We've signed up to this show, but the next few weeks are spent unsure of when this will all start. So we pass the time together at Haymitch's insistence. I hunt, trade and cook; Peeta bakes and paints; Haymitch drinks, disappearing for days on end only to resurface grumpy as hell. The weather cools and days become shorter, nights longer. Peeta still sleeps with the windows open despite a slight chill creeping in.
Greasy Sae doesn't come to take care of me so often now. I guess I've crossed back over that line, back to almost being normal, whatever that is. I put on more weight and my hair finally begins to grow over the scars on my scalp.
We put away the Tributes book for safe keeping, sealing the pages and placing it in my wooden box, which is now becoming quite full. When Peeta sees what's already inside, he grabs the spile and goes quiet. He stares at it intensely, turning it over in his hands.
"We used it in the second arena," I explain. "To get water from the trees."
Peeta nods and places it back in the box carefully. "Yes—yes, I remember. You couldn't figure out what to do with it and kept digging it into the dirt. But eventually, you realised what it was. We were all so thirsty and the water was warm." He turns and smiles at me, his eyes crinkling warmly. "I'm pretty sure that was real."
I nod, glad that I've finally seen some evidence of Peeta's memory returning. "It was."
Finally, I decide it's time to ask the question. I reach deep within myself, mentally pulling up the image of the mutt painting. The cold grey eyes and thick, glossy black fur flash before me. The fiery plumes that engulfed everything. "Peeta, I saw a painting in your study. It was me, as a mutt. In Twelve as it was being bombed. Why did you paint that?"
Peeta sits down on the edge of the bed, shifting his artificial leg until he's comfortable. I sit beside him.
"Dr Aurelius told me it would be good to bring these memories out in the open. Like the letters, he described it as siphoning out the fake images so that the real ones can return," Peeta says. "Do you think it's just rubbish, what he tells me to do?"
He pauses momentarily and continues before I can respond.
"Because when I have the nightmares, it's as if I'm back there. I can hear Johanna screaming. And then I realise I'm screaming too. And the venom—it was like being brought to the very edge of death time and time again. The pain, the images, the confusion..."
Peeta leans down, resting his elbows on his knees. He puts his head in his hands and rubs his eyes, as if trying to rub away the horrible vision. As if trying to erase it from his mind. "And you... I didn't know what to make of you. I'm sorry that I hurt you. I never explained why I tried to strangle you when I first saw you. Believe me I think about it every day. Or when I threw you and tried to crush your head in with the gun. I was out of my mind. I've tried to kill you so many times, yet you still want to be with me. Don't you see?!" Peeta looks up at me, his fists clenched, his knuckles white. "I've been broken. Maybe I could snap just like that and kill you the very next second!"
I keep calm. I place my hand gently on his shoulder. "That wasn't you who did those things, Peeta, that was the Capitol. Remember what you said? I don't want to be another piece in their games. They tried to break you, but they didn't win," I say. "They didn't win."
I cup my hand to his cheek as the other brushes his blonde hair back from his forehead. His eyes are red and his thick lashes are damp. Gently, I trace my fingers across the burn scars that line the side of his face and neck. I'm not sure what to do next as I look into his blue eyes. Deep within them lies a pain that I sorely wish I could heal. But how?
He places his hand on the nape of my neck. It rests there for a short second before he pulls me forward forcefully and suddenly lips are on mine. We kiss. Not the polite, closed-lip type of kiss, not like before. This is a rough, wet, open-mouthed kiss where I can taste him on my tongue and feel him in my mouth and it leaves us both panting for air. This one isn't for show.
What I feel at that moment is stronger than before; an urge that makes me want to go on, to explore and discover. But he pulls away, leaving me gasping, and there is an awkward silence. I wish I knew what he was thinking.
After a while, he pauses. "Don't you miss Gale?"
I look up at him. Is this really what has been weighing on his mind? "If you mean, when I hunt, then yes, a little. But in general? No. It's more of a relief."
"I saw him on television. A squad leader now in District Two," Peeta says.
I don't know why we're talking about him.
"Good for him," I reply. I can tell that he's noticed the tone of resentment in my voice as I busy myself with rearranging my precious possessions in the box and closing it tightly. He's quiet while I put it back in my closet, safe and sound. But when he speaks again, it's only to punch another hole in my heart. "Have you spoken to your mother?"
There's a pang in my chest when he asks that and I stop. Since I went on my downward spiral, I hadn't spoken to her, or not for very long. She called, but I mostly kept the conversation short. I didn't want to reveal too much about the extent of my depression and be the one to drag her back here. I knew it would be too painful for her.
"No," I say, turning around. "Not lately. I should probably call to tell her the good news."
"I was just about to suggest that," he says.
I snort as I head into the study. When my mother picks up, she's enthusiastic to say the least. I ask her about the hospital. It was completed a couple of weeks ago and now she's training nurses. She asks me what I've eaten for the day. A bowl of Greasy Sae's soup and some bread rolls. Not a whole lot. I promise her I'll go hunting tomorrow and get some meat into me. Besides, I'm sure Hazelle wants some meat for her kids as well. My mother says she has to head back to the hospital for another training session.
She can't wait to see me on television.
The phone goes silent and I'm left staring at the wall. It's an empty expanse of white. As I stare at it, my eyes confuse the distance between the wall and me. I feel dizzy; it's as if I've floated up from my body and am looking down on it, but at the same time I can feel the emotions going through me. That strange empty feeling in my chest has returned, that hole, the black empty pit of nothingness. The depression, the sadness. And the return of this blackness makes me furious. I've come so far. It makes me want to take something and throw it against the wall, or overturn the desk, or take the chair and smash it through the window. But my hands are shaking too much and I can't grasp on to anything. My breaths shorten and I glance wildly around the room in panic, searching for something to hold on to.
I stagger to the bathroom, clinging on to the wall for support. I try to calm the shaking by running my hands under the hot water tap, but it's not enough. I need the soap, I need the scour...I need...I don't even know anymore. I don't even know why simply talking to my mother has caused this reaction, has caused me to cross over that line again, back to that craziness.
The scrubbing starts to hurt. My hands are scratched and the water runs pink, but it's not enough. It feels like it'll never be enough. I will never be able to clean away the guilt no matter how long or how hard I scrub. As I continue to wash, a cry escapes my throat. Why am I being like this? Didn't they call me the girl on fire? They said I had spirit. Where's it gone?
That familiar, painful lump in my throat has returned and hot wet tears run down my face. I hear the door open and Peeta's footsteps as he enters the room. I see the sombre reflection of his face in the mirror. His hand reaches out from behind me and turns off the tap. Without a word, he gently takes my hands, covering them with a towel and begins to pat them dry gently.
My sobbing stops, but the tears still course down my cheeks and my nose is running. He turns my hands over, inspecting them and takes a jar of balm, one of my mother's concoctions, and begins massaging it into my raw hands, all over my palms and fingers. It's soothing, as if rubbing away at the edges of that black emptiness inside me. He takes the towel and wipes the wetness from my face and draws me into his arms, warm and safe.
He doesn't say a word. Nothing like, "Everything will be okay," or, "Don't worry." He knows I don't want to hear it. He knows that these won't have any meaning behind them. Because those types of sentiments aren't real.
Instead, he leads me downstairs and prepares supper. We finish off the stew. I'm nauseated by the smell, but I force it down. I don't retch, so at least that's something. And then we sleep. Nothing more.
The next morning, Peeta asks me to take him hunting again and to teach him to use a bow. He urges me on, despite the doubtful expression on my face, and finally I agree. My hands are dry and cracked and it's difficult to get dressed, but I finally make it, slinging my hunting satchel over my shoulder. Hand-in-hand, we set off towards the meadow, through the fence and into the woods.
The walk is slower than usual, on account of Peeta's leg, but it doesn't matter. Once through the fence, I begin to feel better, taking deep breaths of the fresh, cool air, relishing the scent of trees and earth. Around me, the woods are alive with green leaves and birds that flit from branch to branch, calling out in sing-song tones. I lead him to the hollow tree trunk and hand him one of my bows, taking my own favourite bow and a quiver of arrows. We head to the rock shelf where we put our things and rest for a little while. It's there that I first get him to practise shooting.
"Place your feet apart, directly beneath your shoulders. Stand sideways," I instruct.
He shifts his foot a awkwardly. The target is a tree trunk standing about ten metres away. Easy enough.
"Load the arrow."
He readies the bow and lines up the arrow. I can see the muscles in his arms rippling under his t-shirt as he pulls it back. He has that look in his eyes when he's focused and in his own little world, like when he's drawing or baking. I'm almost too caught up staring at him before I only just remember to focus. "When you're ready, fire."
The arrow misses completely.
"It's okay, the first one always misses with a new bow because you need to get a feel for the tension. You'll get the hang of it," I say.
He tries a few more times. I correct the positioning of his elbows a little and tell him to relax. He's standing too straight, too tensed up in his shoulders. The release of the arrow is making his muscles jerk, causing him to miss most of the time.
"You're so good at this," he says.
I shrug. "I've had years of practise, and a really good teacher."
After a few more tries, we go and collect the arrows.
"Shall we hunt, now?" I suggest, even though I know quite well that the noise he makes will scare away any chances of bagging anything.
Peeta shakes his head. "There's a few blackberry bushes. I'm gonna scrounge around a little. We'd probably end up starving, considering the noise I make."
I nod. We agree to meet back at the rock shelf in two hours and I set off. I'm in the mood for an easy, meaty catch so I head to the lake where I know there'll be plenty of water fowl. I don't want to take Peeta there, not yet. It's the place that only my father and I shared and I want to keep it that way, for now.
I catch three on the banks of the lake. There's nothing challenging about shooting water fowl. They don't expect it, and in less than a second, they're dead. Silently, I thank them for giving me their life so that I can get stronger, keep living.
When I get back to the rock, Peeta's gathered quite the collection of blackberries, which he's placed in a cloth bag that sits atop the shelf. He's also found the wild strawberry patch and comments that it was all overgrown and covered in netting.
"Oh, Gale and I put that up to stop animals from getting at them," I explain.
Peeta goes quiet. "Oh, I see. Nifty."
"Well, it worked," I indicate to his pile. "What are you going to do with all that?"
"I'll bake them into small cakes. The rest I'll preserve and give them around town, along with the bread."
I'd forgotten. Since he came back, he spent most of his time baking for the families that had trickled in to the district to restart their lives. He singlehandedly ensured that these families, especially those with young children, were kept fed. And what had I been doing all that time? Selfishly wallowing in my own depression.
We gather our things and make our way back, picking dandelion leaves and digging up wild onions for our greens. When we arrive at my place, I scald the birds, pluck them and clean them. I stuff the insides with wild onions and set them to roast while Peeta puts aside some of the berries for his cakes. The rest he puts into a pot with sugar, which he sets to boil. It perfumes the air with their sweet, berry scent. He then makes a batch of a dozen small blackberry cakes and lets them cool.
We bring the small feast to Haymitch's and together, we eat roasted water fowl with dandelion greens and finish off the blackberry cakes for dessert. Peeta and Haymitch argue about politics. I have half a glass of liquor, but even then it's too much and I don't want to overdo it like the first time.
When night falls and Peeta and I are walking back to his house, I realise that the meal was the first time I ate without thinking. I didn't feel nauseated. I didn't retch. I just ate. Maybe it was the act itself, of putting the meal together. From catching the birds, to picking the greens, and the process of preparing the meal. It was like therapy, a window back to the old times, before the rebellion. I grasp Peeta's hand in mine as we get to his house. Maybe that's it, that's what I need to do.
Upstairs, I kick my shoes off and crawl into bed. Peeta gets in beside me as I tell him my theory.
"Isn't that what Dr Aurelius told you to do?" He asks. "Keep up with the activities that you used to do before the Games?"
I bite my lip, resting my head on the pillow. "I'm not sure. All he did was sleep during our sessions and he stopped calling me a while ago."
"Or you never pick up the phone."
"I pick up when you call."
"That's because you know it's me."
That's true. I can see his number on the display of the telephone.
"Promise me you'll call him tomorrow," Peeta urges gently. I try think of ways to get around this, but come up with nothing. Finally, I relent.
So the next morning, I call him. Dr Aurelius's raspy voice sounds through the earpiece, asking me how I've been doing. I don't beat around the bush and answer honestly. I was in a bad way, but something changed within me and I feel that I'm getting better now, less depressive. He encourages me to keep with the activities—hunting, cooking, going to the market, socialising. I tell him I'll try my best. He wants to arrange a meeting when I get to the Capitol for a face-to-face session and we leave it at that.
Over the next few weeks, Peeta and I grow closer together. Not as close as before, but it's an improvement from the awkward exchanges, shifting eyes and periods of silence. He's still cold at times, and there are moments when I catch him staring into the distance as his eyes become clouded. That familiar tortured look passes over his face for a few seconds. His muscles tense and his hands clench into fists to the point where his knuckles become white. And then it suddenly clears and he's back to normal. I keep my distance during those moments.
My skin's looking better and I feel myself becoming stronger every day and filling out my clothes.
The autumn leaves begin to fall, covering the ground with a crispy brown, orange and yellow coating. It makes hunting that little bit harder, but I like the challenge. And when it rains, the ground becomes soft and I tread through the forest like a lynx, quiet and deadly. The animals are unaware of the danger that lurks in the woods when I hunt.
One day, I finally shoot a rabbit. It was sitting in a patch of warm sunlight, almost camouflaged from view. I moved as slowly as possible to get a good shot. No quick moves, otherwise the rabbit would have disappeared in a flash. A few deep breaths - one, two, and on the third exhale, I let my arrow fly.
When I go to collect it's still-warm body, I see the arrow has pierced it right through the left eye. A trickle of blood runs down its fur as I pull the arrow out and wipe it clean. Greasy Sae will be pleased.
I shove the rabbit into my bag, along with a few pigeons that I've also managed to score that afternoon. I'll give these to Hazelle for the kids. Rejuvenated with my winnings, I head back into town and straight for Greasy Sae's new stall.
I've asked her not to come by anymore; I've told her that I'll be okay and she understood. Right after that, she claimed a space in the town square and restarted her business. As I approach the stall, I pull the rabbit out of my pack and lay it triumphantly on the bench.
"Beautiful! Right through the eye to boot!" Greasy Sae is all smiles, showing her sparse teeth and wrinkling her leathery skin as I take a seat at the stool across from her. She winks at me and I find myself smiling too.
Thom pulls up a stool beside me. "Nice one, Kat! You shoot me one of those?"
I shrug. "What've you got in return?"
Thom pats down his pockets and he deflates like a flat balloon. "Dang it, I got nothing."
"Well then, stop taking up my space so that real customers can eat!" Greasy Sae interjects, but it's a good natured taunt. She puts a bowl of stewed white beans and salted pork in front of me and I dig in.
"At least Greasy Sae feeds me in exchange. What would you do?" I ask, my mouth half chewing on a chunk of tender chicken.
Thom shrugs and rests his elbow on the bench. Then he pulls a strange move—he lowers his eyelids and winks seductively at me, the corner of his mouth curved in a cheeky grin. "We can go and find out."
I almost spit out half-chewed beans in his face as I burst out laughing. "Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen."
Thom's a live one. I didn't know him that well before, but we've now become good friends. In his mid-twenties, he's not yet married and works to support his younger brother and sister. His parents both died in the bombing.
"Not if I can help it," Peeta's voice sounds beside me and I turn around. I hadn't heard him approaching. His voice sounds friendly enough, but there's a cold hint in his tone that's made it slightly awkward and his eyes, steely blue, dart between the two of us.
"Well, this must be one of your real customers," Thom says to Greasy Sae as he gets off the stool. "You keep up the good work with her Peeta, or I might have to take over."
"That won't be necessary," Peeta replies sharply as he takes Thom's place beside me. Another situation that throws this Peeta and my old Peeta in sharp relief.
"Lookin' good, Kat. See you around." Thom taps my shoulder as he heads off in the direction of his home near the Mayor's old house.
Peeta places a brown paper bag in front of Greasy Sae. "For you and Juniper."
"It must be my birthday," she responds, putting her nose in the bag and breathing in the scent of the freshly baked bread. I push my plate across to Peeta. It's a big serving and my stomach is already bulging.
"You don't like him," I ask. Actually, it's more of a statement than a question.
"Well, I don't hate him," Peeta says as he finishes off my dinner. "I just don't like the way he looks at you. Like..."
"Like what?"
I glance at Greasy Sae, but she's pretending to wipe down her bench, feigning sudden deafness at the sudden awkward turn of conversation.
"Nothing. Forget it."
"Thom's a friend. About one of the only other friends I have. You don't know him like I do," I counter.
"I'll take your word for it," Peeta says as he scrapes the plate. "Thanks, Greasy Sae."
"Thank you, you know June loves your rolls," she replies, closing off her stove and packing her things on to her trolley. We help her with her pots and dishes and she urges us to come by tomorrow for some rabbit.
"It's called Fillet Mignon," she says proudly. "I found the recipe in a very old book."
"I can't wait," I tell her.
The weight in my hunting bag reminds me that I've still got to give the pigeons to Hazelle. After dropping them off, we walk back to the Victor's Village hand in hand. The sun is setting slowly on the horizon. It layers the sky with the soft orange that Peeta likes, and deep purple and dark blue.
I feel that finally, now, I can say that I've completely crossed that line and have come far. Sure, there've been moments that are tough, but in my last call with Dr Aurelius, he's suggested something interesting.
When I start to fall into that familiar feeling of emptiness, that despair and darkness, I just need to remember one thing. I need to remember something good. It doesn't have to be a big thing or anything world-changing. Just something small. And today, from that moment I caught the rabbit, I knew it would be a good day.