeper, and that there could only be one in charge at a time. Not that I'd really thought about it much. I'd just assumed.

And if I didn't know any better, I'd also assume that the guy standing before me, who looks like he could be a movie star or a male model, would be the type to play the field until he was a geriatric and finally settle, marrying someone young enough to be his granddaughter. But judging by the pure admiration in his tone when he speaks of his wife, there's no doubting how much he loves her.

"The Ladies of the Light," I repeat, almost as a question, to which he smiles and nods his head, turning around and resting his back against the fence to face me. "So... all the keepers here are women?"

"It's been like that for generations," he answers.

"Legend has it, a woman named Hannah Lewis took over here when her husband went off to war. She'd sit up in the lookout every night, searching and hoping for his return. He never did, but she and her three daughters continued to devote their lives to the lighthouse, as did their daughters and granddaughters. So on and so forth, and here we are."

"So your wife's a descendent?"

"Maybe. It is a small town," he shrugs. "Your guess is as good as mine, though - and hers, for that matter." "How'd she get the job then? Was she specifically chosen...?"

"Oh yeah. You should have seen it. The sun eclipsed, the clouds parted, and a glittery ray of light was cast down upon her in front of the whole town," he says with a far-off, dreamlike expression, his hands dramatically portraying the scene. "Then a disembodied voice whispered in the wind-"

I cut him off with a snort, and his lips curve into a playful grin. "Seriously, though."

"Like I said, it's a small town. She knew a woman who already worked here, filled out an application, and did a short internship once she turned 18. She's 24 now, and they've already gone through about 10 or so women in that time span. Most of them left because they wanted to start a family, and this isn't exactly the type of place you'd want a toddler running around - nor do you want to walk up all these stairs when you're pregnant. Plus, all outside life is kind of put on hold for the week. Annie loves every bit of it though - she'd live here full time if she could."

I nod once in understanding, turning my gaze towards the ocean with newfound purpose and hope. What he just described is my dream job. It's purposeful, it's peaceful. I don't care how much hard work it takes, how long it takes me to get here, but this is my calling. This place feels like home. It's been my light in the darkness every night that I've been here. I came here looking for some sort of answer today, and I think I've found it.

Every fiber of my being is alight with anticipation, urging me to cease this opportunity before it's out of my grasp. The words are in my throat, to ask if they'll hire me and what I have to do to make it happen, but they don't make it out of my mouth. It seems like too much to ask, especially now. I'm not even 18. I just moved to this town; no one knows me. I'd only look like a starstruck tourist.

Eventually.

Eventually, when the world around me is stable.

Then, I will ask.

"Have you been here long? I don't think I've seen you around before…" He looks at me curiously, genuinely interested. Prim's words echo in my mind 'we can be anyone we want to be here' - and it's only now that I realize how true that is. He doesn't recognize me, doesn't know what I've been through or why I'm here. Back home, I could see someone like him thinking talking to someone like me would be beneath him - or he'd tease me like the rest. But here, he only sees me as another person. Maybe even an equal. It's unbelievably liberating.

"You haven't. I just moved here last week," I say, then turn around and point to my grandparents' house, which is a tiny speck from here. "I live in that blue and white house up way over there."

He squints his eyes, looking off into the distance, before they go wide in recognition. "Ah! You live with the old Everdeens then?"

I nod, surprised he knows who they are - and also hoping he doesn't know anything about me. "They're my grandparents."

"Awesome people. They're regulars at my fish stand. They always tip." Before I can ask about this 'fish stand' of his, he asks, "So you must be... Katniss, am I right?"

My eyes widen, my chest tightens, and my heart plummets into my stomach. If he knows my name, how much else does he know? He searches my face, as if finally seeing who I really am. I want to run… but I'm tired of running. I am who I am; I am not a victim. Not anymore.

"Uh, yeah..." I answer slowly, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "How do you…?"

"Your grandma's a talker. She told me all about you," he states with a wink and a half-smile. I close my eyes and suck in a breath. My grandma has been so nice; I never took her as an awful gossip. Then again, he doesn't have the pitying look in his eyes and tone that I've experienced with everyone else so far who knows about my past. I need to know what he's been told.

"What did she say?"

"That she hadn't seen you for a long time, that you were a little ray of sunshine, and that you have a voice of an angel - which, after witnessing you singing earlier, I have to agree. Also, that you and your sister would be coming to live with them."

"Did she tell you why?"

"No," he answers, and with just that single word, my entire being relaxes. "Should she have?"

"It's not that interesting," I brush off and quickly change the subject. "So you own a fish stand?"

He nods enthusiastically, and by the pure childlike glee in his demeanor, I know I've just brought up his favorite pastime. "Sure do! I love taking my boat out onto the open water and reeling those suckers in. Making a profit is just a sweet bonus."

"I totally get that. I love fishing too," I reply, the corners of my mouth tugging up into a smile. Sure, it sucked to have to do it for survival - but it was something I enjoyed doing well before Snow came into my life. "Used to do it all the time where I'm from. I've never fished in the ocean before, though, let alone on a boat. Come to think of it, I've never been on a boat before either. Not that I can remember, anyway."

"It's pretty great. There's nothing more exhilarating than being out in the middle of the ocean, at least for me. I go out as much as I can. You can come along sometime if you want? I'm sure Annie would enjoy the company…."

"That'd be nice. I could-" I was going to say 'I could use some friends around here' but maybe that'd be too presumptuous. In any case, I don't get to finish my sentence because my phone begins to ring. I look at the screen to see it's Prim, and suddenly I'm slapped back to reality. God, I must have them all worried about where I am. "Sorry, I have to take this," I apologize, and he holds his hands up as if to say 'no problem', then gestures to the phone as if to say 'go ahead'. He turns around to face the ocean, giving me a bit of privacy.

"Yeah?" I ask as soon as I press 'accept'.

"Katniss! I was so scared! We got home and you were just... gone. Where are you?" Her voice is strained and shaky. I can tell she has tears in her eyes. I imagine how I'd feel if I came home to find her missing. I instantly feel awful. I should have at least left a note or texted someone before wandering off.

"The lighthouse. I just needed to get out of the house for a little bit. I'm fine. No need to worry. I'm on my way back now, okay?"

She tells me to hurry, that it will be dark soon, that Grandma and Grandpa can come get me if I wanted (which I tell her is unnecessary and that I want to walk). She also says that she has something big to tell me, but wouldn't say it over the phone. It's probably just something small and mundane, but it piques my curiosity all the same. After we finally say our goodbyes and hang up, the guy turns back around. My face goes red, knowing he heard everything that was said… even though there's really no reason to be embarrassed. It's not like he knows why Prim was so worried to find me gone.

"I better get going before they form a search party," I state as I stand up. "Nice meeting you….?" I internally cringe at the fact that I'd forgotten to ask his name.

"Finnick," he answers. "And likewise, Katniss. Don't be a stranger. Come back here or see me at the fish stand and we'll talk more about the boat thing."

I nod, offering a smile of thanks, feeling bewildered to have possibly, and so easily, made a new friend.

The sun is setting by the time I get back to the house. Before going inside, I have to stop and admire the rich pink, purple, and orange tones, the reflection strikingly beautiful upon the sparkling, calm water. I take out my phone and take a few pictures, saving them to later send to Peeta. I still haven't heard from him today. I'm sure he's up by now. My chest is hollow with longing and worry, but he must be busy. In any case, I have to contend with Prim first.

I trudge up the sandy hill that leads to the house, then take a deep breath before walking around front. Before I can open the front door, Prim runs up to me out of nowhere, taking me by surprise as she wraps her arms around me in a tight hug. Without saying a word, I hug her in return.

"Please don't do that again. I thought…" she trails off, her voice muffled against my chest.

"I know. I'm sorry. I should have told you where I was going."

"Yeah, you really should have," she chastises strongly, though her voice quivers.

I could easily stand here all night, apologizing a million times for how thoughtless I was, but I also need to talk to Peeta soon, so as she pulls away from hugging me, I ask her, "So what is the big thing you needed to tell me about?"

In a split-second, her face is redder than a tomato. She avoids my eyes and bites her lip, looking around to see if anyone is standing nearby. Of course there isn't. Still, whatever she needs to tell me, it evidently needs a copious amount of privacy. Without saying a word, she opens the front door and leads me upstairs to her bedroom, then shuts the door behind her. I sit on her bed, my brow knitted in confusion and curiosity. What in the world would an 11-year-old have to keep so secret?

Finally, she comes over and sits next to me. I look at her expectantly as she gathers her courage to say what she needs to. Finally, she turns toward me and whispers, "I'm bleeding."

"What happened?" I ask quickly in concern, looking her over to find the injury. I don't see anything obvious though. "We have band-aids in the bathroom-"

"No, no… not like that." She shakes her head at me as if I'm not understanding, raising her eyebrows in meaning. "You know, like what happens to girls...?"

My eyes widen and my mouth drops open before I sputter in surprise, "You got your period?!" She nods vigorously, putting a finger to her lips as her eyes dart towards the door.

Of all things I was expecting, it wasn't this.

She's so young - only eleven. I'm aware some girls mature earlier than others, but I didn't get mine until I was 15 and a half. And now I know it's not all in my head that she's growing up too fast - her body has confirmed it. She's already beautiful, but now she'll blossom as a woman - breasts, curves, and all. The boys will, of course, notice, and she's already begun to notice them.

Boyfriends are right around the corner, along with heartbreak. Not to mention, now she's physically able to become pregnant. I don't know what to do with this new information, so I simply take her in my arms. I hold her tightly to my chest as tears well up in my eyes. Come what may, she's a child becoming a woman - and that's a wonderful, beautiful thing. Messy and uncomfortable, but lovely all the same.

"I ruined a new pair of pants today. It was so embarrassing. I went to the bathroom after we ate lunch in the mall and looked down - there was just blood everywhere. It's so gross. I put a bunch of toilet paper in my underwear, and thankfully I was wearing a coat that covered my butt," she rambles before falling silent for a moment and pulling away. "What should I do? I've changed out the toilet paper, but… aren't there other things I should use? Do you have any?"

I nod. Thankfully I'd brought the menstrual supplies that Madge had brought over when we were at Peeta's. I'd thought, for sure, I'd be the one using them before Prim. Which suddenly makes me worry, since I haven't had a period in months

- since before I even walked to the Mellarks' front door to sell blackberries.

Right now, it's not about me though. "Didn't you tell Grandma?"

"No. I was too embarrassed."

"Prim, there's nothing at all to be embarrassed about," I reassure. "Especially with Grandma. She's had years of experience with that."

"I know. I just… I don't know her all too well yet, and I know you know about this stuff too. So I came to you first…." I'm not making light of her trepidation, but I have to admit that it warms my heart that she told me first, of all people - not Rue, not Grandma. Me. She still needs me. When it comes to the serious stuff, she'll always need me to be there for her. And I always will be. "I'm happy this happened here, though. I don't know how you even dealt with this when we were with... you-know-who."

"I ripped up old clothes and used them as rags, then washed them and used them again until they couldn't be used anymore," I deadpan with a shrug. She looks at me with a mix of horror and sympathy, and I can't help but chuckle. "You won't have to do any of that, thankfully. Hold on, let me go get your very first gift of womanly supplies."

I stand up and walk towards the door. Before I make my way out, I turn back with a big grin, "You know, you're not going to be able to keep this a secret from Grandma for too long. She'll figure it out."

I hover my hands over my breasts for emphasis, and bite back a laugh as Prim's eyes widen and she groans, falling back onto the bed, her hands covering her face.

Once Prim's 'situation' is handled, I settle back into my room. It doesn't seem as stuffy as it was earlier today, but my mind reels on whether or not to call Peeta. It's 8 pm now. I'm trying not to fret as I had yesterday, though I know he's definitely awake right now. Hell, just a simple text would set my mind at ease.

Finally, I bite the bullet and call him.

After 4 rings, he answers, his voice hoarse and winded as if he'd just ran to get to the phone, "I'm so sorry I didn't call before now! I lost track of time."

"It's fine," I brush off. "Where are you?"

He sighs, and answers with a despondent, "The bakery. I spent all evening painting the walls outside. Now I'm inside, and god… it's such a mess, Katniss. I don't even know where to begin."

"I wish I was there to help…."

"I'm glad you're not," he replies. "I'd hate for you to see it this way. It'll never be the same."

"Have you and your dad figured out what you're going to do?" I ask as a heavy hollowness settles in the pit of my stomach. I'll support him, I tell myself, whatever he chooses to do, I'll support him.

"Yeah," he answers, his tone more assured. "We talked all evening about it, actually. We're going to paint and remodel as much as we can, just enough to sell it. Turns out he already knew I was planning on leaving as soon as I can, and said the last thing he'd want to do is hold me back.

And… I mean, he loves the old place. It was in our family for generations, he grew up here. But he told me that he'd also grown to hate the place as equally. That it's torn his family apart, that all the time he spent running the place could've been spent watching us grow up and being more involved. And after seeing your mom, well…" he trails off with a loud exhale.

He doesn't need to finish, though. I know what he means. My mom once worked at the bakery, it's apparently where they first made love, where my brother was conceived. It'd be haunting, I'm sure.

"We both agreed that this was kind of a blessing in disguise. For the last year or so, we weren't really making a profit anyways. As horrible as it is, it's also… freeing."

"I… don't really know what to say," I reply truthfully. I'm feeling just about every emotion there is, and there's no way to put them into words. I can't tell him I'm relieved or happy, because that's like rubbing salt in the wound and being dismissive of the pain he's feeling. I can't tell him I'm devastated at the loss of the bakery because it'll only make him feel worse.

The only thing I can do is focus on the details.

"How long do you think it'll take to clean up and sell?"

"I have no idea, honestly. At least a few months - probably more. And that's just the cleaning and fixing. I have to go back to school tomorrow, so I can only help in the evenings and on weekends. This town isn't exactly a hotspot for real estate, especially lately. It's all up in the air."

"You sound beyond exhausted. Did you get any sleep?"

"I got about three hours," he mumbles. "I'm tired as hell, but when I try to sleep my mind won't shut off. I just toss and turn. I'm going to have to take some sort of sleeping pill tonight. How about you? Are you sleeping okay?"

"About the same, actually. And when I do manage to fall asleep, it's all nightmares."

"You should really take your medication, you know. I'm not trying to preach or tell you what to do, but having a good night's sleep isn't going to turn you into-" He stops abruptly, heaving a sigh, but I know what he was going to say. My mother. "I'm sorry. I just worry about you. All the time."

"And you think I don't do the same about you? I saw your medication. Why aren't you taking them?" I immediately feel awful by how defensive I sound, of confronting him about what I saw in his closet, especially given what he's going through right now. But he's kind of being a hypocrite and it's a valid question.

"I do."

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't that. "I've never seen you take them…."

"I didn't want you to. I didn't want you to judge me, thinking I'm crazy or a pill-popper-"

"Why the hell would I think that?" I shoot back, my voice shaking. "You're the most sane, sweet person I know. I can't believe you'd hide something like that from me. I thought you trusted me."

"Well, you told me the other day that you were prescribed one of the same exact medications I'm on, and you said, and I quote, 'They're for crazy people.' And then went on to tell me how it turned your mom into a shell. It's not a matter of trust. I just didn't want you to think less of me. It's not like I'm proud of it, but… they help. A lot. Without them, before you, I probably would've…" His voice breaks, and I can tell he's trying to hold back from crying. "I'm not perfect. No one is."

"I never asked for or wanted perfect." Unintentional as it was, I feel like a huge judgmental asshole. "I'm… I'm sorry, for ever making you feel you needed to hide that part of you-"

"You don't need to be sorry."

"Yes, I do. I feel like crap for saying what I did, now that I know…" I close my eyes and take a deep breath, squeezing the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. "Look, if it makes you happy, I'll start taking them tomorrow. I'll try, okay?"

"It's not about making me happy. It's not about me at all. It's about helping you feel a little less unhappy."

"I guess… it just feels like if I take medicine to fix me that I'm admitting that Snow broke me, not that I'm saying you're broken-"

"I understand, Katniss," he replies softly. "People like Snow, like my mom, they're the ones who are broken, okay? They bring pain to others because it's the only thing that gives them control. And not all of the pain they cause is physical - it's mental and emotional too. I mean, if you have a big open cut on your arm, what would you do? You'd clean and bandage it until it heals, right? That doesn't make you weak or broken. It's the logical thing to do so that the wound doesn't fester and become worse. And sometimes your heart and soul need the same sort of healing."

"I know." I try to think of something more insightful to add, but what more is there to say? He's right. While the scars on my body have healed, and the bruises faded, inside I feel like there's a black hole growing bigger by the day, sucking the life and energy out of me. I try to fight against it, like earlier today when I ran to the lighthouse. But it's always there, threatening to take over. "So you're going back to school tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately. I already know it's going to be hell, watching people who were horrible to you pretend to mourn you. It'll take all my willpower not to say anything," he gruffly admits. "I'll have an even harder time if they say anything bad."

"Just ignore them. It's not like I'll ever see them again. They don't matter, and I don't want you getting into trouble over me."

"You're worth the trouble." Before I can argue the point, that regardless of whether or not 'I'm worth the trouble', they're definitely not, he asks, "So what about you? What do you have planned for tomorrow?"

I release a sigh that turns into a groan. "I don't have anything planned, but I am scheduled for my first therapy session first thing in the morning. That should be fun."

"Don't hold back. Say everything you feel," he tells me. "Everything you can't tell me or Prim or your grandparents. The things you keep locked up inside."

"I just don't see the point. I just get tired of saying things. How am I supposed to move on if everyone's making me constantly relive the past?"

"It doesn't even have to be about the past, Katniss. Tell them how you feel, right now. Tell them how you feel about your mom, how you feel about Snow, about the changes in your life. Just let it all out. It can't hurt."

"It can if they decide to lock me away in a mental hospital," I mutter. "Anyways, I don't really know how I feel about any of that. Not really. Snow could be anywhere right now, Mom… well, I assume she's the same as she always has been-"

I jump when I hear a knock on my bedroom door. Before I can answer it or even say 'come in', Prim pops her head in, her eyes going wide when she realizes I'm talking to Peeta. I wave her over and pat the spot beside me.

She shuts the door behind her and as she makes her way to me, she whispers, "Sorry," pointing to the phone. I shake my head, letting her know she has nothing to be sorry about. "Can I sleep in here with you?"

I nod, thankful that I won't have to be alone again tonight.

Peeta and I talk for a few more minutes, in which nothing much of anything new is said. I send him the pictures of the lighthouse and the sunset, to show him what awaits him here, eventually, when the world rights itself again. And it gives me just a little more hope when I hear the hope in his voice by the time we say our goodbyes.

One day at a time, one week at a time, life will change. We will change. For better or worse, but together. Maybe separately for now, but certainly not forever. We will make it through this, just as we always have.

Even on the darkest nights, there's always a light nearby - and soon the sun will shine again.