I stayed in the kitchen all night. The lights across the lawn separating our houses blared all night. They were on in the morning, but harder to see. He didn't leave the house. Nothing seemed to be moving.
After gorging myself on a few slices of stale bread from the refrigerator I felt bloated and sick. I forced myself to keep the food in my stomach and by mid-morning the feeling of nausea eased away and I forced myself to eat another slice.
By noon I had still seen no movement from Peeta's house. I wasn't worried about him. I was really just curious, and that feeling felt so novel I sort of relished it. I didn't have the capacity for worry. I couldn't fathom the responsibility of caring for another human being; I couldn't even care for myself.
So, I sat and I watched. As things remained static I grew bored. I had not been bored in ages. I had not felt as though I had been waiting in ages. When was the last time I had waited for something to happen? I couldn't remember. I had just been. I had just existed. Barely.
In the afternoon the front door opened and Peeta spilled out. He tumbled and tripped down his steps and in the opposite direction of my house. His balance was still unreliable and he went from tree to tree as if his life depended on it.
He then disappeared inside Haymitch's house.
My curiosity was piqued. My curiosity had not been piqued for so long. I was riveted and it was so strange. I felt like getting out the popcorn to see what might happen next. I may not have been re-inspired to live my own life, but I was suddenly interested in watching the life of someone else.
A few minutes later Peeta reemerged. Under each of his arms were three liquor bottles. He had a dealer it would seem.
As he walked with great determination towards his own front door he looked briefly in my direction. His eyes locked on mine for the faintest of moments and I know he saw me seeing him. His lips made a small smirk and he refocused his efforts on the path in front of him.
With great purpose Peeta worked at getting himself and his bottles into his house. The endeavor took several minutes. The whole thing made me sad in a way I didn't realize I could be anymore.
Seeing Peeta dirty and disgraced made me want to take a shower. Made me want to scrub my skin off, made me want to get every particle of dirt off me. I ate another slice of bread and worked my way to the bathroom and stepped into the tub Peeta had washed me in.
I turned the water as hot as it would go and stepped under the stream. It burned me, especially my hands and forearms where the original burn had disfigured me. I dropped the temperature mildly and pulled out the soap. I lathered and scrubbed, lathered and scrubbed. I repeated this process until the water was very cold. My skin was pink and swollen when I stepped into my towel and scrubbed my skin one last time.
Coming out of the bathroom I noticed the stairs leading up to what was once my bedroom. I hadn't looked at these stairs in a long time. There were rooms upstairs that I would never be able to enter. Memories locked in those rooms that would haunt me the rest of my days.
But, I had clean clothes upstairs. I considered the steps warily. There were so many of them. They seemed to climb higher and higher into the heavens. I would never reach the top.
I got on my hands and knees and challenged myself to get up there. I realized half way up that this new vantage point would give me a better view of Peeta's house and that thought gave me the motivation I needed to reach the landing.
Looking down from the top made me feel dizzy. I should drink more water. The idea sprung into my head and resounded in my mind with my mother's voice. It irritated and upset me. I hadn't spoken to her since returning to District 12 and often times mourned her as if she were dead. But, she wasn't dead. I could call her. I should call her. But, I won't.
I changed into clothes from the closet of my room. They smelled like moth eaten dust bunnies and hung off me like a large tent.
There was a mirror in this room. Full length and nailed into the back of the door. I forced the door closed and looked at myself for the first time since coming back to this place.
Peeta's surprise when seeing me had been irritating to me at the time. I could see know it would be impossible to look at me and not be surprised. I looked so different. I looked so broken and forlorn. I looked almost dead.
I look the old dress off and looked clinically at the skin and bones staring back at me. The dark rings under my eyes sat heavy on my face; the bones protruding at sharp angles making shadows dance in the harsh lighting. My hands were scarred and discolored. My skin clung to me, thin and papery. I looked so fragile. A wind might carry me off. My knees, elbows, and hips poked out and looked as if they might break through my skin. My ribs rippled across my chest in a symmetrical stripped pattern. It was horrific and I threw up all the bread in my stomach just looking at myself.
And then I cried. I cried because I was broken. I cried because my sister was dead. I cried because my mother had abandoned me. I cried because the world I had lived in was gone, razed, and un-resurrectable. Everyone who was left had changed. I had changed.
I felt my face swelling and puffing. I looked back at my visage. If it were possible I looked worse.
I threw a shoe at the mirror and in bounced off. I felt powerless and feeble.
These were two things I had struggled against since my father had died. I had found strength and courage in myself because I'd had too. That was gone and I mourned that girl. I mourned the girl that had outwitted and had survived 2 Hunger Games. I mourned the girl that caught a nation on fire and lead a rebel movement. Only her ashes remained.
END CHAPTER…