Chapter 4: See Them Every Night
I line up my shot, training my line of vision right down the wood of the arrow and to the squirrel nibbling on a nut several yards away. For a moment, I squint one eye shut, to get my prey in focus, but then I remember my father's advice from when I was a little girl. Keep both eyes open when you shoot - you'll see twice as well.
I fire. The squirrel looks up just in time to see the tip of my arrow go right through its iris. The silence of the woods is broken by clapping.
"Bravo, sweetheart! Right in the eye - every time!"
I brush away the endearing nickname with a laugh. Peeta has called me that since we were children. It annoyed me at first, but eventually I rolled with it. No, what surprises me more is his praise. He knows that I always shoot squirrels right through the eye, making for the cleanest kill? I am surprised that Peeta even cared to notice how precisely I killed the squirrels. I glance away. "Thanks."
I sense Peeta rise from his perch on a log and come over to me. "I know that look," he says. "You're grieving."
I try to brush him away. "No, I just..."
"They were good tributes this year, Katniss. They just... fell short, is all. None of it is your fault, you know."
I turn my gaze back to him, eyes sad. Foolish boy! He thinks that I am blameless. But then again, that's Peeta. He's never done anything but praise me; in fact, I cannot think of a time when he had a harsh word for anyone. I shake my head to clear it.
"Let's... focus on something else. Like how I'm going to teach you to shoot."
Peeta lets out a bark of laughter. "Me? You sure about this, sweetheart?"
"Completely. Here:" I place the bow in his hands and then manipulate him to get into a proper stance. "Raise your shooting arm, up like that... streamlined." I place my hands on his hips to guide his feet. "One foot slightly in front of the other. It helps with balance." I then press my palm into the small of his back, to streamline his posture and get rid of the hunch. "Now, breathe..." I can feel his diaphragm expand under my hands where I have kept them. "Both eyes open... you'll see twice as well... On the exhale... release."
Peeta fires, sending the arrow sailing into the trunk of a dogwood tree.
"Not bad!" I smile. I glance to him to realize he is looking back to me. I am vaguely aware that my hands have still not left his torso. I feel my eyes suddenly grow heavy. "Not bad at all..." I almost whisper. I wait... for... what? Something? I feel nothing, not that physical sensation that I suddenly yearn for, but my fuzzy brain cannot identify.
I open my eyes and retract my hands from Peeta's waist, embarrassed. He clears his throat, depositing the bow next to my game bag.
"Can I show you something?" he suddenly asks. I glance up too quickly, surprised. "It's back at the bakery," Peeta explains. And taking my hand, he leads me out of the woods.
Mellark's Bakery is closed and darkened by the time we reach it. Peeta lets us in through the back loading dock just off the alley. Crossing down a thin hallway, he turns at one door to his left. I follow him down the flight of stairs beyond into what must be the basement. As soon as Peeta flicks on the overhead light, I gasp.
Easel after easel takes up almost the entire floor space. But it is what is on the easels that takes my breath away.
Peeta has painted the Games.
And not just mine, although I do see some key moments - scenes in which I am the key player. There I am dropping the tracker jacker nest on the Careers during the 74th Games. And there I am with Haymitch and our allies, fighting the District 2 Victors on the rocky beach of the 75th Games. Beyond that are images that I did not act in, but I observed and that still haunt me to this day. Like the moment during the 83rd Games when my boy tribute, Ray Kunze, was crushed to death in a rockslide. Or the 77th Games - my second year mentoring - when my female protégé Lorelai Bledel made the Final Eight, only to have her ally betray her and strangle her. The paints and colors jump off the page. The images themselves almost look alive, or at least as if they were captured by a camera.
"What do you think?" Peeta asks the question tentatively, and I realize I have been silent for a few minutes.
I turn back to him, my eyes prickling with tears. "I hate them," I get out, though this is absolutely insincere. Indeed, I actually feel a smile grace my mouth. "How did you paint them so exactly?"
"I see them every night."
I blink, thrown by his honest answer. "How can you have nightmares? You weren't in the Games."
"No. But you were. And I know you must have nightmares. I thought….. it might be therapeutic for you."
The only thing more shocking than Peeta having nightmares over an event he hasn't even been a part of is the fact that he painted all these chillingly accurate images for me. To help me cope. And, in a strange sort of way, they have. Or at least, have set me on that eventual path. Also, I had no idea Peeta even painted, in addition to baking. He's so talented! Is there anything he can't do? My awe at his abilities makes me realize he would be quite the catch for any woman in this district. A kind and decent man who works hard and makes an honest living. You can't say that about every man in Twelve. Yet, I have never seen Peeta with so much as a girlfriend. Or any woman. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I blurt out, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Fire away," he shrugs.
"... Why didn't you ever marry?"
Peeta stares at me for a moment, his brow furrowing at the query. He takes his own sweet time in answering, and even when he does, he only half-meets my gaze. "I did have someone… I wanted to… but she never seemed open to the idea. Had other priorities."
My face falls, and I feel a pang of hurt for him. "Oh... I'm sorry."
He brushes my concern away. "It's not your fault."
