He came often. I'm not sure how often. But it didn't matter much. I tried to ignore his efforts as much as possible. I didn't want to survive this. In fact, if I'd had more energy I'd probably have made sure I didn't survive any longer. But, as it stood, I lacked the energy to do anything but actively ignore my nosy neighbor.
His gaze did not falter. In fact, with each encounter he seemed to look only more resolute. His touch could not have been softer; his focus could not have been harder.
One day, the background noise that came and went involved Peeta and Haymitch.
Haymitch's voice sounded angry, maybe even aggressive.
I could sense frustration in Peeta's voice and the echo of irritation in Haymitch's.
"Katniss wants to die, then let her! Stop caring so much! Go live your life! Staying in this festering hole's not going to do a damn thing!"
"I can't leave her! You know I can't, stop asking me to."
Did they know or care that I could hear them?
"Your methods aren't working. If you want to get through to her, this obviously isn't going to do the trick."
"Oh. And what do you suggest?"
There voices dropped. I could hear nothing else.
Peeta stopped coming over for a while. So, I lay on the couch and watched the memories slide across my train of thought. I let my hair knot and mat, and let my body waste.
I lived in a semiconscious state; never quite a sleep, but never in the world around me, always in my mind, trapped and refusing to look for an exit. This would be my end, and I rejoiced in the finality of it. I could leave it all. I could be free of this world, this burned earth.
I heard a crashing sound outside my house. Perhaps they were re-bombing the area. Let one hit me, I prayed.
A moment later my front door swung wide smashing against its hinges and leaving a doorknob-sized hole in the wall.
"This isn't my house!" Peeta shouted far louder than necessary. Then, as if he were drunk he whirled around and fell ungracefully to the ground. Slumped against the wall he stared at me with glazed eyes.
"This isn't my house," he repeated.
On closer inspection I noticed that Peeta was unkempt, his shirt buttoned up the wrong way, no shoes on, and something spilled down his front. He looked like he was drunk, because he was in fact drunk: fall over yourself, puke and don't notice, don't know your own name DRUNK.
I was shocked.
It was the first time I had felt anything really in ages and it was overwhelming. I felt myself begin to hyperventilate, my most common coping mechanism.
"What did you do to my house?" He slurrily asked, followed by a resounding hiccup.
And then I spoke for the first time since I had arrived back in District 12. "Peeta." It was all I could think to say.
He worked unsuccessfully at rising, while I attempted the same thing. My arms would not obey me; I was so weak. I pushed with all my strength to get myself upright. It was an arduous task and took several long moments.
In this time Peeta had managed to get himself standing. He was leaning precariously against the open door, which wobbled and tapped the wall as he worked to steady himself.
"I'm drunk," He informed me.
"Why?" apparently I was limited to single word conversations.
"Why not?"
He traced his fingers along the wall for support, leaving the front door yawning open. He took several steps towards me and said, in the most serious and sad voice I had ever heard, "I give up. I don't know why I even bothered."
Then reaching into his back pocket he pulled out a glass bottle similar in size and character to the bottles that never leave Haymitch's side. He uncoordinatedly twisted off the top and flopped into a seated position next to me on the couch.
I tipped myself in the other direction, lay down and attempted to find my way back into my mind. But, the boy next to me began retching and I was unable to escape the ugliness of the world around me and get back to the ugliness of my sub-consciousness.
I had cared for Haymitch enough times to know Peeta would need water. I tried for what seemed like hours, attempting to walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. My body was too weak and I had to crawl the majority of the distance.
Getting the glass back across the room was a torment of focus. I spilled a good portion of the glass but did make it back to an unconscious Peeta, sprawled haphazardly across my couch.
He was covered in bile and other stomach contents. I'm sure it would have smelled bad, if I had showered recently and could smell anything over my own reek.
I crossed my legs and leaned against the base of the couch trying to catch my breath. I nudged the legs in front of me with all my strength. They barely moved. With more determination than I realized I had I poked and prodded until I got a response.
He looked at me confused for a long time. I'm not sure it because he didn't recognize me at first, or if instead it was because he couldn't understand why I was sitting at his feet, attempting to lift a half-glass of water in his direction.
He took the glass from me and drank it down.
He face still looked perplexed.
"Thank you" he whispered.
I didn't respond, but stared up at him, mirroring his confusion.
"I should go." He said just then. And then he left. Shutting the door quietly as he stumbled towards his own house.
I crawled to the kitchen, making it to the window just in time to see him barge unceremoniously into his own home, the lights flicking on as he moved from room to room.
Making my way to the kitchen table I pulled myself onto a wooden chair and sat, staring at his house, wondering why the world felt as though it had shifted.
Unable to find my way back into my own torture chamber of a mind, I found myself thinking I ought to eat something.