Lay Me Down, Let Me Dream
Co-written by Katnissdoesnotfollowback & Titania522
Trigger warnings: Major Character Deaths, Minor Character Deaths, Suicide, Afterlife, Heaven, Hell, Reincarnation (Literally Everybody Dies).
Rated M for Mature Sexual Content.
Day 6 of 7: Ashes
XXXXX
Peeta
I'm not sure how long I lay in the dirt before the tree. It could have been a few moments, it could have been an eternity. Here, time is impossible to measure. Maybe keeping time was one of the things I really needed to start learning how to do.
This time, I don't hear Delly's approach. I simply feel her hand on my head. I'm not startled though. It's as if I knew that she was coming, could see her without looking up. At least I'm learning to figure that out.
I also know, without her having to tell me, that she's been crying, by the sadness she emanates.
"Hard times are coming for us, Peeta," she says quietly.
Even though my body is a figment of my imagination, I'm still too close to my earthly life to completely dispense with the mannerisms of physicality. I sit up slowly, completely empty now that I've lost the sound of Katniss' voice in my head. I have this feeling of numbness, of not wanting to admit any more sensation or information because if I do, I might lose it completely. I am at the cusp of knowing and not knowing and I'm shielding myself with this absence of emotion because what is going to come may finally be too much for me.
Delly does not need tears in this form. Her aura is dulled and I can see the anguish in the slowed patterns. Tears do not do justice to what she feels now.
"You need to be very strong now. Katniss is dead," she chokes on those last words.
I've toyed in these last few days with the prospect of Katniss' death and what that could mean for us. I fully expected this news to make me happy, even ecstatic. She'll be here soon - those were Delly's words. And yet, when spoken out loud, the words are horrid in their implications. My soul mourns her abruptly shortened life, wonders at the manner of her passing, fears that she has died alone.
Confusion sets in. Despite my inability to measure time, I know that seventy years have not passed.
"I thought she had more time?" I ask, an apprehension seizing me, unwilling to let go.
Delly settles in the grass, her aching aura infecting me with its melancholy. Death, no matter the prospect of an afterlife, is still a monumental passage on heaven and earth. "Katniss has chosen to end her own life."
"What?" I ask, a sheet of ice moving through my body. "When?"
"Oh, Peeta," says Delly in misery. "You must have felt it."
"When she stopped singing," I respond. It is then that the keening builds up in my soul and moves me to weeping. For several moments, I lose the ability to speak as visions of Katniss in the various stages of our lives together appear before my eyes. "Katniss…" I repeat like a refrain. After an interminable time of this, I finally gather my flagging energies to ask, "When will I see her then?"
Delly closes her eyes, her physical appearance morphing so quickly, I am sure I imagined it. "It's not like a normal death. Suicides are a special case. Remember when I told you that every soul has a journey they must undertake? When that journey has been interrupted, compensations are made to allow the soul to continue their journey. Suicides break their path of growth by taking it into their hands to end their lives."
"So what does that mean?" I ask, a sense of panic growing in me.
"She's not coming here. Suicides go somewhere else. They have a place in the Lower Spheres, specifically in the Second one. She has to reside there, purging herself until at least the natural expiration of her life arrives and most suicides reside even longer, because it is so hard to break through their self-denial."
"Do you mean to say," I begin, the threat and anger in my voice causing it to tremble, "That Katniss is in hell because she is a suicide? How is that fair?"
"It's not hell like you think…" begins Delly, but I've already jumped up and I pace in unexpressed frustration and horror, running my hands through my hair.
"What do you mean, it's not hell? She's being punished for having had the worst possible luck, because she lost her sister that she'd sworn to protect and her husband who was too stupid to watch where he was driving. She doesn't deserve to be punished for that!"
Delly stands up to face me, halting my pacing. "Hell is not about punishment. Hell is about people's lives that have gone so wrong, they carry their agonies with them into the afterlife, creating for themselves the very conditions that caused their suffering in the first place, so that they may continue to punish themselves," Delly steps in front of me when I make to go around her. "Hell isn't fire and brimstone. It isn't Devils and Demons and damnation! Hell is where those who bear the guilt of sin, both real and imagined, go to immerse themselves in it until it is expiated."
I can only imagine what the implications are for Katniss, creating for herself a diabolical place where she can reenact, theoretically for eternity, all the misfortunes that have descended on her in her life, misfortunes beyond her control but for which she believes herself to be responsible. I can't stand it, not for one minute. I've watched her suffer long enough.
"I want to find her. You say it is denial that imprisons her. Let me go and try to break through her denial."
Delly shakes her head in horror. "No, Peeta, it's not possible! Suicides are never recovered in that way. They rarely make it out of their personal hell and when they do, it is a long and painful process. The worst sins are the ones we hold ourselves accountable for."
"What sin? She's committed no sin! It's absurd to talk about willful wrongdoing in the context of Katniss' life! She did nothing more than love too much! I'm not letting her condemn herself to indefinite suffering because of that!" I exclaim in a fury.
"Peeta, you won't find her. The Lower Spheres are virtually infinite!"
"I'm her soul mate. I can find her anywhere!" My defiance quells her somewhat and I watch her think.
"It's never been done before," shes repeats, enunciating each syllable.
"You looked pretty shocked at the appearance of the wisteria tree. You didn't anticipate that one! You just watch - I'll get Katniss back. I'll search for her if it takes me the rest of eternity to find her. And you can be a part of it or I'll go to that city you talk about and find someone who will."
Delly's appearance flickers again and I have the passing feeling that I am seeing someone else, someone familiar, in the form that appears. But the change is so quick, I'm not able to confirm my impressions. When she is fully solid again, she speaks, by no way convinced.
"I'll be back," she answers before disappearing.
XXXXX
What I want most is to rest in that way only a soul in this place can rest; in total darkness, where most of the time, you don't dream. I realize why the sleep here is so restorative - being a soul is already like a dream state. When you sleep in this state, you approach nonexistence and that is the sweetest sleep there is. No wonder Katniss couldn't help but seek out that ultimate rest.
I'm alone and allow myself to fully express my grief. I kneel before the wisteria tree, now the tree of ash, and hug it to me. I failed you again. I didn't listen to you in time…
Anger overcomes me at the idea of what her life had become to drive her to this act. I think of the girl who was so blunt with her thoughts, so tough, she intimidated me with her strength, and yet so tender, she could overwhelm me with her compassion. It is deeply painful to think that the girl I knew and loved could get to that point, and I can't help but be filled with shame that I abandoned her yet again.
As I contemplate the charred remains of our most precious memory, Delly is once more beside me.
"Come with me," she says without preamble.
I take her hand and we suddenly appear in the study of her home. She indicates a chair that I take as she dashes off to another room in this sprawling home. It is airy and light, full of the sounds of the sea. I glance at the desk and observe a knitting basket with large, knitting needles and several balls of yarn, of varying thickness and colors. I smile to myself. Prim loved to knit. When I taught her how to sketch, it was because she wanted to pursue a career in design. She also liked medicine and could be as methodical and logical as her sister. I wonder to myself how two such disparate gifts could reside in the same mind, but Prim was a study in contrasts - innocence and wisdom, sweetness and steel, art and science. My heart aches for Prim, who was taken so young and who had everything going for her. That was a credit to Katniss, who made every sacrifice to make sure she had the best possible life.
The sounds of speech drift into my mind and I realize we are not alone, though I can't make out the other voice I hear. I have not been curious about others here until now and it occurs to me that I am ready to go to their City and meet the other souls who reside here. Except I am determined that when I do this, it will be with Katniss by my side.
I continue to take in the room and observe the statues that are interspersed with books. Something catches my eye and I rise slowly. It can't be…
I reach my hand out to pick up the small ballerina figurine as Delly reenters the study. I sense her pause as I turn the ballerina in my hand, studying the long lines and contours of the unblemished porcelain. As I stare in wonder, a voice enters my mind and it is no longer Delly's.
"You meant so much to her. When I saw you together, you always appeared to lean towards each other, like two magnets. I often found you just holding hands, not speaking, yet you were somehow communicating. When you watched tv or spoke, she always rested her head on your shoulder."
"Prim…" I whisper quietly, turning towards her and closing the space between us with long, impatient strides.
"There was always something between you, something beautiful and priceless, beyond words. I can't imagine you without her or her without you, though she is my sister and I love her more than my own mother." She shimmers again but this time, she does not interrupt the transformation. Delly morphs and suddenly, the aura makes sense, the brightening of the yellow, the girl-like pink. I find myself face-to-face with Prim.
"I always hoped to find someone and have what you two have. In those years we lived together, I think it was enough to watch you together to be happy," she says as I pull her into my arms and hold onto her slender figure, not quite a girl, not resolved into a woman. She'd been so young when she passed. I'm so happy to see her, I'm long past caring if my tears are real or not. My face is bathed in them now.
"Thank you for making Katniss so happy!" she says fiercely as I squeeze her, rocking gently. I breathe in her scent, though it is the richness of the sea that greets my nose. I'm speechless with joy and wonder. She's been with me all this time and though there'd been clues, I had not realized it.
"Why did you hide yourself from me?" I choke through my sobs of happiness, of loss and of disbelief.
"You needed to be ready. You have your own guilt too and it was keeping you from seeing me. Your desire to see me became stronger than your guilt over my death. That is when I was able to appear."
I caress her soft, golden hair, the eyes that are so much like Katniss', except that they are blue and not grey. Her fine, classic nose, high cheekbones. My artist eye takes in every lineament, every curve and dimple. I pull her to me again and cry into her shoulder. The force of all the grief and pain of losing her - the day I went to the woods to gather Katniss, the nightmares, the institution - these thing compound to reduce me to a mass of quivering mourning. I have her but I relive losing her all over again, as if my soul were purging all its grief and replacing it with joy. It is a long process, for her loss had been a deep scar in our lives.
When I can manage it again, I relax my tight grip on her. I chuckle with embarrassment. "I guess I missed you a lot."
"I guess you did!" she laughs and it is her voice now in my head, provoking my own happy laugh. My thoughts quickly turn somber as I remember why we are here.
"This is what's happening to Katniss, isn't it?" I say, finally understanding what Delly/Prim was trying to tell me earlier.
Prim nods her head. "Just as your guilt was interfering with your ability to truly see me, Katniss' guilt, which is much greater than yours, will keep her from seeing any of us when we find her."
"So we're going?"
"Yes." Prim releases me and we both sit in opposing chairs. "I have permission to help you on your journey. However, I can't go into the Lower Spheres myself. I can take you to the gates of the City of Dis, or the City of the Damned, and then I have to leave you, because my soul is not ready for the journey."
"Will I have to go alone?" I ask. If she's not prepared, I was really going to be in a situation.
"No. We need a tracker. I know someone very well, and spend a lot of time with him, when we aren't busy with our other duties. He will take you beyond Dis to find Katniss." Prim leans forward, taking my hands in hers. This was something she always loved to do and should have been my first clue that she was with me. "Listen to me, now that we are alone. There are stories of people entering the Lower Spheres - Orpheus, Aeneas, Balder, Dante - they are in our myths and all are based on variations of real journeys. But they were mortals. In some way, people who are still alive are closer in their souls to the Lower Spheres than we are. Only Comforters and Trackers are trained to go there."
It was always a treacherous journey to visit the underworld - even I understood that from the stories I'd read. But I push the fear aside and draw courage from the fact that I would be freeing Katniss from years, perhaps centuries, of suffering.
Prim nods again in approval, understanding my thoughts. "I've been told that suicides don't recover easily and when they do, it has be on their own awareness. What you are setting out to do might not work."
"I understand that," I say, shoring up all of my strength and determination.
"And no one wants you to succeed more than I. Your Tracker, you will see, has a personal interest in seeing you succeed also. You have allies." Prim's eyes narrow at this point. "But, you have to use every ounce of strength you possess to keep from succumbing to the dark power of the place you are going. It is characterized by despair, hopelessness and misery and if you're not careful, all of the personal sins that plague you will be magnified and cause you to lose hope. Just as in life - when hope dies, your soul will be trapped the same way hers is now. Do you understand?"
"Yes...I think so." I whisper and suddenly, I'm damned afraid.
"Be afraid. Fear will make you alert, but always hold on to thoughts that give you hope."
"Well, I never thought I'd see you again! That makes me very hopeful," I smile, though it is bittersweet, given the circumstances of our reunion.
"That's the spirit, Peeta!" she laughs and it's the old Prim, the one who is playful and irreverent and not the one who is trying to guide another soul in a terrifying journey through the bowels of hell.
"Now, it's time to get going. We don't want to keep your Tracker waiting. He's an impatient sort of guy."
"Can he really help us?" I ask and I know I sound like a five-year old, looking for reassurance.
Prim's mouth takes on a grim set. "If he can't find her, I don't know who else will."
XXXXX
We travel under Prim's direction, given that I have no idea where I'm going. Our journey ends in the middle of a hardwood forest in a mountainous region similar to where Katniss and I lived on earth. In fact the resemblance is so uncanny, I feel like I've wandered these woods with Katniss before and the nostalgia for her threatens to overwhelm me again and suffocate me - my wife is dead.
I pause, absorbing the shock of it all over again. Prim places her hand on my back.
"Shhhh...it's okay, Peeta. I know you can find her. You have to find her!" she says vehemently.
When I'm calm again, she makes her way up to the threshold of a cabin. She doesn't knock - I'm coming to realize such formalities are unnecessary. The door opens and a tall man appears. I'm taken aback when Prim leaps into his arms, practically hanging from his sinewy neck and shoulders. The physicality of the affection is surprising, given all of the talk of mind being the most important thing.
The man's aura is strong - deep, forest green and brown, with a hint of music and form that call to mind the warbling of birds and the rustling leaves of the low-hanging branches of ancient trees. Prim speaks to him, then turns to indicate where I'm standing. He steps into a shaft of sunlight and I can see his features clearly - rugged, angular face; dark, olive-toned skin and long, black hair tied back with a leather tie. His eyes are a brilliant grey, so like Katniss' that I swear I'm looking into hers. In fact, the resemblance is so uncanny, I can't help but stare at him and I am certain he is appraising me also.
Prim steps between us and makes the introductions.
"Dad, this is Peeta Mellark, Katniss' husband. Peeta, this is our father."
Of all the people I'd expected to meet in the afterlife, I had not guessed for a moment that it would be Katniss' father. I am completely embarrassed that I did not think once to seek out the other dead in mine and Katniss' life and am filled with shame at my selfishness. I have only thought about Katniss. I hold my hand out to him and he takes it, shaking it warmly.
"You still have the smell of Earth around you, boy," he says with a deep, gruff baritone that seems to come from the deepest regions of the forest.
"I...I'm a recent arrival…" I stutter. He is imposing, perhaps without meaning to be.
He nods solemnly, and it is clear that he is a man of little words. How like her father Katniss had been! In appearance, dark and exotic. In speech, not wasting a word where it is not necessary. I feel ill again, thinking about Katniss, and I realize my grief is struggling to escape me. But I hold it in check with a constant reminder of my objective - to find her again.
Mr. Everdeen continues to scrutinize me, studying my aura, most likely, and I let him. After all, had we been alive, he would have been my father-in-law and we would have been family.
"We are family, son," the man says quietly. "My girl chose you and that is enough for me, because Katniss was always a level-headed young woman," his face softens. "Prim has nothing but good things to say about you." Mr. Everdeen glances over to where she stands and I am positive she is blushing.
"Where we're going," he continues and I note the change in his demeanor as he gets to the business at hand, "Is like no other place you've ever been. Take every idea of hell that you have out of your mind. There's no fire or devils or demons or any of the sort of things they teach you about in church. The only fire is the one placed there by the souls themselves and the only devils are the ones who continue to punish themselves and do not reach self-awareness."
I nod, trying my best to steel myself for something I can't even begin to imagine.
"You have to school your thoughts, otherwise, they will betray you and you run a serious risk of getting lost in the Lower Spheres. I will help you when you are sinking into that state but you have to do your part. Keep Katniss in mind." Here his voice changes and I remember that this is her father. If this is difficult for me, it must be unbearable for him.
"Son, your thoughts are like a beacon right now. You have not learned discipline in masking them and everything you think bursts from your mind like a spotlight. You have to stop that right now," he says sternly. "I need you to think of Katniss but focus on your memories so that those thoughts will shield you from the hopelessness you are soon to encounter." He leans in closer to me. "That sphere is a universe we are entering that contains every variation of human despair that has ever been. You do as I tell you in every moment and I will get you through it. I want my daughter out of there as much as you want your wife back." He pulls away and directs his attention to Prim. "You will accompany us to the river Styx and then turn back around, agreed?"
"Agreed. My last experience in Dis is one I don't want to repeat." She glances at me apologetically. "I was impatient with my training at the beginning and went there alone. Dad had to come get me."
I chuckle. "Sounds like something you'd do."
Prim shrugs. "I'm a little better now about being patient."
"One last thing," Mr. Everdeen interjects. "We can travel the usual way up to the border of the Third Sphere. From there, we will become heavier and more material and have to move as if we were on Earth."
"Souls become more weighed down the deeper you travel into those spheres," Prim clarifies. I shiver with the expectation of something terrible.
"Fear is good, Peeta," Mr. Everdeen says gently. "But you must act despite it. That is courage. It does not appear to me that you are lacking this quality. Now, the longer Katniss remains where she is, the harder it will be to extricate her. Let's get underway."
Never a praying man during my mortal days, I nonetheless send a supplication up to whoever is responsible for the world we live in and pray for a successful endeavor and Katniss' safe return. I think I see Mr. Everdeen give a small nod of approval but the moment is lost as the three of us hurtle toward our destination.
XXXXX
My gift as an artist is to create an exact rendition of the things I see around me. I can duplicate any person, any shape, any landscape that I see. The copies are so perfect that, depending on the medium, the images appear to be photographed. However, I have another gift that many artists who can duplicate their physical world still do not have - the ability to re-envision what they see into something new and different. When I imagined the City of Dis, I would have never imagined the vision that rose up out of the flaming river to greet me now.
The stones of the fortress are the color of coagulated blood. There is no other way to describe the deep ochre-black color that appears embedded in every crevice. On the guard towers stand a motley collection of horrible creatures - gargoyles and harpies - who peer at us with such hunger, that I'm sure, if given the slightest provocation, they would take a bite out of us.
The sounds that emerge from the city, even from here, are inhuman sounds that I never dreamed could be uttered by a person. The frigid wind that blows in over the river is not natural and chills the mind and the soul.
Prim, Mr. Everdeen and I stand at the banks of the foul waters, alight with a fire fueled from deep trenches of matter that appear both inanimate and animate - from flesh to rocks to detritus and human waste. I am almost overcome by the noxious nature of the waters and move to shield my nose, but Katniss' father stays my hand. "Mind still matters here. Think of something sweet smelling and that foul odor will go away."
I close my eyes and imagine the jasmine that filled the air the night Katniss and I painted the wisteria tree. The sensuous aroma fills my nostrils and drowns the festering odors in their nocturnal sweetness. Mindful of my proximity to Katniss' father, I quickly suppress the other memories associated with that night and focus instead on the flower's fragrance. When I open my eyes, Mr. Everdeen smiles down from his height, nodding in approval.
"You got the hang of it - the smell and the thoughts. I appreciate that." He turns, leaving me to blush furiously behind him. Prim pats my shoulder in sympathy before stopping at the water's edge.
"This is where we part," she says. "Peeta," she continues with uncharacteristic intensity, "You have a chance to help Katniss. I believe that now, otherwise, I would not have been allowed to help you. Don't listen to anyone talk you out of what you are doing. And don't change your mind. Be strong. Do you understand?"
I reach out and pull her into a powerful hug. "I'll bring her back. I promise. There are no other options for me." I withdraw while she turns to hug her father, wishing him good luck. I follow Mr. Everdeen to a decrepit pier that seems like it would give way under the slightest pressure. However, curiosity gets the best of me and I turn, calling out to Prim, "By the way, who gave you permission to help me?"
She laughs now, her aura glowing with life and humor. "Silly! Who else would you ask permission for things around here!? I told you - you have some serious allies cheering you on!"
I smile at Prim and my mind floods with the memory of her when she was still alive - her cleverness, irreverence, her uncanny ability to see things clearly. An image of her comes to mind, in which she is learning how to frost cookies with the utmost seriousness, her lip pinched between her teeth, her brow furrowed in concentration. I think of Katniss and resolve that, if nothing else, she must be brought out of her current state and be reunited with her family, who are here now and have always been, waiting for her. And if what Prim says is true, then shouldn't I succeed?
I glance at Mr. Everdeen, who waits patiently, most likely privy to that parade of thoughts. I don't care though. We set off together down the pier, ready to cross into the City of Dis.
XXXXX
Katniss
I am lost in an ash gray cloud. As it weaves around my body, I choke on the dust and finally peel my eyes open to examine my surroundings. Another nightmare.
I should be dead, I think. Why am I not dead?
My thoughts swirl as I try to remember what happened. I wrote in my journal and went to sleep. After that...nothing but endless gray.
Typical. I managed to kill the people I love most but I can't even kill myself.
I should go to the hospital…if I cared about my body. Who knows what damage the drugs I took have done? But I'm almost certain that a trip there right now will land me back in a psych ward with more doctors than I can count and no hope of Peeta to help me through the ordeal. And that is not something that I can allow.
My entire body aches as I stand and make my way to the kitchen. I dump food in Buttercup's bowl and call for him. No response. He's probably napping or out chasing mice...no. Rubbing my temples, I try to remember. I left him with the neighbors with the excuse that I'd be out of town for a few days. I suppose I'll have to go get the damn cat eventually. But I am exhausted and make my way back to bed instead, limbs dragging and heavy. I close my eyes and wait for slumber, but it never comes. My ears ring with the sounds of a violent car accident.
I cup my hands over my ears and try to make the noises stop. They won't stop. Eventually, I am able to make them recede enough to think.
What was I doing before I went to sleep? Painting, I think. My feet shuffle towards the studio where I find the mangled wisteria painting and break down crying.
I destroyed it. Oh my God, I made a painting bleed and die. Our painting. I fall to my knees before it and sway, holding my arms tight around my abdomen. I chant his name in a mournful incantation.
Peeta. Peeta. Peeta.
Curling up before the carcass of the portrait of our tree, I reach out to touch it but pull my hand back before I get close. The frame of the canvas itself is charred and blackened. As if someone tried to burn it. I didn't do that…did I? I don't remember and that scares me almost as much as the destruction of our tree.
I must fall asleep on the studio floor. When I wake up, the air tastes stale. I should go outside. Get some fresh air. It takes an inordinate amount of time to pick myself up off the floor and walk to the door leading out to our garden. Dust motes hang in front of my face and I wave them away. I should probably clean the house. Not that there's anyone who cares about how clean it is. When was the last time I had a visitor? I think Johanna stopped by sometime after the funeral, but when was that?
I don't get the chance to try and remember. Our garden is dying.
"No!" I shout out as I cradle a wilting gladiolus bloom, finger the primrose bushes that are parched and turning brown. Then I dig a finger into the ground and find the soil is dry. Drier than ash. It flakes under my touch and I whimper with the pain I share with our once beautiful plants. "How did this happen?"
It makes no sense. I haven't neglected the garden.
There's a buzzing in the back of my brain, something I can't quite grasp. Like an insect flying against a window, desperate and unable to escape. But I am more concerned with the dying flowers and rush to the hose, determined to save them. I crank the faucet.
Nothing happens. There's no water.
Frantic, I rush back inside to call the utilities and that's when I hear it. Prim is singing. Somewhere in the house, Prim is singing.
Dropping the phone, I move through the house as I would through the woods, with a silent tread. Something is horribly wrong. All I find are empty rooms. Of course. Prim is dead because I couldn't save her. I'm just imagining things and punishing myself for not being able to save her.
As I'm turning to return to the kitchen, the house groans under my footsteps. The creaking echoes loudly. Strange.
When it stops, I continue into the kitchen and slump down in one of the high chairs next to the island. I rest my head on my folded arms and block out the world.
A barren road stretches before me, the flickering lights of a gas station or diner far in the distance. As I walk, it appears to get no closer, but my shoes shred on the pavement and my mouth goes dry with thirst. And still, I keep walking.
I must have slipped into sleep, for how long, I don't know. But when I jolt upright in the kitchen, the nightmare lingers. The soles of my feet are raw and my calves throb. The light in the house hasn't changed at all, and although my mouth is parched, I am not nearly sore enough to have fallen asleep propped in a chair for any length of time. Convinced I must have been seeing things earlier, I return to Peeta's studio first. The wisteria tree is gone.
I search the studio, tearing open cabinets and drawers that are far too small to hold it. The painting of our trip to the Sierra Nevada is gone too. All of his paintings that I adored are gone. Why would someone steal Peeta's paintings?
The garden. The water. I have phone calls to make.
The phones are dead. Why are the phones dead? I can't even call the police to report a robbery, or the utility company to report the water issue.
Gathering my purse, I march to the garage, heedless of my appearance. The knob falls off the door and I stare at it as it turns to ash in my hands.
I should be dead. Then why am I in my house? You are supposed to be dead, Katniss. And this…
I shake my head and smash my fist on the door, sending the ashes of the knob flying around me. Pushing on the door, I am dismayed to find that it won't budge. What the hell?
I am a prisoner in my own home. A place of nightmares filled with memories of the people I have destroyed. At that moment, I break.
A mirror shatters in another room, making me jump. I think of the empty reflection of myself the night I destroyed our tree. The reflection I smashed with a vase of flowers. I still feel as empty and dead as I did that night. This is why I should be dead. To get away from this constant pain that masquerades as numbness.
In front of the pictures lining the wall of our bedroom, I silently apologize to Peeta and Prim.
I killed you. And you.
Because I did. Maybe not directly, but they are dead and I am not. All because I failed them both. My fault...all my fault.
I don't deserve Peeta's paintings to remember him by. And I killed them, so it makes sense that I would kill the garden that served as a tie between the three of us after death came to our home.
As I watch, the pictures blacken and curl into ash in their tarnished frames. I close my eyes against the destruction, knowing I must be dreaming. This must be yet another nightmare. When will they end?
Smoke fills my nostrils as I sway on my feet, fall back on the bed and wait for tears that make no appearance. When I wake, I pinch myself just to feel the pain. Just to make sure I can still feel. I'm beginning to doubt that I can.
Once more, the house groans around me and I scream as something lands on my head. I brush it from my hair, heart pounding and find…dirt. Deep brown earth.
Prim sings. Again I search and find nothing.
Exhausted from my search and the ordeal with the doors and garden and everything else, I collapse in my study, slumped in the desk chair. Everything in here is perfect. Pristine and clean.
I try to turn on the radio or the MP3 player Peeta got for my birthday one year, to cover the sounds I can't seem to banish from my head, but they aren't working either.
Floating from room to room, I lose all track of time. I thirst but do not hunger. My sleep is plagued with flashes of headlights and blurs of color. Squeals of tires and crashing metal. Gurgling pain deep in my chest, as though I were living the last moments of Peeta's life.
I never hear myself tell him that I love him.
Stale air turns noxious. Unbearable. The windows are stuck.
I flee once more to the garden. The tree is here, resurrected in a nightmarish hallucination. Charred and lifeless. A hollow piece of memory, once so sweet in my mind, and now gone forever. Everything else is dead too.
I lay on the ash coated earth and stare up at its twisted branches. One looks almost like a noose and I contemplate the manner of my death…until a rat scurries across my foot and I run sobbing back into the groaning house.
The monster is not outside, but within.
Smashed mirrors. Smashed cars. What's the difference?
Sometimes I wonder why I spend
The lonely nights dreaming of a song
The melody haunts my reverie...
I sing but lose focus after a few bars and can't remember the lyrics. The melody flutters away on the ash that is constantly suspended in the air around me, covering every surface in dull gray shades of misery. I attempt different songs. They tickle at my memory. Something important. Something just out of reach.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be…
The music abandons me.
Does it really matter? There's no one left for me to sing to.
I try to remember what you looked like when we were happy. But the memory slips through my fingers. Blue eyes. Blond hair. The details blur as I try to picture the slope of your nose or the line of your jaw or the curl of your lashes.
I want the earth to swallow me. To take me along with Prim. Instead it falls from the ceiling and I know I've lost it completely but can't call the doctors or anyone for help. I can't even leave.
Instead, I lay on my side in the studio and wait for death, spinning my wedding ring on the floor, reading what I can see of the inscription when it topples.
K & P – Al
Death should come and take me. It should have taken me long ago. Hours? Weeks? Months? Probably years.
& P – Alwa
There's the scurrying of rats and I shudder. The sounds of Prim laughing. Then Peeta, too. I want to chase after them. To have the chance to tell them how much I love them before they vanish. But I know they're not real. I'll never get that chance. So I stay put.
My wedding ring spins in a flash of gold and then falls to the tile.
K & P – A
I want to get in my car and smash it into a tree or drive it off a bridge. It would be better if I were dead. The noose outside begins to sound inviting.
Smooth metal, no inscribed letters.
Instead, I relive the moments I saw or heard them die and know, with every fiber of my being, that I am deadly. Poison.
P - Always
A snake hisses and tears leak from my eyes. Don't take my children, too.
But I have no children. And that's my fault, as well. Peeta never got to be a father. Prim never got to be the cool aunt. The thoughts of what we missed lodge in my chest, a visceral ache that threatens to splinter my heart in two.
My eyes try to blink away the tears and the dust. When I open them again, I can still hear the faint sounds of the golden ring on tile, but my wedding ring has vanished.
The snake hisses again, closer now. More snakes join the eerie chorus while Peeta and Prim's agonized screams reverberate in my ears.
And I let them scream.
XXXXX
Peeta
A boat appears at the end of the dock, a rather small one, with only one person manning the prow. He wears a cloak with a hood that is in tatters and had certainly seen better, cleaner days. His hands are covered in black gloves with which he grasps the handle of the large steering oar. I catch nothing, not even a glimpse of extremely pale, grey skin when his hood shifts. Just emptiness, after which, he turns his attention to the city, avoiding all interaction, ignoring us entirely. We step inside of the boat and I feel the thing creaking beneath my feet, instinctively fearing that I will go through. But I remember the admonishments of mind over matter and instantly feel myself stabilize. Mr. Everdeen nods his head approvingly. "It's about mental strength."
"I think I'm starting to understand. I have to try not to give in to fears for my body, when I no longer have one," I respond.
"Yes, here, your thoughts will have consequences which will feel physical. It is possible, in these lower Spheres to feel pain that is like physical pain but it is all in the mind and that is where you must fight it. Always remember that."
"Yes, sir," I say, feeling like a child. I am in awe of this man and I wonder what kind of relationship we could have had while alive when I feel so intimidated by his presence. Katniss had that same air about her - competence that bordered on frightening, a powerful personal independence and a very low tolerance for trifles. But she was also warm and loving, and so compassionate, she'd give half of herself away if someone needed it. It is impossible that someone like her could be trapped in a city where souls seem to dangle from the ramparts, where the cold air of desolation thickens the closer we approach. It was impossible to think that someone as good as her could end up here and I was filled with the injustice of it.
"I feel the same way you do," Mr. Everdeen interjects. "No one who is good should end up here." He lapses into silence. I was sure he would not speak again but he after a long pause, he does. "I like watching Katniss though your eyes. Your memories of her, that is. We don't get much contact with those on Earth when we are here, unless we are on missions, as Prim was when she was your guide. I have not had the privilege of watching my daughters grow up. Tell me a little more about her."
I smile and think of the things that are most striking about her. "Katniss was...is...the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. She's strong, physically and emotionally. She doesn't suffer fools easily. She's most at home when she is in the woods, hunting or studying the wildlife. She has such a big heart and always put Prim above everything else, and she never failed to help a person who needed it." My heart sinks and I've never wanted to touch her more than at that moment. "I never doubted that she loved me, not for one minute, because she showed me all the time. She's sensuous, warm and so generous with herself…" I blush and look down, "I'm sorry…"
"It's okay. You're a man. I love a woman also and I think about her all the time," he is interrupted by the boat striking the shoreline. "We're here. Your positive thoughts of Katniss must stay in the forefront of your mind. When you have thoughts of despair, you must fight them, for they are not in your nature. They are a product of this place."
We arrive at a drawbridge and I look up at the ramparts of the city walls from below. They are medieval in appearance, down to the mechanism of the drawbridge, though why they would need such a device, I have no clue. The sky here is perpetually dark, lightning flashing at erratic intervals across the sky, so I must depend on those flashes of light to see the details of the path we walk, until we clear the walls and the visibility improves. The street is lit with a combination of torches and lamps that appear electrical.
People move about, running through the streets or floating by. They are haggard and angry, absorbed in their own preoccupations and do not even acknowledge us as they hurtle past. There are several fights to my left, near something that appears like a tavern, while another pair of urchins argue viciously down the road. In fact, everywhere I look, there is strife of one kind or another and I feel somewhat aggressive myself, especially when one soul passes close by to me, almost knocking me out of the way. I almost say something, but Mr. Everdeen pulls me back.
"Your anger is not your own," he says gently. "We are in a neighborhood where the wrathful reside. Monitor your feelings - or you will become too susceptible to the emotional chaos around you and you will get lost."
I nod, reigning in my feelings. "Is Katniss here somewhere?"
Mr. Everdeen shrugs. "Her trail indicates that we must go through the city but it is not necessarily the case that she is here. Let's continue."
We wind our way through dank, wet streets, houses from various time periods in states of squalor so horrid, I'm afraid I will be contaminated if I even touch them. Then the streets change, and I am exposed to the most vulgar sights - people performing intimate acts in the streets without heed to the public spectacle they are creating. I pick up speed, the unease spreading through me as I briefly consider how very different these acts are from the ones I shared with Katniss, so filled with desire and tenderness.
I continue to think of Katniss, the dark feeling dissipating and I begin to feel a sense of hope. A movement in an alley to my left catches my eye. There, against a wall is a woman who resembles Katniss so much, I am sure it's her. Before Mr. Everdeen can stop me, I break into a run.
"Katniss!" I shout. I just barely hear her father's voice in my head, telling me to stop when I am suddenly surrounded by a crowd. They laugh hysterically and I turn towards Katniss to warn her to stay back. But the woman I had mistaken for Katniss is actually an old hag, who looks nothing like her at all but who cackles cruelly along with the others. Soon, hands are all over me and though I scream, it feels as if I am being clawed alive.
Without warning, strong hands grasp my shoulder, pulling me away from the crowd. With a loud bellow and a flash of light, the crowd disperses like cockroaches until I stand near Mr. Everdeen, trembling from the violation of those hands on me.
"I'm so sorry, I thought it was her!" I gasp, feeling like the last fool in the universe.
"They read your thoughts and decided to have fun at your expense. Now you know not to believe your eyes and ears. Trust no one."
I nod my head quickly, shaken by the cruelty of these souls and hoping we will find Katniss soon before I get into any more trouble.
We finally reach the outskirts of the city, the filthy walls towering over us. At the top of each tower sit horrible creatures similar to the ones at the entrance. Mr. Everdeen picks up the pace and soon we are free of Dis.
"We're close," he mutters. We race across an arid plain covered in dust and ash, odd homes dispersed in the distance. It reminds me of a lunar landscape, the sounds of collective suffering from Dis receding behind us, giving way to the utter emptiness before us.
Vegetation begins to spring up. Not healthy or vibrant, but dry and arid. The ground is sand and it is clearly not designed to sustain anything whatsoever. Everywhere I look, life struggles vainly to hold on but fails in every instance, whether it is in a wilted flower, a dried brush or burnt grass.
The terrain changes and becomes rocky. Mr. Everdeen indicates towards a hill and we begin our ascent. There are dust storms in the distance and the sky overhead is a dreary, overcast grey, with a blanket of low clouds that is suffocatingly close to the surface. My heart is breaking and I wonder if there is really any point in doing this, in struggling so long. This place is empty of hope, as we are. Hopeless, like our journey…
"Stop!" Mr. Everdeen shouts, the sound of that one word disappearing in the vacuum of emptiness that surrounds us. Not even screams can be heard here.
"Peeta…" he pauses, grasping me by my shoulders. "Are you listening to your thoughts? That hopelessness does not belong to you. Stop giving in to it or you will be no good to Katniss."
"I'm sorry! I didn't realize…" I say, feeling truly pathetic that I'd mentally slid down that hill of negativity so easily.
"Listen to me. Katniss' mother was devastated when I died and like you, I lingered. However, unlike you, I did not have the strength to leave her until my presence did irreparable damage. I thought I was comforting her but in actuality, I drove her straight out of her mind." He rubs his face with his hand and I have the feeling it is a gesture from his days of being alive. "What you did - leave her for her own good, took more strength than I ever had. You are strong, Peeta. And good. I could have never chosen a better husband for my daughter. Don't fail now. Keep your wits about you and try to get to her without losing yourself also, do you understand?"
I'm deeply humbled by his words. I have to do better. I have to try, for my sake and Katniss' but also for him, for Prim, for anyone who ever expended any of their life's energy in loving us.
"I'll stay focused. I promise," I say, looking directly in those endless grey eyes.
"Good. Because we're here." He turns around and crests the hill. There, in the dust and ash and dying vegetation, is a broken version of my house in heaven. The roof is missing tiles, gutters hang limply from the awnings. The plants are in terrible shape, snakes and lizards cover the front lawn. Katniss' car is parked in the front drive but the tires are missing and the hood is bent, as if it had been in a crash. It is the house of abandonment, neglect and misery.
My companion and I share a look intended to fortify one another. The time for talk is over. We descend the hill, hoping we are strong enough to face what we will find.
XXXXX
A million thanks to solasvioletta and abbythebear for being the best betas in the west! You are champions!