This pain is excruciating.
I had gone through plenty of pain before the revolution. My father's death, my mother's weary yet constant denial, our near starvation, the imprisonment of the one person on the face of this earth who understood me, two savage and unfair Hunger Games, games where people with lives, hopes, and dreams were all murdered callously. I survived all of that, not easily, but I had. I guess there's just never a way to come out on top after going through something like that.
My trembling, hungry stomach, my excruciating burns and cuts in both arenas, I would multiple that pain by a thousand times and it still wouldn't be as heartbreaking and painful as losing her. My sister. My Prim.
The Prim who sat by our house fires with her goat Lady, the Prim who flew into any medical scare with such grace and calm assurance it was impossible to believe she was only fourteen. The Prim who let her shirttail hang out like a little duck the day of the reaping, who had soft blonde hair and bright blue eyes that promised compassion, yet ferocity: a peacemaker, yet a fighter. Who accompanied my mother, emulated my father, and laughed with Peeta and Haymitch at the sight of peppermints that cold winter night before everything changed. So wise, so loving, so much to offer.
So young.
These thoughts coarse through my veins, numbing them and turning them a deadly cold. My arms feel like rubber and for a moment, I feel as if my blood is actually running cold and drying out, slowly evaporating as any brief respite of life inside me vanishes. I had never imagined this kind of loss before. The kind that turns you cold, forces your lips into a straight line, diminishes your fight to live. My heart feels swollen, ready to combust and crack, weighed down with the heavy memories of her last moments. Her lips forming my name, so close and real, just as those white parachutes fell from the sky like raindrops. The flames, engulfing her, me, everything. I begin to hear a ringing in my ears as I begin to tremble, trying to fight off the fiery memory which will always be branded onto my mind. It takes me an excruciating few minutes to realize the ringing resounding in my ears is from my ear-splitting screaming. I stop once I realize I am almost out of breath, stomach heaving and lungs gasping for air.
I am at my home in the Victor's Village, on my couch in the dark, in the cold, not bothering to build a fire or reach for a blanket. I haven't moved, only to go the bathroom and eat the meals Greasy Sae makes for me. Bacon and eggs in the morning, soup and sandwiches for lunch, and stew and loaves of bread for dinner. It has been this way for as long as I can remember, the time flying by. I can't remember if I have been here one day, one month, one year… My mind fogs over and simply waits the day out until the gray sky turns into black night. Greasy Sae constantly talks to me about Haymitch's geese and Paylor's election and the weather outside, which is slowly morphing from bitter cold into a more hopeful spring. She rambles again one day as she stands at the stove, stirring my lunchtime soup as I stroke Buttercup on the couch, wrapped in two wool blankets. The fire crackles, puffing out little whiffs of musk and wood. With the sunlight slanting in through the windows, I can tell today's weather is sunnier, warmer. I'm just thinking Greasy Sae will comment on the cloudless day when she says something that finally breaks me out of my sleeping reverie, causing my face to portray the first emotion it has since that horrible day that ended the war. The expression I wear now in reaction to Sae's words is one of both pain and confusion.
Her words make me focus my attention, but at least I am relieved I feel no sense of longing or desire. Only a sense of relief.
'Gale's apparently in District 2 nowadays, executing some of the commanding Peacekeepers. I thought you would want to know. I've been seeing him on the television a lot lately." I can tell Greasy Sae is worried she has offended me and probably carefully weighed this decision to mention Gale. It doesn't hurt me as much as I thought. I don't really know him anymore, and that's what hurts more than anything. The war has ruined any hope of salvaging our friendship.
Greasy Sae stirs the pot thoughtfully, turning to look at me. "The weather is great. Why don't you get out today?"
Her face is hopeful, even pleading, so I muster all the strength I can manage to lift myself off of the cushions and trudge upstairs. I find myself feverishly grateful that I have climbed up these stairs once already since my return to throw out the one thing polluting my room, soaking into my pours, into my very being. I brace my nostrils, expecting to still smell that sweet yet sour fearful scent permeating throughout the upper level of my house. I take a tiny whiff, and to my relief, I smell nothing but must and dusty furniture. I grab my father's hunting jacket and boots, wincing briefly at the memories surging through my mind before looping my hair into a braid and stomping down the stairs.
"I'm going hunting today," I tell Sae, turning around to leave. I don't look at her expression, but I'm guessing she's more than a little shocked.
"Well, I could use some fresh game around here," is all she says.
The woods are alive and hopeful, my favorite kind of day. Early spring, birds chirping, wind blowing with the smell of grass lingering in the breeze. Even now, in my broken state, I feel the best I have since I returned home. I now realize I should have done this sooner, come to the woods that I love so much, escaped the painful, caged up memories of my house. I lose track of time completely, trekking and picking a few berries from bushes. I shoot one squirrel right in the eye, thinking of Greasy Sae's stew. It's not as clean a skinning job as I used to manage, but I don't care. It's something at least.
By the time I return to the house, I am exhausted from the lack of movement since returning to Twelve. I hand Greasy Sae the meat, and collapse on the couch, scarfing down a dinner so I can finally succumb to sleep. Only hours later I wake up from a terrible, scream-inducing nightmare that makes me tremble and grit my teeth so hard I wouldn't be surprised if my jaw fractured. All I want is a peaceful, happy sleep that brings happy dreams, like the child in the meadow in the song my father used to sing me. To calm myself, I begin to sing the song of sweet dreams and safety, my father's song. My voice is rough, scratchy from screaming and hoarse with pain as tears drizzle down my cheeks. Nevertheless, I begin.
"And here your dreams are sweet, and tomorrow brings them true, here is the place where I love you…" My voice saturates the darkness of the room as I try to compose myself. Suddenly, I just want to feel comforted and loved and… not alone. I realize in this moment, hair sticking to my forehead with sweat and panting heavily, that the isolation I chose when returning home was the worst possible thing for me. I just want someone who knows me, understands me, loves me. And for the first time since the end of the war, I focus on something other than Prim's death and my grief.
Peeta.
The thought of him makes the very pits of my stomach tingle with excitement, longing, desire, even fear. Has this war turned him back into the screaming hijacked boy? Does he even remember he loves me? I never asked him as we invaded the Capitol because I just couldn't form the words without breaking down. I had needed him then more than ever when he still felt so distant, but now I want him even more. I want those blue eyes to stare into mine and tell me everything's going to be okay. I want his strong, broad arms wrapped around me, protecting me from so much. I want the boy with the bread, who knows all my secrets, the best and the worst, front to back, but loves me despite all of that. I want the one person who can bring me hope, become my dandelion in this unforgiving world of ours.
And only he can give me that.
I wonder where he is, thinking of the cold and calculating hospital rooms in the Capitol. He is probably there, resting, recovering, and talking to Dr. Aurelieus until he can be granted permission to leave. Will he come back to Twelve? I don't want to get my hopes up, considering he could want to have nothing to do with me, this painful burden from his past that makes all those shiny memories so much more confusing. I push these thoughts out of my head and stare at the wooden ridges in the ceiling, thinking about what I truly want out of a relationship with Peeta, beyond thankful when light begins to stream through my window and it can be acceptable to wake up.
After a routine breakfast with Greasy Sae, I notice she begins to pace, staying long after her normal departure time. She pulls on her gray locks, fidgeting and pacing until I can't take it anymore.
"What?" I demand, standing up from the breakfast table.
"Oh, nothing, Katniss. I'm just so glad you are at least functioning again." Her drawl disguises her lie well. If I hadn't grown up to her soothing, wise voice, I wouldn't have known better that she was trying to fool me.
"Right…." I say, my words sure. "Spit it out." I sound harsh, but I can't help it. After everything that's happened, I think I can handle this minute truth.
She glances at me and apparently something in my expression softens her, because now she's looking at me with tears in her eyes and sighs deeply. "I'm just so proud of how far you've come Katniss. That's why I don't want to set you back to square one with all these people from your past and-"
I cut her off. "People?"
"Nothing," Greasy Sae says, gathering her knife and trading bag. "I have to get going. I'll be back for lunch." As if I didn't know that already.
After she leaves, I spend a few minutes pacing my kitchen trying to decipher who Sae meant by "people" before I decide to take a walk to clear my head. As I walk down the stairs of my porch, I'm hit with a memory of my mother and Prim, laughing on the porch swing, Peeta trying to paint pictures of them. I've been thinking about him all morning since last night when I wished he was there to comfort me. But now, the memory only hurts. I haven't just lost Prim: I've lost him too.
My face contorts in pain as I fly down the stairs, trying to escape the pain more quickly. That's when I hear the scraping. Curious and all-too-defensive, I round the corner of the house, expecting to find a fanged lizard or a ton of white roses being buried in the ground. Instead, I find something almost ironically shocking. My boy with the bread, my Peeta, stands there, a shovel in his hand as he pats a soft-edged, pretty bush into the sun-soaked soil. My mouth locks into place and I can't speak. It's really him. I revel in his healthiness, his eyes no longer clouded. They are clear solid blue, even though he is still thinner than usual. There is still a burn scar above his eye, but it doesn't matter. It's still him.
'Katniss?" he asks gently, taking in my appearance. Considering I'm disheveled and much thinner than I am when I'm healthy, his lips turn down slightly into a frown. I become defensive automatically. I try to shake it off, knowing he's only concerned.
"You're back," I say.
"Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta explains. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone."
I ignore his comment. "What are you doing?" I ask, glancing at the bush he holds gingerly.
"I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her. I thought we could plant them along the side of the house." His eyes are staring straight into mine, trying to read me. As I look at the bush, I notice the rose. My nostrils curl and I'm about to yell at him, until I realize they are primrose bushes. The flower my sister was named for. So I just nod quickly and hurry inside, collapsing on the couch as my chest beings to ache. I try to calm myself down by reminding myself Peeta is here, which is a good thing. I have him. Even if our relationship is complicated and I'm not sure what he or I want, he's still here. Now I finally understand what Greasy Sae was talking about when she mentioned "people from my past". How wrong she was though. All I want is an old friend, who understands what has happened to me, everything from loss to the arena, someone has been there through it all.
I think of Peeta as I sit in the house, wondering what our next conversation will be like. It's been so long since I haven't thought of him as hijacked and indifferent that I don't know how much he remembers, how much he cares for me. How close are we still, or has our bond dissolved? I shudder into sleep at that thought, hoping for the first time in a very long time that in the morning I will be able to relive the past in a happy way, in a way with Peeta.
That doesn't end up being as easy as I hoped.
Every day now I go out into the woods, picking berries and hiking, even contemplate going to my father's lake. The one thing I never do is hunt. After shooting the squirrel for Greasy Sae the first time I came out into the woods a few days ago, I had a nightmare involving my arrow piercing something much more precious than a tiny little rodent. Humans cried as my arrows whizzed by and struck the desired target. They were strangers, but so were all the people I purposely and inadvertently killed in Panem.
I don't get the chance to see Peeta again. He's busy baking, tending to Haymitch, and so on as I heard from Greasy Sae. I want to go to his house during the night, curl up to him to ward off the dreams just like I used to. It's more complicated than that though. I'm not sure what he wants, and I'm too afraid to ask for fear of rejection. I can't bear to lose someone else, even if not even trying results in another relationship never rekindled. Better to stop it before it even has the chance to start and end in heartbreak. At least this is my reoccurring thought whenever I find myself tempted to meet Peeta, until this night.
It is a warm night. The slightly warmer days have become even muggier. At night, there is a cool, soft breeze that billows in my windows and prickles my skin, but tonight, there is no moon, the outside air stagnant and humid. No gust, no breeze, no outside force to pick up the scattered pieces of night and make them drift into a wind. Just night.
I wake with a scream already building in my throat. As soon as my eyes fly open, bugging as I frantically glance around the room, the scream releases. It shoots into the air, reverberating in my ears. I idly wonder as my screams slowly turn into sobbing blubbers if Haymitch or Peeta or even anyone in the world can hear my cries. If they did, would they even come to comfort me? I'm not so sure anymore.
When I've finally calmed down enough, I decide I can't take it anymore. I need to get out of this stuffy room, take a walk, clear my head. I'm past my porch and beginning to walk towards the entrance to the Victor's Village when someone grabs my arm. Okay, so "grabs" is a little too rough of a word. It was more of a gentle grasp, but I still react as if someone has electrocuted me. I freeze before whipping around and twisting out of their grasp. I'm about to bolt off through the iron gates and never come back until I glance around to meet his curious eyes. Concerned, soft, loving, and bright blue. I immediately relax.
"What was that?" I ask, stumbling back a few feet. "You scared me so much!" I'm almost giddy with relief that it's only him, only Peeta, until I remember it's only him. It's him. A mere two feet away, standing with a healthy glow radiating out of him, reaching out to me. For a second I almost forget the hardships of this past week as I just stare, dumbfounded, into those cerulean blue eyes that softly melt my chest, relax my muscles, assure me without any words. Unconsciously I lean forward. This surprises me, considering I never used to have to try so hard to stay away from him, until now, which as his eyes widen considerably, I can tell he's thinking the same thing. I quickly shake it off, regaining composure just as he is about to start talking.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, his blue eyes genuinely concerned. "I didn't mean to scare you. I heard you, and was going to come see if you were all right when I noticed you were leaving." His eyebrows raise at this idea, asking me a silent question. Why were you trying to leave?
I would have responded with an "oh, thanks" right away, but my brain locks onto his words, branding them into memory. He came to see me, be with me, and comfort me. My heart swells, not even realizing that the pause has gotten a little too long and possibly awkward.
"Oh, right um. Thank you." I stutter awkwardly. I can see in his eyes that he clearly has observed my matted hair, tear-streaked cheeks, and red eyes. He looks as if he wants to say something, but he bites it back.
A small smile touches his lips as he hears my uncomfortable response. I hope he hasn't put together the fact that I was gazing at him a little too intently. I just stand there, my arms crossed across my chest, suddenly freezing despite the thick, warm air.
"I have them too," he says suddenly.
Maybe it's his tone of voice or the look in his eyes, or maybe even just the fact that I've known him so long, shared so much with him, that leads me to the conclusion without a doubt he is talking about nightmares.
I nod slightly, but he understands. He steps forward hesitantly. "I couldn't bear to hear it without doing anything. I know I would want someone to come for me."
"I could never tell when you were having nightmares, though," I offer, pushing my hair out of my eyes.
'Right," he says. I can tell he's trying not to say something. "Well, that's changed some since you've been… gone."
He won't say out loud into the open air the fact that it's been forever since we slept together in that bed to keep each other's bad dreams at bay. But I know that's what he means. So he must be confused on how close we are now too.
"Katniss," he begins, gently, and I can tell he's about to spit it out, something that's been on his mind. "Let's be friends. I'm not sure where your feelings stand, and mine-" he falters, then recovers composure so quickly I think I might have imagined it. "I—I want to give you what you want."
His statement confuses me, but I don't have the courage to ask him what he wants. So I nod again, not as coldly. He relaxes visibly and smiles. "Okay, good." Then he stares at me with those blue eyes, his smile lighting up his face in my old, favorite way. The smile that shows him for what he is, which is good. He's good through and through.
He moves forward the slightest bit towards me. My hands ache to reach out and hold his, just for the feeling of safety.
"I've missed you," he whispers, his eyes sparkling against the night. His soft words permeate into the still night, lingering in the air. I can't help but smile in return.
Maybe it's my loneliness, or the fact that I realize Peeta is finally back, truly back, as his kind, gentle self, but I blurt my honest feelings without thinking about it. "I've missed you more," I breathe, closing the space between us and wrapping my arms tightly around his neck. His hands slid up my back, which makes me shiver, but not because I'm cold. He buries his face in my hair and silent tears roll down my cheeks because I'm so glad I have him back. Someone to lean on, confide in. The places where his skin touches mine tingle slightly with a heat, slowly spreading through my body to the very tips of my fingers and toes. He murmurs soothing words as my cries become audible and I begin to clutch him tighter. And just like that night on the train before the Quarter Quell, I know I won't be the first to let go.