I run my hand along the side of the green wall painted with flowers. There's yellow dandelions, flowering wild onion tops and evening primroses of every shade. It's beautiful.
"There's more."
I look up. Peeta stands in the doorway at the end of the hall leading to the kitchen. The light of the setting sun streams through behind him. He studies me, waiting for me to make a move.
I take a step closer to him. "I read your letters."
He nods slowly, narrowing his eyes at me in scrutiny. Perhaps trying to make sense of my purpose in being here after all these months.
"To be honest...now...I don't know what to do now," I continue. "It's like I'm lost."
"Welcome to the club, sweetheart," a voice chimes behind him and I immediately know that there is only one person in this world who calls me that.
"Haymitch!" I'm surprised that he's not back at his own place, lost in a drunken stupor.
He appears behind Peeta, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks tired, a little pale with dark circles under his eyes; but overall, he looks a lot better than the last time I saw him, stumbling blindly towards Ripper's stall. I was with Thom at the time, trading a few rabbits that had wandered into Gale's snares. Haymitch had bought his bottle of liquor, but before he could open it and take a drink, he had vomited right in the middle of the town square and passed out in his own mess. As disgusted as I was, everyone present had turned to look at me, as if to ask, what are you going to do?
Thom had helped me drag him back to his place. I didn't have enough energy or patience to clean him down, so we'd dumped him on his couch and left him there.
"I see you're done feeling sorry for yourself," he says.
My cheeks flush hot, in anger because I don't think he's in any position to be lecturing me on my behaviour, and in embarrassment, because truth be told, I am ashamed of how I've been acting. And who the hell does he think he is to say that, considering how I'd dragged him out of his own foul mess not last week. "Speak for yourself."
Haymitch only chuckles. "Nice to have you back."
In the kitchen, Haymitch pours himself a small glass of liquor while Peeta and I sip mint tea at the table. A half finished card game lies forgotten on the tabletop.
Haymitch downs his first glass in one shot and I can already smell the fumes coming from his breath as he pours another. "You saw what state some of the victors were in last year. Broken, crazy, drugged up or, like me, drunk as hell. Of course they're all dead, now."
Of course they are. Snow and the rebels took care of that.
He takes only a sip this time and continues. "The Games kept us busy, having to mentor year after year. Watching tributes die, watching fellow victors fade away...they thought our talents and mentoring would keep the craziness at bay."
"Well, it's different now, isn't it?" I say. "We don't have to do that anymore with the Games finished and Paylor in government. The rules have changed."
Peeta shakes his head. "Rules are one thing. Even if the heaviest of laws have been abolished among the districts, do you really think the Peacekeepers' attitudes towards district citizens have really changed? Or the attitudes of Capitol citizens?"
Peeta gathers the cards and begins to put them in order while he continues. "The rebellion and the invasion was only one step. The biggest challenge for Paylor is changing the way Capitol citizens behave. It means changing a cultural and belief system that's been in place for over a hundred years. To be honest, I don't know if that's even possible."
I catch Haymitch's eye and we have a moment of understanding. Eloquent and diplomatic, Peeta had always been the better of us. What he says is disappointing, yet realistic, after everything that we've been through. But there's a streak of pessimism that cuts through each word almost painfully. The old Peeta would have tried to see good in everything, in everyone.
"What do you think, Haymitch?" I ask.
Haymitch takes a moment to drain his second glass and begins to pour another. "He's not wrong there. You could say that these Capitol folk...it's like they weren't raised right. They were born to take life and everything they have for granted. Only to consume, never to give back. Some even think themselves as a superior species to us in the districts. Whatever Paylor's planning, it's going to take months, maybe even years, of campaigning and re-education."
I sip my tea, mulling over his words. Yes, we've changed the system—physically. But the real challenge is the system within each person, the beliefs and cultures and traditions each person holds. The kind of system that accumulated from generation to generation. And we're going to change it…how? The thought strikes me suddenly. I speak slowly, as if I don't believe it to be true. "Well then...we're not done yet, are we? As the faces of the rebellion...we're still in the game. Aren't we, Haymitch?"
I look at him. His eyes are red, staring down in to the bottle between his hands. At some point during my revelation, he dismissed the tiny glass and started drinking right from it.
"Even if you win...it never ends. You play for life, kids." He takes a swig and falls silent.
"Well, we'll have to keep fighting then, won't we? I made a promise to Prim." I say. "We have to win."
I begin to feel it, like a glowing ember about to ignite. "We're victors! We've survived two arenas and the front line!"
It's then that Haymitch and Peeta glance at each other. It's the shortest of glances, but I manage to catch it. They know something. They're sharing a secret, like they've got their own game going on and a wave of suspicion rises up within me.
"What is it?" I demand.
Peeta clears his throat. "Plutarch called us last week. He's got an idea for a show."
"What sort of show?" I ask. "Not his dreadful singing idea!"
"The Tributes Memorial is about to open soon at the Capitol. Plutarch's invited us to the ceremony. And he's got an idea for some sort of show to coincide with the event. Some sort of Capitol campaign," Haymitch explains. "He wants to bring you back out. Garner the people's support for the Paylor government."
"Like that's gonna work," I say sarcastically.
"Think what you like. As your mentor, I'd advise you to be ready tomorrow at ten a.m. for our first meeting. Plutarch's paying us a visit. We can at least hear him out." Haymitch stands up, draining the remainder of the bottle and makes to leave.
"I don't want to have to hose you off in the morning," Peeta calls as Haymitch shuffles to the front door. "The train was the first and last time."
Haymitch responds with an indistinct grumble and the door slams behind him. The house goes silent.
My mint tea's gone cold. I chew on the leaves, which settles my stomach as I realise I haven't eaten all day. I'm afraid to look at Peeta, afraid of what I may see in his eyes, perhaps because the last few months I've been acting like a crazy person. I don't know how to begin this. I feel like I'm now ready to let him in a little bit and maybe I can start to let some of that craziness go. Take a chance.
My heart begins to beat faster in my chest as I stretch my hand out on the table towards his. I now know what I want to ask. He's watching me carefully when I finally meet his gaze. "Is it true, what you wrote today?"
There is a long, tense silence as Peeta processes my question. He did love me. A lot. He knows that himself. We've experienced so much together and we've protected each other for so long that, for me, it's second nature. No questions asked.
I watch him think, his mind turning like clockwork behind his eyes. He tenses and then suddenly relaxes. He puts his other hand on top of mine and looks into my eyes. "Every word."
This is what I'm talking about. This is what's making me so confused. If he'd just responded straight away, I wouldn't be having any second thoughts. Why had it taken so long for him to reply? What is going on in his mind? I could have read the old Peeta like an open book. He was good like that, dependable. In that way, he made me feel safe and secure.
I'm searching through my doubts, trying to find that sense of relief I was expecting to feel. When I kissed him and tried to bring him back that day of the invasion, I wasn't entirely sure if it had worked. Now I don't know what else I can do or say to bring him back to me.
Frustrated, I pull my hand away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
I push the chair back and stand up, prepared to leave when Peeta jumps up. "No, wait!"
There is a panic in his voice that makes me stop. I've never heard him like this before. When I turn to him, there's a look in his eyes, desperate and pleading. Eyes that glint in the light of the setting sun.
"Please...stay. Just for tonight."
And he's back again, my old Peeta, who wraps me in his arms and buries his nose in my hair. I relax my body against his and melt into his warmth. His smell and the feel of him against me is all too familiar. I've missed it so much. Nothing more needs to be said. For now, I don't want to ruin the moment. I don't want to let him go.
As night rolls in, we eat a light supper of chicken broth and bread. With Peeta, it stays down. Upstairs, his room is sparse; there's a dresser against the wall and his bed against the window. The faint scent of cinnamon and dill emanates from his bed sheets, his pillow, from his warm body and clothes. Through the open window, the sounds of the wind in the trees and chirping crickets float in with the cool breeze. In the darkness, I finally drift to sleep in his arms.
There are no nightmares that night. It's a peaceful sleep, the kind that refreshes your mind and body and when I wake up, there's a calmness within me that I haven't felt for a long time. It's nice.
I'm surprised to find Peeta's side of the bed empty and I wonder where he is. In the bathroom, I wash my face, rinse my mouth out with water and re-braid my hair neatly. As I look in the mirror once again, it's as if my eyes are finally open. I realise how thin I've become. The bizarre attitude I've had towards food has taken its toll. My eyes appear sunken in and my tired, pale skin is stretched tight across my face. Looking at me now, I can understand Peeta's hesitation. I shake my head at my reflection. What have you done to yourself, I think. People have died because of the lack of food, and here I am, almost disgusted by the sight and smell of it. It's completely wrong.
Back in the bedroom, I remake the bed and look towards the dresser. There are only a few items perched there; two photo frames, one of his father and one of his two older brothers. His abusive, harsh mother is nowhere to be seen. A worn, flour-dusted apron sits next to the photo frames, as if it had been tossed aside carelessly after a tiring day of baking.
I begin to explore. I'm familiar with the layout of his home because all houses in the Victor's Village have been built with the same floor plan. The large master bedroom, which must have been his parents' room, is dark and dusty. It's as if the door hasn't been opened for a very long time and I feel intrusive as I poke my head into the dark room. In the hallway, there's a thick large notebook which I flick through. The pages are filled with sketches, mainly of leaves, plants and wood creatures. I recognise the nightlock and the leaf that Rue used to heal the tracker jacker stings. There are rabbits and squirrels, mockingjays and bluebirds. His lines are strong yet thin, his hands confident. The detail is beautiful.
This must be where he does his painting, I assume as I stop outside the study. I open the door halfway and peek my head through. It's dark, so I switch on the light and the room is illuminated immediately. And that's when I see it.
The canvas is huge and fills up most of the space. A sheet has been laid on the floor, which is dotted and smeared with paint. Jars and paint pallets and cups filled with paintbrushes litter a table in the corner of the room. But what strikes me most is the painting itself.
It's a painting of me. It's unmistakeable. I'm a mutt, like the wild dogs in our first arena. I'm rearing on my hind legs and my eyes are cold and grey. My mouth froths and drool drips down on to my black fur. Behind me is a scene enveloped in angry red and orange flames. I recognise the buildings of the old District Twelve town square as it burns from the Capitol's bombs.
Is this how he thought of me when he first saw me in Thirteen? He could have easily broken my neck had we truly been alone in that room. The second time, he'd called me a Capitol mutt. Being strangled half to death was less painful.
The eyes of the painting stare into me. They are cold, heartless and unforgiving. And they know my darkest thoughts and deepest secrets. It's as if he's captured the essence of the real me and painted it onto the canvas. And it unnerves me to my very core. I hurriedly turn my back, close the door tightly and head downstairs, my heart frozen still in my chest.
In the kitchen, there is a lump of dough resting on a baking tray on the counter and the oven is hot. I'm guessing Peeta's gone to fetch Haymitch.
I set a pot of coffee on the stove to brew and pour a cup. I sip it slowly, without milk or sugar. It's dark, strong and bitter. I don't mind the taste now. In the living room, I switch on the television set and flick through each station. There's nothing much, but when I stop at the newscast, there's a brief flicker of a familiar face before the screen cuts to the newsreader.
I would know Gale's face anywhere. His chiselled features, black hair, olive-toned skin and grey eyes. Cousins, they called us. I feel a pang of longing, or perhaps loneliness. Like something's missing. I sorely wish we could go back to how we were, before everything. Always at each other's side, supporting and helping each other. We'd grown so close over the years that we'd never talked about being together. It was just assumed that it would happen - it wasn't even a question. Until the reaping and Peeta.
Now I feel like it's either one or the other. I'm too far gone with Peeta now, but there are too many memories and unspoken words with Gale that I wish we could work through. Maybe after, I can have my old friend back.
I turn the cup around in my hands, thinking about it. I suppose that, no matter how close you can become to another person, you can just as easily drift apart. You both change and start to want different things in life. Which is understandable, with Gale and his fiery, revolutionary spirit. But what about Peeta?
After everything we've been through, would Peeta ever want anyone else? Maybe even Delly Cartwright, who was so good and patient with him in Thirteen and is so nice to everybody, even to someone like me. After what the Capitol did to him, will he eventually go back to being the same person as he was before? Always there, supporting me, holding me at night? Because in all honesty...why would he?
The television brings me back to reality. The words of the newsreader and the images on screen sink into my head, lodging themselves in there.
The image is of three men, their faces blurred, their arms handcuffed behind their back as they're led through a cheering crowd.
"The three men are being held without bail, charged with kidnapping and beheading District Eight's head peacekeeper. Five more peacekeeper bodies were found in their headquarters, mutilated beyond recognition."
I turn off the television.
By nine o'clock, Peeta returns with a grumpy Haymitch in tow, who mumbles a greeting of sorts in my direction then heads immediately into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee.
Peeta lingers in the doorway. "Did you sleep okay? Sorry I left a little early. I wanted to make sure this guy was presentable."
I nod. "It was fine. No nightmares. It's been awhile."
I daren't mention the mutt painting. I'm not sure when I'll bring it up, but I don't think it's now. Peeta steps in, kisses me on the top of my head and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He doesn't say anything, but looks me in the eyes as if searching for something. Without another word, he heads to the kitchen and I hear the oven door opening and the baking tray sliding inside. Haymitch and Peeta mutter words to each other, but I can't make them out from here.
I'm trying to decipher the look he gave me just now. Was it worry, concern? Was he looking for the mutt inside me? Perhaps looking for signs that I would snap and go crazy?
Soon, the house fills up with the sweet scent of baking bread and both Peeta and Haymitch sit themselves in the living room while I flick listlessly through the channels, trying to push Gale's face out of my mind. Before we know it, there is a quiet hum of a car engine outside. Haymitch sits up, rubbing his eyes, trying to wake himself. Peeta stands up to open the door and I follow him.
The black Capitol car, sleek, clean and shiny, contrasts with its surroundings. As the car doors swing open, Peeta and I immediately seek each other's hands.
The shape of the man who exits the car is unmistakeable. He's gotten wider, for sure, with that perpetual grin on his face and that happy, content air about him. It's Plutarch and after him comes Fulvia, who shields the sun from her eyes with a black notebook while they both look towards us.
Plutarch's face lights up at the sight of us. "Katniss! Peeta! How are my two favourite rebels doing?"
He comes towards us and wraps us both up in his giant, well-padded arms. Fulvia gives us each a light hug and steps back to look at me, her eyes running over the scars that cover my body. "My goodness, Katniss, you're...so thin!"
"Yeah, well, nice to see you, too," I reply. She's always been disgusted at the scar on my wrist, and now that my body's riddled with scars I'm guessing it's taking her everything not to vomit right there on the porch.
Plutarch takes out his pocket watch. "Look Katniss! Still got it."
He runs his thumb over the glass and the mockingjay shines briefly. I smile in return, but it's difficult trying to push down the sick feeling in my stomach as the mockingjay symbol disappears on the surface of the glass. Haymitch appears in the doorway and with an almost Effie-like air, ushers all of us to the dining table to begin our meeting.
We begin the meeting friendly enough. Spreading the freshly baked bread with wild strawberry preserve, Plutarch exclaims over its deliciousness and Peeta's many talents. I eat as much as I can without feeling sick, determined to bring my weight back up again. There's small talk about the state of the Paylor government and the Capitol. Then over more coffee, we get down to business.
Plutarch brushes the crumbs off his belly and clasps his hands together. "No doubt you've heard that the Tributes Memorial will be opening soon at the Capitol. President Paylor's extended an invitation to all surviving victors to attend the opening ceremony. To coincide with the event, we'd also like to air a series of promotional videos—with your input. We'd like to bring you back."
"Are we not forgetting I'm under district arrest?" I ask.
"You'll be given an official pardon in exchange," Plutarch replies.
I mull it over. "What sort of videos are we talking about here?"
Fulvia clears her throat. "Well, we don't have a final plan as yet. But the idea is that we show some scenes of you and Peeta together. There'll be an interview, and perhaps a few district tours."
"People have been dying to know what's been happening with you two," Plutarch says. "And the more we can show, the better we can pacify them and gain their continued support for the new government."
Haymitch is giving Plutarch an evil eye. "Plutarch hasn't said the half of it. There's dissent amongst Capitol citizens. They're wondering what this war was for, why their children died. We need to give them an answer, a reason. This is the beginning of our campaign. We may have won the war, but we haven't won the game. Yet."
Haymitch is looking at me, referencing last night's conversation. As long as we're playing this game, we need to fight. Because I promised Prim that I would try to win.
"We need to prove that we didn't incite this war for freedom alone; it was a war for humanity itself. The people of Capitol need to acknowledge that," Peeta says. "We'll go to the districts that are most in need. The people need to see that. Other districts need to see it."
Fulvia nods, taking note of Peeta's every word.
"You will both be leading the show," Plutarch indicates to Peeta and I. "After your trial, there was uproar. The general consensus of the population - both in the Capitol and in the districts - is that you're a lunatic."
That doesn't surprise me.
Haymitch interrupts. "We can put a spin in this. People need to see that you've come around, and it's Peeta that helped you. Rebels need to know that they still have their mockingjay. The people in the Capitol need to know that they still have you two lovebirds."
The conversation has moved so quickly that my head is spinning. I lean on the table, and put my head in my hands. Beside me, Peeta shifts in his chair and places his hand on my thigh under the table. His touch is comforting, reassuring, and I slowly come back to reality. "We need to show people the other side of Coin. Hungry for power. So much so that she would have killed me in a heartbeat if I didn't support her."
Fulvia continues to take notes.
Plutarch nods slowly. "So, this is it, then? We're all in?"
Together, the three of us give our assent in nods and murmurs. Forms are passed around and signed and information packs handed to us.
"You'll need to be prepped, of course," Fulvia says, eyeing the both of us. "And full body polishes."
Of course - who in their right mind would want to watch a television show filled with ugly, scarred people?
"Make sure you read through the information packs carefully. We need to start finalising everything straight away!" Plutarch finishes excitedly.
As they both gather their things to head off, I pipe up. "Whatever happened to your idea for the singing show?"
Plutarch gives a jolly laugh. "Oh, that! Well, the president had other plans."
Something tells me that there is more to that than Plutarch lets on, but he brushes it over quickly. They're at the door now. "Oh, how exciting! It'll be like a Victory Tour!"
His words leave a sour taste in my mouth as they say their goodbyes and depart in a flourish. As Peeta closes the door, I hear him mutter under his breath, "A Victory Tour...who are they kidding?"
"Alright, show's over." Haymitch has joined us in the hallway. "Now that we know what's coming, you two need to get reacquainted. Everybody will be expecting our star-crossed lovers back in full form after you were torn apart. You need to be in love with each other more than ever. Got it?"
Usually this topic of conversation is directed at me, so I nod. But I don't want to give Peeta the impression that I'm in love with him only for the sake of appearances.
Because really, I do.