Hey guys! Thanks so much for all the follows and favorites; my number for each more than doubled with the last update, so lately I've spent about 63% of my time flailing over my stats. Special thanks to pokips, lknights91, Chanceawakening, , Guest (#5? Or are you from the first chapter too?), Guest (#6), SAIgirl24, ShadowCrystal26, Thynerdgurl, and Fictiongal232 who all reviewed for me. It was really cool getting to talk to some of you guys! And shout out to Brazil, because apparently there's a couple of you chilling with Gale down there.

Given the chapter ahead, I want to re-emphasize the trigger warning on this story. The descriptions are pretty basic, but if you think it'll bother you at all, just skip this chapter. I feel a little weird about writing it already, so I'd like to think I'm not making anyone's SI worse ^_^ If you want to know what you missed, just drop a review, send a PM, or hit me up on tumblr. I'd be happy to tell you, or send you a slightly shorter version without the cutting :)

Suzanne Collins is boss and owns the Hunger Games trilogy.

XXX

I spend the weekend in bed, nibbling on the bread, counting bricks on the wall, and listening to people laughing and yelling and waling outside. All the noise is muffled, like I'm swimming underwater. The words never form sentences, and the footsteps sound as if they're on carpet even though it's linoleum.

Sometimes, I get so tired of the constant sound that I almost snap at them through the wall. Other times, during the slightly better days, the noise comforts me.

At night, I don't sleep. I try, but there's always some memory or dream waiting to shake me from the peace. I'll see Prim's face, but never hear the gentle voice I'm desperate for. Or my dad returns home from work, smiles at me, and sits at the dinner table; this one's always worse, because I know it should've happened on May 8th, eleven years ago, but it never did.

On Saturday morning, at five or six a.m., it's silent and dark and I feel like I'm dead. Like I don't exist, but in a warm way. On Sunday, the quiet is suffocating, like I'm in a coffin, buried around ground.

My chest aches, my stomach feels sick, and I can't breathe. I try sitting up, but my arms are so weak that it's impossible. So I slowly lower myself down to the ground, over the edge of the bed, and lean my head against the wall.

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep there.

I sleep through the alarm on Monday. No Calculus for me, apparently. At that point, I decide I won't bother setting my alarm for tomorrow either.

There's a knock on my door half an hour later, but I stay where I am on the ground. I hear whispering outside, then someone says, "What the hell does that mean?"

Metal scrapes against metal, and I hear the lock click and the door swings open. Startled, I sit up and find myself staring at some brunette who's got a backpack on.

She blinks at me, raising an eyebrow. There's no pity, or surprise, or anything I can name. Maybe exasperation.

Without a word to me, she turns to face whoever's behind her. "I'm good."

I se Delly stands on her tiptoes to see over the girl's shoulder, and she gives me a little wave, relief washing over her face. "Hi, Katniss!"

I nod at her in return, twitching my mouth and hoping it passes for a smile.

Paying no mind to me, the stranger pulls the key from the lock, twirls the attached lanyard around her finger twice, and tells Delly, "See you later."

Delly utters a quick, "Bye," and the intruder shuts the door.

My eyes follow her as she crosses the room and tosses the key and lanyard on her matching brown desk. She opens our single window, then looks down at me. "She's very squeaky, isn't she?"

This annoys me to no end, even though I've thought similar things myself. But I'm in no mood to defend Delly or get in a fight with whoever this is, so I just say, "What're you doing here?"

A thin, tight-lipped smile crosses her face. "Getting educated, brainless."

Grunting, I haul myself to my feet. "What are you doing in my room?"

"Living here until the day you cough up the dough for a private one."

My eyes widen, and horrified, I remember I'm supposed to get a roommate today. "I don't see any bags."

"Shitheads at the airport put them on the wrong fucking plane," she says, pulling the backpack from her shoulders and placing it on her bed. "Or they called me a terrorist and took them away. Either one."

"Great."

I lie back down on my bed and cover my head with a pillow. Thankfully, she doesn't say anything else, but I can hear her rummaging around across from me.

Just when I'm about to lose consciousness again, I hear a dialing sound, then she speaks up. "Hey." I hold the pillow more tightly against my head, and she stops, waiting for a response. "No, I made it okay," she continues. "They lost my damn bags, though." Another pause. "I'm in college. Relax. You're lucky if that's—Yeah, okay. Fine."

There's another pause. Then her tone shifts considerably. "Hey, kid." She laughs at something. "No, Li, it's not my fault. You know she just wants something to bitch ab—don't tell her that. Come on." She snorts. "Some sister you are."

My chest squeezes, and my stomach turns to ice. She keeps talking, but it's all a dull buzz to me. I push the pillow against my ears to drown her out, so hard that my head starts to throb.

My breath comes out in quick gasps, and for some odd reason, I don't want this new girl to know. I don't want her to hear it, or see it, even though I think I hate her.

So I hoist myself from the bed, and my feet hit the floor with a thud. I blindly feel around in the top drawer of my desk until I find what I'm looking for. Then I leave. The room, the hallway, the building.

I find an empty place beneath a tree that's far away from any of the cement paths. I sit, leaning my back against the trunk. My body shivers, and the blade feels cold in my hand. Gasping, I curl up and wrap my free arm around my middle, looking down at it.

Heart pounding underneath my skin, I reopen the old scars.

XXX

On Tuesday, my new roommate goes to class. I stay in. I already feel like I need to cherish every moment of alone time, even if that means I'm left to mope and think about things I shouldn't.

Eventually, I get up, start to get dressed, and then my heart starts to pound again when I think about facing the classes and the people.

Before I return to bed, I take the blade from my desk and hide it under my pillow. I know my roomate will be back, she'll make the same phone call that she does every day, and then I'll need it.

Of course, she returns. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but as soon as she pulls out her cell phone, I make my way outside to sit in the shade of the tree.

XXX

I'm starting to realize I need a new spot to hide. People see me sometimes, and then I have to slink back to my dorm.

But inside, the air's always stuffy and warmer than it should be.

XXX

On Sunday morning, the entire floor smells like vomit. My head throbs after another sleepless night, and I exit the building through the backdoor like a zombie.

Outside, I'm sweating despite the autumn chill, and I throw my head back to drink in the fresh air. It might all be in my imagination, but the coldness soothes my constantly-stinging arm.

When I settle in on the hard ground under the tree, it hits me how peaceful it is out here. But it's a double-edged sword, because the tranquility has another side. One that's numb and empty and rips through my chest whenever I acknowledge it.

I don't remember if Prim liked the outdoors. Every day, I forget something new about her, like her favorite food, which stuffed animals she kept in her bed, what outfit she picked out for her first day of school. But I never forget her eyes, or the little smile that was always present on her lips.

It'd probably be easier if I could.

Did she know about the scars? She must've seen them, but did she know? Where they came from, how they got there, the reasons behind them? I hope not.

"Everdeen?" a man's voice says behind me.

I check that my sleeves are down, then face him. My Calculus teacher with short, gelled hair and a polo shirt looks at me, the corners of his mouth turned downward into a frown.

I can't bring myself to feel uncomfortable, so I stare at him blankly. "Yeah?"

"Where were you Monday?"

He doesn't even take attendance, as far as I know. Most of my teachers couldn't care less if I decide to show up. So I just shrug. "I missed my alarm."

His expression tells me he knows that's not the case. I wonder just how much the school told my teachers about everything that happened six weeks ago. Apparently a lot more than I'd like.

"Well," he begins, his voice clipped, "I received an email yesterday that I'm supposed to tell you you're due for a counseling appointment. Mr. Witt said to tell you in class on Monday, or sooner if I saw you."

Annoyed, I ask, "When is it?"

"As soon as possible."

"Fine."

"I'm dropping off grade reports for the last quarter right now," he says. "It's in the same building."

"Sorry. I've got—I was going to go grab some…books. From the library."

I've never been a good liar, and I clearly haven't improved. His face tells me that much. "I'm sure it can wait half an hour," he says pointedly.

Bitter, I gesture for him to lead the way, following behind without a word.

XXX

To my surprise, he doesn't take me to Witt. Instead, he drops me off one level lower, outside room 231.

"Go in," he says when I hesitate outside the door.

"I thought you said I had a counseling appointment."

"You do."

Arching an eyebrow, I push the door open.

The room isn't organized that differently from the office upstairs. There are chairs in the waiting room and a person sitting at a desk. The place is a lot brighter, though. The walls are a purple color, the seats blue.

There's a hallway with small, office-looking rooms on each side of it.

I approach the man at the desk, sizing him up. He's got black glasses, thick rimmed, and tussled hair. He doesn't look much older than a typical student.

He greets me with a relaxed smile. "Hey, what can I do for you?"

"I've got some kind of counseling appointment."

"Great! Who're you seeing?"

I rub a hand over my face. "Mr. Witt."

"Whoops. You're one floor short, honey."

"My teacher brought me here. I don't know, he said I have an appointment with somebody."

"What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen."

He scans a list, then looks up at me with another bright smile. "Oh! You finally showed up. Peeta's gonna be happy."

I make a face.

The man misses it because he's too busy pulling out his cell phone. "You're about to make his day, getting him out of…what is it? Geography?"

"No, wait, I don't want to—"

"It's cool. He hates Geography," the guy says, eyes glued to his phone as he texts.

Defeated, I sit down in one of the chairs and wait.

XXX

Peeta arrives about fifteen minutes later. His face is race, and he's slightly out of breath, like he jogged over here. Probably thought I'd run away before he got here.

His head whips around as soon as he enters the room, and a huge smile splits his face when he sees me. "Hey! Sorry, I was trapped in—"

"Geography. I know."

Peeta's smile falters a little, like he's confused, then it returns. "You ready to go in?"

I stay where I am. "My Calc. teacher told me I had an appointment with Witt."

"Nah, not yet. That's sometime next week, I think. I just asked him to see if he could get you in here, since there's some peer stuff I forgot to do."

With a definite bounce in his step, he starts down the hallway. I catch up with him, and he asks, "Which room do you want?"

"I don't care."

He nods, then stops in front of one. In a flash, he reaches in, grabs a bean bag chairs off the ground, then keeps walking. Over his shoulder, he calls, "I'm stealing your bean bag." The man at the front responds with something I can't hear. Whatever it is, it makes Peeta laugh.

The thing keeps hitting against the wall or my side as we walk, so Peeta finally moves to rest it on top of his head, like women in sub-Saharan African carry their baskets.

"What are you doing?" I ask, completely baffled.

We take the room at the very end of the hallway, which is next to an exit. It has a window. I relax a bit as I watch one of the trees sway in the tiny breeze, and Peeta tosses his purple seat on the ground, saying, "You can have it."

He takes a black, mostly flat chair and pulls it up so it's across from the bean bag.

Without much of a choice, I flop down on it.

XXX

We talk for half an hour. Mostly about stupid things. Why his café is better than all the other restaurants, how the rooms should each come with their own bean bag, how Calculus has no use in the real world.

He starts and ends each conversation. Mostly I just contribute a "yeah," every once in awhile. Sometimes I catch myself paying so much attention to what's going on out the window that I don't hear a word he says, but he doesn't seem to mind either way.

XXX

In the end, I carry the bean bag back to its original room.

As we walk down the hall, Peeta says, "So I guess I'm supposed to meet with you once a week since you're my mentee. You know, have lunch or something. We were supposed to pick a day back when we first paired up but…I forgot."

"Oh." I'm not sure how much I like the sound of that, so I don't add anything else.

His face turns bright pink, and I have no idea why. "Monday, maybe? Or what about Tuesday?" I look up at him, and his eyes flit away. "I'm pretty open."

I slow down, thinking it over. Absently, I keep walking with him slightly ahead. The bean bag hits him in the butt.

He jumps, then turns to face me. Horrified, I shift it to the other arm.

With just a hint of amusement, he narrows his eyes and reaches for it. I pull it over my head, holding the damn thing away from him. "I've got it."

His arm stretches forward. Both of mine move back, further away.

He opens his mouth to say something, openly laughing now, then suddenly tenses.

I frown at him. "What?"

"What happened to your arm?"

It's my turn to freeze. I drop both my arms, moving the bean bag to rest over my stomach again as some sort of barrier between us. "Nothing."

He doesn't say anything at first, then his hand moves around the chair to brush at my sleeve.

As soon as I feel the contact, I drop the bean bag, turn to face the exit, and run.