The heat wave continues as we move into early August, although it doesn't feel quite so oppressive as I start to get used to it. Peeta and I have gone to the lake a couple times in the past few weeks. He's still only an okay swimmer at best, but the cool water is so refreshing against the heat that he's been just as eager to get in as I am. We have days where everything feels good and days where everything feels bad, but most days are somewhere in between, and I'm starting to develop an appreciation for those types of days that I never had before. For the first time in a very long time, I have some conceptualization of normal. I find that I like normal more and more as I get used to it.
One morning Peeta and I head down to the train station together. He's expecting a couple of shipments, both of building supplies for the bakery and of some new ingredients and food to play around with and test recipes. We hold hands as we walk through the warm summer air. We've timed our trip well so we haven't hit the peak heat of the day yet, and it's nice. Being together like this is nice.
When we reach the train, Peeta and I start unloading some boxes and crates and stacking them in a small wagon that Peeta brought with him. As he loads one of the last boxes into the wagon, he freezes up and I see his body tense.
"Are you okay?" I ask, concern starting to grow in me immediately.
"Yeah," he says, blinking and shaking his head in an effort to clear it. "Yeah, I think so. That was just...I don't know, that was weird. I looked inside the train and I just felt like I was hurled back into some shiny memory that they twisted of our time there on the Victory Tour. I'm fine, I know it's not real. That was just...weird." I take his hand in my own.
"Will you let me know if you need anything? Or if it gets worse?" I ask. He nods.
"Yeah, of course." He takes the wagon handle in his free hand and we start heading back to Victor's Village. We leave the wagon on the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my front porch, and just take in the couple cases of ingredients that Peeta wants to work with today.
He spends a couple hours cooking and baking while I watch and make conversation, and then the two of us work on the book for a bit together too. It's really starting to come together, and although every page hurts a little bit, it also helps me find a sense of peace.
"That looks good," I tell Peeta, as he finishes up a sketch of the members of his prep team. They were executed publicly while he was being held in the Capitol. He had to watch.
"Thanks," he says, kissing me on the cheek before getting up from our spot at the table. "I'm gonna get some water." I know he's trying to downplay the emotional impact he's feeling by doing something with his hands. That's classic for him.
He grabs a pitcher of water and pours himself a glass, though he spills a little bit on the counter and on his shirt. He laughs at himself, which makes me feel relieved. He can't be doing too badly if he's laughing.
"Wow I'm uncoordinated today," he says, and I giggle. He wipes up the counter before starting to cook dinner. Haymitch comes in soon after, sitting down in his usual armchair and grabbing the TV remote.
"I was just on the phone with Effie," he says. "Apparently there's some interview airing tonight with all of the new senators from each district. She says we should watch."
Peeta nods his head and seems interested, but I feel a little bit nervous. I'm happy with our government now, but thinking about it too much still plays into my anxieties. Thinking about it in the context of a Capitol interview...I'm just worried that it might be too much. I keep quiet though, and try to distract myself with goofy thoughts about how much Effie would berate Haymitch if she found out he ignored her advice. For the sake of whatever relationship they may or may not have, I'll do my best to suck it up.
Peeta serves us each plates of steak that we eat around the coffee table in front of the TV. The three of us eat and chat with the TV on mute in the background as we wait for the program to start.
"It'll be interesting to see any interview not done by Flickerman," Haymitch says jokingly.
"Who is doing it?" I ask, the question not having occurred to me until now.
"Cressida, I think," Haymitch says. "Effie says she's become heavily involved in public relations and media for the new government. Frankly, I couldn't get Effie to stop raving about how well she's doing, even though I couldn't care less about what sort of TV broadcasts they're putting out."
I nod my head. This whole television and media aspect of government is really not something anyone from the districts tends to care about or be invested in. Still, I like Cressida; she's incredibly brave, understanding, and loyal. I trust that she'll do a good job portraying things honestly.
The interviews start up a few minutes later. I am immensely grateful to see that they aren't on the same stage that the interviews before the Games were. I don't think I would have been able to handle that. The whole environment feels very different.
The senators and Cressida are all situated on the stage of a sort of indoor theatre I've never seen before. I think it must be new, because while everything looks very nice and elegant it doesn't have the over the top opulence that a structure like this would have had in the old Capitol. Each of the senators is seated on comfortable looking armchairs or couches, clustered together with their fellow representatives from their districts. Cressida is in a similar looking armchair off to the side. Even though it's relatively formal, the whole scene feels comfortable in a way that is entirely different to any other interview I've seen before from the Capitol.
"Good evening Panem," Cressida starts. She looks almost exactly the same as when I saw her last; her blonde hair still hangs down from half of her head, revealing the vines tattooed on the other side. She's dressed differently, of course, given that I've only ever seen her in 13 and in battle. But she looks like herself.
"We're very excited to be speaking to you all tonight and to be presenting what we hope will be the first of many town hall appearances with the members of the new Senate of Panem. In these panel presentations, members of the Senate will respond to questions from constituents in order to ensure open communications between the citizens of Panem and our leadership at all times."
She keeps explaining the setup for tonight, and I realize that this is something very different than what I was expecting. This isn't an interview just for entertainment, and this isn't a propaganda piece trying to convince us of anything. This is new, and this is honest.
"This seems good," I say, looking at Peeta who is seated next to me on the floor, leaning up against the couch. He looks back at me and smiles.
"Yeah, it does," he says. He takes my hand in his and brings it up to his mouth, kissing it before placing our joined hands in his lap. I feel warm and much less anxious than I did minutes ago.
I turn my attention back to the screen to see Cressida talking to a Senator from 4. They're discussing the impact of the new hospital on life in 4 and how it's interacting with the fishing industry to make a more diverse and stronger economy. The economic terms and statistics don't mean a lot to me, but I can tell from the tone that it's good.
She then starts to talk to the Senators from 6 about the establishment of new transportation lines between the districts. I didn't even think about it, but of course it makes perfect sense that we didn't have any substantial inter-district infrastructure in place. The only travel that was really allowed was between the districts and the Capitol for the Games. The Victory Tour was the only time people traveled between districts, and even that was very limited and strictly monitored. Apparently they've already started adding in new railway lines and hovercraft stops.
As the conservation concludes, Cressida turns over the next card in her hands.
"This next question is open to everyone," she says, beginning to read off the card. "As representatives of our new government, how do you intend to deal with the legacies left by the War, the Hunger Games, and Coriolanus Snow?"
I start to feel tense again. It's an important question, and it's something we need to discuss, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to think about it this directly.
"I can take that," says one of the senators from 3. He looks a lot like Beetee, just a bit taller and thinner. His mannerisms are similar too; he's a bit awkward, fidgety, and overly formal, but it is clear that these faults are only small side effects of a high functioning brain. I wonder if these sorts of habits always come along with genius.
He sits up a bit straighter before starting to speak again. "As a nation, we in Panem have a dark history behind us. We cannot ignore this past, for if we do we are simply repeating the patterns that led us here. For generations, the Capital kept any information about the first rebellion and the Dark Days entirely to themselves, and this secrecy formed a powerful tool for misinformation and propaganda. Having such an uninformed populace allowed leaders in the Capitol to take advantage of us for years and years. In order to ensure that the freedom we have fought and died for lasts for years to come, we must ensure that the public knows our history."
"Very good point, Senator," Cressida remarks. "Do you have any suggestions as to how to cope with the collective trauma that survivors of the Games and the War feel when remembering and retelling these events?"
All three of us in this room are anxious, I can feel it. Everything this man has said so far has been correct, but it's just so personal. It's only going to get harder to take as he talks about survivors specifically. We're all survivors of the war, and nearly half of the Victors who remain alive are here in this room.
I feel Peeta's hold on my hand tighten, and when I look to Haymitch I see that he's twirling his steak knife in his hand haphazardly. I know that he has years upon years of experience with knives, but it's quite sharp and he doesn't seem to even be fully conscious of what he's doing.
"Haymitch, stop," I call out to him. My voice isn't angry, it's just a reminder. He stills his movements as we turn our attention back to the screen.
"Nearly every citizen in our new Panem was involved in the War in one capacity or another. Whether a rebelling soldier in the districts, a commander in 13, or a refugee in the Capitol, hardly anyone was left untouched. We need to remember the commonality in this experience, not to diminish our individual grief, but rather to promote our collective healing. We can use this unity to overcome our pain when we carry on stories of the war."
"The question of the Games is a bit more difficult, of course, as so few Victors survive today," he says, continuing without interruption. "District 3's own Beetee Latier is one of only seven remaining Victors left in Panem. But these seven individuals do not have to carry on the burden of remembering the Games alone, as we all watched them fight to survive year after year. Here again, we can all come together, this time unifying around the Victors. We must remember that many of these individuals sacrificed more than most others, and fought valiantly for our cause. We would not have a new nation without a rebellion, and we would not have had a rebellion without a Mockingjay. Similarly, the Games would not have ended without Katinss Everdeen shooting down the Arena in the Quarter Quell, and it was the protection of other Victors that helped ensure she was able to do that. The very last kill in all of the Hunger Games, of course, was done by Peeta Mellark in an effort to protect Katniss Everdeen. They are all unified, and we can unify around them as a nation."
It's genuinely a beautiful and brilliantly articulated response, but I'm stuck in his words about the Arena. I knew Peeta killed Brutus in the fighting at the end of the Quell; I heard the cannon, and eventually in 13 I saw the footage. I just don't know how much I like the idea that we're still such public figures, still memorialized and defined by our connections to the Games. I don't necessarily want to be defined by that anymore.
I suppose it's worthless to try to avoid it; our identities have been crafted and shaped, first by the Games and then by the Rebellion, and the idea that all of that would somehow fade away after the war ended was foolish. At least they aren't making us ride in parades or shoot propos anymore. It's just another reminder of how the past isn't ever going away, not entirely.
I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I don't notice right away when Peeta's hand leaves mine. It's only when I see him walking away from me towards the other armchair that isn't occupied by Haymitch that I fully process it.
"Peeta? What are you doing?" I ask, confused. He's bent himself a little bit over the back of the chair, with his hands gripping the top so hard that his knuckles are turning white.
Oh. Oh no.
"Peeta, you're ok," I say, getting up and walking toward him slowly. "Not real, it's not real." He's muttering to himself. This is normal for him when he flashes; the way he's explained it to me, his brain throws him back to the hijacking, and he spits out words that he's picturing while also trying to recite things that keep him grounded. The words that come out of his mouth are never comprehensible, just a string of disjointed memories from his torture interspersed with facts to keep him in reality.
"Sting, sting. Annie, no, alone. She's alone. She's too alone," he mumbles, not making any sense.
"Shh, shh. Not real, Peeta. Not real." I crouch down next to him and start planting kisses on his cheeks and his forehead while rubbing his arm. On the few times I've been around him during a flash since our romantic relationship started up again, I've found that my lips help keep him with me. It's that same thing about craving physical sensations as a sign of realness. Besides, they could twist the images of me kissing him all they wanted, but they can't change the way it feels.
I see Haymitch walk over towards us. He knows that I have the best chance of success in getting him back, but he's palpably nervous about me being so close to Peeta when he's like this.
"Kill, kill, kill, kill," Peeta mutters. "They never stopped, I never stopped, she never stopped. No! I love her. No no no no no." He's shaking and his pupils are expanding and contracting at an extremely fast rate. Nothing I'm doing is working.
"Please Peeta," I mutter, my voice growing a little bit desperate. "Come back to me, come on. Not real." I kiss his cheek again and I feel him shift away from me. That's not good. He hasn't done that before.
Without thinking, I start singing. My voice is soft and shaky from concern, but I get out the first few notes of the Valley Song. I know he associates it with me, and with his childhood. I hope maybe it will get some part of him back to me. As I keep going, I see the shaking in his body begin to subside a little bit, though he never still entirely. His eyes don't return to normal, but the speed at which his pupils are dilating is less rapid than before.
"Good," I say encouragingly, rubbing his arm again before I keep singing. I'm starting to back up, not because I'm scared of him and want the distance, but because I know in my kitchen cabinet he's stashed a bottle of his emergency mood stabilizers. I've never seen him use it, but this is a worse flash than I've seen from him in a while, so I think he might want it. I don't want him to lose sight of me though, or lose the sound of my voice, as I think those two things are helping keep him here.
I walk backwards so I don't have to take my eyes off him. I take a false step and hit the coffee table, and that's when it happens.
In my misstep, I've hit my plate from dinner and knocked it clattering to the ground. I hear it shatter but I don't see it because my eyes are locked on Peeta. They're locked on his eyes, which are now black. His pupils have expanded to entirely supersede the blue. I know what this is. He was already struggling, and now the loud noise, chaos coming from my doing...he's not Peeta anymore. He's the mutt.
"Peeta," I mumble softly, and his body grows rigid. He yells out something unintelligible and throws the chair over on its side like it weighs nothing, evening though it's a huge armchair and I probably couldn't lift it if I tried. As soon as he does so, Haymitch has sprung in between me and Peeta. Despite his poor physique and laziness, he can still be fast when he needs to be.
"Come on kid, come back to us," he says, holding up a hand Peeta as if trying to soothe a wild animal. "You're ok, this doesn't need to happen." Peeta is still muttering to himself, now storming in a circle around the chair he just knocked over.
"Peeta please," I say from behind Haymitch. At the sound of my voice his head shifts sharply so his gaze is locked on me.
"Kid, don't-" Haymitch starts, but Peeta's pushed him to the side and onto the floor before he can even finish. I recoil instantly, expecting a blow to come at any second, but it doesn't. Peeta halts right in front of me, his eyes still trained on my face.
"Come back to me," I whisper, my voice trembling. "Please, Peeta." For a moment he's entirely still, and I'm thinking maybe we've gotten through to him. I don't realize just how much we are too late until he bends down and takes one of the steak knives from the coffee table.
His movements seem like he's in slow motion, but maybe it's just my perception, because I don't think I could move any faster if I wanted to. He raises his right arm and I know that it's going to come at me. Haymitch aims a blow at Peeta from the floor but Peeta kicks him away with what seems like no effort at all.
I lock eyes with Peeta, and the thing that terrifies me more than the imminent likelihood of my own pain or death is the fact that I do not see any part of him in his eyes. I don't see him, and I need him.
"Peeta, stay with me," I get out through tears. I see the expression on his face change briefly. His eyes flash blue, and then back to black again. He starts to move the knife in his right hand and I know I'm too late. It's as if the action has been programmed into him, and the code cannot be stopped once he's been triggered by the stimulus. As the knife in his hand starts moving toward me, though, I see the muscles in his arm straining to stop him, almost like he's physically battling himself over control.
It seems for a minute that my Peeta might be winning; he's slowly pulling his arm back away from me, screaming with the exertion that I can't understand. I think for a foolish moment that this is about to be done. It doesn't hit me that I'm right about the programming until it's too late. He's been programmed to kill. He can't stop the action entirely, he can only change it.
With a final grunt of force, Peeta jams the knife into his left wrist, slashing his arm open and sending red blood streaming onto the floor.