Peeta
Mindlessly swirling my brush through the soft yellow paint that I painstakingly mixed up earlier, I lean back on my stool and regard the canvas in front of me. A few hours ago, nightmares of sewer mutts pushed me from slumber, causing me to take up refuge here in my studio. On nights like tonight, nights, when I run from the monsters inflicted on me, or the one that lives within me, I never know what image I will set free on the stark white canvas; I can only hope it's enough to bring me back to reality. Tonight is a better night than others; between the rhythmic tapping of rain on the window and the sound of my brush against the canvas I've managed to lock away the images that pledge me. Art and breadmaking are my escape door back to reality. Dr. Aurelius thinks it's the motions that give my brain space free of hurt, a place I can recover in, but I believe it's more than that. My earliest memories are of drawing and bread, they are who I was before I became who I am. It is what I am on a molecular level, and no number of Games or brain trauma can change that.
I take a deep breath and let my eyes drift closed. In the air I catch a hit of cinnamon mixing with paint thinner and it smells like home. A smile creases my face as I lean back on my stool thinking about how I spend my days. "Bread and paint...sure as hell didn't picture the paint part as a kid," I mumble into the empty room. Baking was a given, not a dream but my reality, but drawing or painting was a pipe dream that I only indulge in, in my free time, which is the son of the town's one and only baker was practically never. In truth, the only real-time I got to work on artistic endeavors was when I was icing cakes and cookies; painting came later, after the first arena. My eyes come back into focus as I stand, lifting my paint-laden brush back to the surface and begin adding another layer of color to the piece I started today I've been working on. As the flower begins to come to life under my bristles, the events of the day, that inspired the art, begin filtering through my mind.
Today was a sunny and surprisingly warm day for early May, not that you'd know it now with rain coming down in buckets in my yard. My morning started like most of them do, in the kitchen. Today's loaves had been wheat and lots of them. The reconstruction happing in twelve seems to bring new workers to town daily, a growth that our still inconsistent supply trains are struggling to keep up with. Grocery staples like bread have become quite a commodity and having grown up here with a first-row seat to starvation and I will not let that history repeat itself if I can help it; so, I bake and feed people.
After an entire morning of baking, I was in need of a break from the hot kitchen, so I grabbed a sandwich and took it out under a tree in the backyard. I'd just unwrapped my meal when I spotted Katniss coming around the side of her house, a large turkey hanging from one hand and a heavy game bag strapped across her body. Her morning's hunt appears to have been exceptional today. Like me, she seems to weather her hard days a bit easier when she keeps herself occupied. She hunts, I bake, and we hope that it's enough to keep the darkness at bay. Pausing at her back door, she drops the game bag on the steps before turning and crossing the backyards, the turkey in tow. Stopping a few steps from me, she silently holds out the bird by its neck for my inspection. Giving the carcass a once over, I look up into her eyes but find hers transfixed by dandelion at her feet.
"That thing's huge," I point out lamely and inwardly cringe. Clearing my throat, I push past my awkwardness and add, "What ya going to do with all that?
Her eyes leave the weed at her feet to lock with mine. "Surprisingly I thought we'd eat it," she quips, her lips turning up ever so slightly at the corners.
This very small turn of her lips is the closest thing to a smile I've seen in nearly a week. This past Monday would have been Prim's 15th birthday, a milestone that Katniss has been struggling with. On Monday and Tuesday, she didn't leave her house. Per our standing practice, I'd joined her for breakfast those days, but they had been disturbingly reminiscent of our first few months together. A heavy silence and deep sadness accompanied by the clink of cutlery on dishes, a despondent woman, sleep-deprived and ragged, but there were small victories too. Unlike her former self, she continued to eat, feed the cat, even cleaned the dishes, all these things individually small, but together a vast improvement from her darkest days a year ago. By Wednesday, she began to come out of her shell, though she was still melancholy, she asked me to join her for a walk. Then on Thursday when I arrived for breakfast, I found a simple note: "Gone hunting. See you at lunch." That afternoon we sat on her back porch, gobbled down skillet-fried rabbit, and watched Haymitch attempt to fix his goose pen. This morning I found a small pot rabbit stew and another "gone hunting" note on my stovetop. I wouldn't say she's returned to normal, whatever the hell normal means, but I think spotting this attempted smile is a sign that things are on the upswing. Perhaps she's past the worst of it.
I gratefully return the gesture with a small smile of my own. "Yeah? You, me, Haymitch, and what army?" I chuckle. Katniss guffaws and rolls her eyes making my heart jumps a little at the very Katniss-esk of the action. "Katniss that... thing," I say gesturing towards the bird, "is massive!" I tease. Her lips find the corner of her mouth again and twitch upward. "Mostly feathers," she dismisses almost playfully. I raise an eyebrow in doubt, and I can see she's starting to doubt her own assertion. Lifting the fowl in the air, she gives it once over before giving me an uncommitted shrug. "Okay, so maybe it's a little on the large side…but…" she begins to argue, I cut in, "Katniss, unless you plan on giving it a name and turning our little dysfunctional trio into a quartet, It's too large for just me, you, and Haymitch." My joke is super lame, but it seems to do the job because her lips form a true smile. "Oh, I don't think this guy would be a very good singer," she snorts, holding the limp thing up between us, "Broken neck and all. "There she is, my mind rejoices, she's gonna make it through the darkness. Leaning against the tree trunk, I fain being deep thought for a moment. "How about instead of starting what could possibly be the weirdest singing group ever conceived," I smirk playfully, "We do what you suggested and eat it. How about we have a dinner party? We could invite Greasy Sae, and Sarah, and Thom and Becca to join us?" I've barely gotten the words out when I spot a touch of panic flashing across her face. "Or we could make a huge pot singin'-turkey soup and takedown it to the work crews," I add lightly, giving her an out.
Her face is fascinating to watch as she weighs her options. "Let's do both. We can have dinner and use the leftovers and bones to make some soup for the crews," she says definitively.
"You sure?" I ask.
Her eyes, which had drifted down to the bird, come back up to meet mine. "Yeah," she states, attempting a resolved tone, "It'll be good, Fun."
"Who should bring the bread?" I ask lamely, barely able to keep a stupid grin off my face. She rolls her eyes at the ridiculous joke and unceremoniously drops the turkey in the grass, then ambles over and plops down in the shade next to me with a content sigh. I hold out half of my sandwich, "Lunch?" I offer. She takes the offering, and we lapse into companionable silence. Too soon, her sandwich is consumed and she's up and retrieving the turkey. "Thanks for the sandwich," she says before turning towards her house. A few steps out, she pauses and turns back towards me. "The garden needs weeding, could you...help me with it today?" she asks softly, tears pool along her bottom eyelids. A bed of primroses on the eve of the namesake's birth is, of course, a hard place for her to be right now. "Yes, of course," I agree without hesitation. "I have loaves in the oven, but once they are out, I'll come over." She nods, gratitude in her eyes, before turning back towards home.
Standing, I absently brush away wayward sandwich crumbs as watch her retreating form until she disappears into her house, then turn and head for my own. My first stop is the kitchen where I pull the last four loaves from the oven, then up to my room to change into work clothes. Down the stairs and back in the kitchen, I grab two of the fresh loaves from the counter and tuck them under my arm before heading out the back door and across the yards. My first stop is Haymitch's. Pushing open his back door I step into the darkened kitchen and Haymitch is in one of his usual sleeping spots, the kitchen table. I don't bother waking him, I just find a clean kitchen towel, which is actually easy since Greasy Sae started doing his housekeeping, and wrap one of the loaves in it before put it on the table in front of him. I'm halfway to the door when I remember our dinner party plans. Grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil from the desk by the phone, I jot a quick note and leave it with the bread before heading out the door. I've just about reached Katniss's back porch when the screen door opens, and she steps out. Stretching out my hand I offer her the loaf of bread. "Thanks, I'll just put this in the kitchen," she says and disappears into the house again. I don't wait for her to reappear, instead, I head out around to the side of the house to our garden. I slowly stroll along the bed, eyeing first the primroses up against the house, then inventory of the seedlings in the ground closest to me. Last year it was just the primroses, this year we added the vegetables we realized over the winter that regular supplies were going to be an issue for the foreseeable future.
I choose to start with the primroses, giving Kantiss's the space she seems to need. Crossing the cobblestone path Katniss and I put in last fall, I kneel awkwardly next to a large bush and begin pulling the stray weeds. The plants look heath and happy, so much so that I would bet that they have doubled in size since I planted them here late last summer. From behind me, I hear the clang of a metal pail and know that Katniss has joined me. "I think by the end of the summer these will need to be split," I state pulling up another weed. "Hum?" I hear her murmur mindlessly. Pausing, I look over my shoulder at her. She kneels in front of a baby tomato plant gently tying the thin stem to a stick with a piece of twine. "The primroses, they're getting pretty large, we'll need to divide them up," I explain. She looks up at me, her eyes flashing in disbelief. "You know you kind of freak me out when you say stuff like that," she smirks. I give her a quizzical look and she shrugs, "You're a townie, you're not supposed to know how to garden," she chuckles. I fain hurt and scoff. "I may be a townie, but thanks to the generosity of the Capitol I was taught to read," I say mimicking the affected accent of Capitol. She rolls her eyes and snorts before moving on to the next tomato plant.
Turning back to the primroses, I can't seem to keep the smile from my face or the feeling of warmth from building in my gut. This feels like us and I've missed it over the past week. Reaching down I pluck one of the yellow buds and stand up stiffly. I make my way around a come to kneel next to Katniss. With a nervous hand, I hold out the flower to her. Her gaze lingers on the offering for a long moment, and I begin to worry I've made the wrong choice, that is until she brings her shaky fingers to the silky petals. "They remind me of her hair in the sun," she says quietly, plucking the flower from my fingertips. A single tear makes a silent trek down her face before falling onto the soft yellow bloom. "It's as if they were named for her, not the other way around," I murmur. Katniss nods sadly, "Thank you," she whispers, placing my gift behind her ear.
We settle into tending to and nurturing our garden of tiny plants. We work in companionable silence but a part of me aches for more, for some sort of contact, something to physically tie us to this moment. A hand on her shoulder or a knee would satisfy me, but I don't act on the impulse. I can't, or at least I don't think I should. Honestly don't know how a touch between us will affect me these days. When I first arrived home, I knew with having to test it, that I couldn't touch her, the mutt in me was far too close to the surface but now, after all these months, I'm not so sure if I'm holding back for me or her. I think it's the latter. Two arenas and war each took chunks from her soul, but it was the bombs that took Prim from this world that had taken her will to live. The months that have passed have begun the job of healing, though the scars on her heart will remain forever. The steps up to this moment have been monumental, even if they were the simple tasks living such as bathing and eating. There had been a time when those things had been nearly impossible for her. A time when I thought she wouldn't survive. Perhaps that's why I keep her at arm's length. What if it only takes one touch to unravel all of her hard-fought-for gains, to send her back to the precipice of death? I couldn't live with myself if that happened. My mind catches to this last thought and I ponder it for a second. A year ago, the mutt still dreamt of killing her, so simply not wanting her to die had been revolutionary, but now, now I want more than that. I want her happy and healthy and I will do everything in my power to see that come to fruition. I guess moving back to Twelve has turned out to be better than I, or my doctor, had anticipated.
Dr. Aurelius had been against me coming back, he felt it was counter-intuitive to my recovery, and reckless if I wished to keep Katniss safe. He had said to me, "I believe you are putting a bit of false hope on your treatments at this stage. The work you've done has been extraordinary, and you have started to uncover some of your old self, but Peete the feelings that have surfaced along, the ones that drive you to be near her, we have no way to tell if they are real. They are just too new to know how you will react around her long-term. I do not believe that you're ready for a move back to Twelve, you may never be." His concerns were understandable, maybe even warranted, but he was wrong about my motives. My sole purpose for returning home had not been Katniss, at least not in the way he supposed. First and for most I was driven to return because District 12 is my home. I've been all over Panem and could choose to live anywhere, on a beach or next to a cornfield, but what I needed was mountain air. I may have grown up a "townie", may have never snuck beyond the fence like Katniss or Gale, but the mountains still called to me. I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. I was raised here. I was reaped here. This is where my family is buried. All of my memories are here. I had to return if I wanted to find myself. This all said, I would be lying if I said Katniss wasn't a part of the equation, she was, but not in the way he imagined. It wasn't a youthful unrequired love that drove me. I now could clearly remember loving Katniss in my before life. My love for her had been simple, even with problems and hang-ups I endured, I now know that at the time it really hadn't been a choice. Just as breathing came automatically, so had my love of her. My devotion had been so complete that I couldn't give it up even when I realized that she couldn't return my affection. That was before however. The feelings I returned home with, were not as straightforward. In place of my previously unrelenting love, was a litany of feelings: fear, hate, like, loathing, admiration, even need, but above all was duty. After months of treatment, of digging through my own mind and coming to grips with my relationship with the girl with bow and arrows, the one thing I found and was 100% certain of, an abiding sense of duty. The realization of this started back in the bowels of the Capital, sitting knee to knee with the girl on fire. I asked her, "You're still tiring to protect me?" She responded, "Yes because that's what you and I do, protect each other." That moment stuck with me and informed my treatment after the war ended. It took very little time for the reality to sink in. Katniss saved me over and over again in the time that I had known her. In our first games, she nearly died at the Feast to heal me, the berries brought me home, and then when Snow threatened to kill all those we loved she agreed to marry me in spite of her desire to never do so. She entered the quarter quell with a plan to die so I could live and then when I was taken and looked like a traitor to the rebellion, she stood in front of Coin and order my rescue. She never left me, never abandoned me, always protected me, and I owed her for that. She thought townies couldn't understand the concept of owning another person, and maybe back before I was reaped that was true, but that was no longer. I owed her a life debt and I would not leave her when she needed protection the most. so came home, to my place of birth, and to the place I was most needed. Was it selfish considering the mutt stilled lived in me, hell yes, but there wasn't another choice was there?
A far-off rumble of thunder pulls out of my thoughts of the past and the choices that have brought me to this moment. Looking up I can see dark and threatening clouds covering the northern horizon and moving fast. " We better be finishing up," I say breaking our silence. Katniss lifts her face to take in the darkening sky and the slight movement is just enough to dislodge the primrose blossom from behind her ear. Reflexively I pluck it from the grass and reach up to slide it back in its place. The action doesn't catch up with my brain until the tips of my fingers brush the warmth of her ear. Instantly an alarm rings in my head and reflexes take over. I snatch my hand away sending the bloom tumbling to the ground. My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it's about to escape my chest and my breath is coming out in short bursts. Katniss and I are stone still staring at each other as the rain begins to fall. I swallow around the panic that is clenching my throat and start the mental inventory that I've been trained to do for attacks. No flush of anger or tightened muscles, I have complete control over my body and feelings, this isn't an episode. A long breath escapes. Now certain that I'm safe, I take in my gardening partner.
Katniss's gray eyes are wide and worried "I'm...I'm sorry, are you okay?" she asks, but wisely scoots away from me in the wet grass.
"Yes, I'm fine. That wasn't one," I promise. Her eyes fill with tears and a bit of disbelief. "Oh no, Katniss, please don't cry. I wasn't...it wasn't anything," I soothe. She looks unconvinced. "I should've been more cautious. I should've made sure you had enough space, I know that. I'm sorry," she states coming to her feet.
I stumble my way to my feet as well, the whole time trying to convince her of the truth. "You have my word, I was just startled," I promise, "And even it was one, it wouldn't be your fault or your responsibility. " I state softly. But, next time, if you think it's one you should run, I think, but don't bother saying aloud since I know my warning will fall on deaf ears. Long ago she decided she was done running from the mutt. She says I'm not threatening, which is true I haven't acted on the rage since I was in Thirteen, but the things I say, and seething hate that accompany them aren't things I wish she'd stick around to hear.
Her face softens and turns sad, "It's not your fault either," she says gently. For a long moment, we simply stare into each other's eyes before she reaches down and picks up the bucket at her feet. "Thank you for helping with the garden, we should call it a day," she says giving me one last glance before turning for the door.
Anger flashes in me, not at her, but at Snow. I quickly tap the feeling down because I decided long ago to stop giving him power over my life. "What about the book," I ask after her retreating form.
She stops and turns to face me, "Not tonight, tomorrow...after dinner," she suggests. And with that, I know she's closing herself off from me, trying to protect me. She never abandons me during an episode, but neither does she stay once she knows I'm alright. She's convinced that the mutt is connected to her actions, her words, her presence...her touch, and that leaving me makes recovering easier, but I think she's wrong. While her mutt-a-fied image is the center of the rage I don't know that she is the cause any longer. I can't pinpoint the change, but over the last couple of months my attacks have come more random. I've actually had more alone at home than I've had around her. And I've found that recovery from one is always been quicker if she's around. I don't know if it's her encouraging and comforting words or just knowing she's safe, but I bounce back twice as fast if given the chance to be near her. I haven't told her this, of course, I would never pressure her into staying with me, especially after having to endure whatever foul things I may have just said. She needs her space, and I will respect that, so nod my consent. "See you tomorrow," I offer. She gives me a small smile and heads into the house.
As the image of her retreating form replays in my memory, I drop my brush into a jar of paint thinner and sit back to consider my work. Shock is the closest word I can find to describe how I feel about what I've created. I've painted Katniss. I haven't painted her since before the quell and even more odd is that I didn't even realize I was doing it. When I sat down, I imagined a landscape, primroses in the forest. I snort, "Well, you did get a primrose in there at least," I mutter. The flower I've painted is behind Katniss's ear. I created a profile of sorts with a fisheye perspective, the center of the canvas is in focus and the outer perimeter is in soft focus. At the center of the piece is the top of her ear and the bloom, her face and hair fade out from there. She soft and the lighting is gentle. All together it makes my heart ache for something I can't quite put my finger on. I don't remember painting this and it's unnerving. I rub my temples and stare at my creation. I can't say how long I contemplate my creation, but I nearly jump out of my skin when a soft scraping noise echoes down the hall and into my studio. It is coming from the front room. Getting up, I half walk, half stagger on my stiff legs towards the front door. I pull the door open just as a well-timed bolt of lightning illuminates my empty doorstep. Confused, I take a tentative step out into the swell of rain. I'm quickly drenched but also without a reason for the sound that startled me. I give the area final once over and retreat back into the safety of the house. Closing the door, I pause for a moment in the entryway to push my damp hair from my eyes and give the large silent house a listen. Nothing. Giving up, I head upstairs and quickly change my clothes before heading back down to the studio.
Standing once again in front of my painting a low-grade anxiety surges in my chest. Losing time or not remembering my actions can't be good, but then again perhaps it was just my subconscious trying to tell me something? I ponder the possibility, but nothing comes to mind, at least nothing I'm willing to acknowledge. Sighing, I walk over to the window and lookout. The rain has stopped, and the sky has begun clearing to the eastern. Dark and heavy rain clouds are still visible, but they have moved far enough west that I can see the rim of the rising sun through the trees. The morning sky is an amazing display of pinks, purples, and oranges. As the orange in the sky brightens, two old and buried memories bloom. Katniss and I sitting side by side on a set of train tracks- the colors green and orange fall from our lips and dark campsite rope knotting in my fingers and real - not real echoing between tents, then her voice reminding me of who I am. I'm sugarless tea, open windows, knotted laces, and the color orange. Her face is lit only by the campfire's flames and is sad, so unbelievably sad. Her eyes are begging me to remember her, to remember us. I couldn't do it, couldn't remember. It hurt too much. But I wanted to remember, it took only one look at her face to want to know the real her, the real me. I've been fighting for that ever since.
As Memories and desire begin to merge in my head and it beings to spin. It's too much all at once. My heart starts to race and sweat beads on my forehead. My back muscles tighten like cords. These are the signs. A hallucination is begging, pleading...fighting to escape. Gripping the windowsill tightly, I take deep breaths as I work from my head to feet forcing my muscles to relax. As always, this seems to be an insurmountable task, but today it's only nearly impossible. My breath leaves my body in heaves, but my pulse finally decelerates. I've won this round. I'm trembling from the exertion as I pry my iron grip from the marble windowsill, but I gratefully take in a gulp of clean, cool air and pull myself upright. "It's time for a change of venue" I ascertain. With one final glance at the confound painting, I walk out of the room and straight into the kitchen to bury the last remnants of my darkness in dough.