(I know, I went a little crazy on the music this time, but I couldn't narrow it down any further!)
Songs: "Which Will" by Nick Drake
"First Love" by Adele
"Keep Breathing" by Ingrid Michaelson
"Shake It Out" by Florence + the Machine
Chapter 6 – Winter (K)
It's nice, I think as Peeta piles our plates with eggs and bacon, that we still have breakfast to ourselves. Marko and Mort - Peeta's father insists that I call him by his first name - have, at Peeta's behest, taken up residence in Peeta's house. Since he usually spends the night with me, this means breakfast is nearly the only waking time he spends without them.
Today, after we eat, Peeta dons a heavy, waterproof coat to brave the frigid rain as he walks the short distance from my house to his. The weather keeps me inside, a decision I'm happy I've made when the day takes an icy turn and the rain becomes a frozen sleet. My morning is spent mostly doing my budgets. But as Peeta spends yet another afternoon with his re-found family, my loneliness and curiosity get the better of me and I find the edge of my knife running under the flap of the envelope containing Gale's first letter.
I read the words twice. Most of it I either already knew or had else guessed: He was promoted in rank and assigned an important job is District 2, where his family has joined him; he misses me, thinks of me often, and hopes I am well; and he's deeply sorry if he "was in any way responsible for what happened to Prim."
Prim. Just seeing her name in print has, in the past, been enough to evoke days of deep depression, nights of sleepless agony. But today, I manage to grip the sadness before it chokes me. I know Gale is sincere in his apology, just as I know he will never fully take responsibility for Prim. I don't even know to what extent I blame him. All I know is that her death is inextricably linked to him. And that I miss him.
Prim's is not the only name that bothers me; Gale's mention of Johanna Mason is jarring as well, and for a reason I can't quite place. I had actually grown to respect and appreciate Johanna during our time together in District 13, and I'm happy that she's found work after the war. But why does it bother me that that work is in District 2?
With some apprehension, I open Gale's second letter, the one that arrived several weeks back. What a strange few weeks they've been. This letter is markedly shorter than the first.
Dear Katniss,
I can understand if you don't want to continue your friendship with me. It would hurt me more than I could say, but I would understand. I hope that's not the case, though, because I really do miss you. I love my job, and my family is here, and I even find time to hunt. But I know it would all be better if I could share it with you. But for right now, I just wish I could talk to you.
You're still the best friend I've ever had, Catnip.
Gale
The guilt I've been staving off suddenly rushes over me. Guilt about how Gale and I left things, that I've been ignoring his letters, that he sometimes enters my mind when Peeta kisses me. I know I can't go on avoiding him forever. But what can I tell him?
I find a piece of paper in the desk drawer, grab a pen, and sit down to write; however, no words come to me. I repeat this process several times over the next few days, but try as I might, the pen produces nothing that sounds right.
One morning, I give up the effort in frustration and tramp off into the woods, despite the persistent, cold rain. There's not much point hunting in such foul weather, though, and I end up sheltering myself under a ledge of rock, where I find some wood dry enough for a small, if smoky, fire.
I remain here for most of the day. When I decide not to return for lunch, instead eating food I'd brought with me, it crosses my mind that Peeta might worry if I don't show up, especially if I'm not home. Or would he? I feel that he's been so absorbed in his brother and father recently that he might not even miss me if I were to skip a lunch. Maybe it's just as well—the less I end up owing Peeta, the better.
Huddled up under this rock in our woods, I want nothing more than to be able to talk to Gale. I know if he were with me here right now, it would somehow be so much easier to tell him what I can't seem to put into a letter. I'm not even sure what I do want to tell him. That I miss him, too? That I don't want to end our friendship, but that I don't know how to continue it either? I can't say that I forgive him. But maybe if I could see him, talk to him face to face, I could summon words.
While my frozen body trudges home that afternoon, a strange thought strikes me. The New Year is less than a week away, and I'll be able to travel again. What's to keep me from hopping on a train to District 2?
Peeta, that's what, I think, quickly dismissing the notion. But just something about the idea of it stays with me that night at dinner, where the only answer to where I'd been all day was "out in the woods," and all through the next couple days before I find myself on the phone with Peeta's head doctor, whom I've been talking to more than mine lately.
"Dr. Aceso?" I say as she answers her telephone. "It's Katniss."
"Hello, Katniss. Is everything all right?"
"Yes. I mean, no. Is anything ever really all right? I don't know. I just needed to…talk, I guess." What is it about this woman that turns me into some kind of babbling idiot? And yet, I feel as though I can trust her somehow, that she won't betray me to Peeta and she honestly wants to help me. So I talk to her.
"How are you adjusting to Peeta's family being there?" Dr. Aceso asks.
"It's been great for Peeta. I can almost see how much healthier it's made him in such a short time. But…he spends so much time with them. I'm really glad they're back, but it somehow makes me feel more…alone."
"Have you told Peeta how you feel?"
"No. I can't just tell him he can't spend as much time with his family; it wouldn't be fair to him. What right do I have over them for his time?"
"Didn't you agree to be his friend, to help each other get well? Don't forget about what's fair to you, as well." A pause. She'll do this, give me some bit of information to think on, pause for a moment, then change the subject. "Is there anyone else you can reach out to when you're lonely?"
"I can call my mother," I say, "but she can be difficult to get on the phone and usually can't talk for too long. I spoke to her recently, to tell her about Mort and Marko. But she's always so busy at work, and that's the only phone she has access to. I write some, to Mom and Delly, but it's so much harder for me to get the words out when I write, and it's not always easy for me to find words to begin with." I'm thinking of my failed attempts to return Gale's letters. "I miss Gale," I say almost abruptly. "And every time I try to write, I don't know what to say. I've tried picking up the phone, but I always put it back down again." Why is my voice so choked up, like I'm about to cry?
"What do you wish you could say to him?" she asks softly.
"That he'll always be important to me," is all I can think to say.
"Then tell him that. If he's your friend, Katniss, he'll listen and be there for you. You should talk to him."
So I try. Not long after we have a New Year's celebration that brings me more apprehension than joy, I summon the will to pick up the phone and dial the number Gale left in his letter. At first, I'm almost glad I did. He says it's nice to hear from me and spends several minutes telling me as much as he can about his job and how he's teaching Rory and Vick how to hunt on Sundays.
But as soon as he turns the conversation to me, I forget what I am supposed to say and fumble for words. Other than getting out the woods feel empty without him, I find that I am not able to say much all. After an awkward goodbye, I'm left feeling conflicted. Now, running off to see him doesn't sound quite as appealing. Unable to make a decision, I make none.
Subsequent days are filled with anxious uncertainty. I allow Peeta into my bed at night mainly because not doing so would only invite further questions about if I'm all right. But it matters little, as I grow so numb that Peeta's embrace can barely be felt. My days return to the robotic monotony of the previous spring.
The worst of my nightmares, most of which had abated significantly in the previous months, return in full force. This time around, they focus on the first arena. The deaths, murders I saw there, and even the ones I didn't. A slow-motion replay of the blood bath at the Cornucopia. Rue bleeding out with a spearhead in her gut. The long, freezing night the muttations spent mutilating Cato. Each scene is longer, bloodier, more painful than the last, the colors and sounds oversaturated as if induced by jacker venom.
One morning, I refuse to get out of bed. When Peeta returns several hours later with a tray of food, I ignore both. But when I awake again at dusk, it's not because I am startled out of a nightmare. Instead, I gradually grow aware of the sound of low, soothing singing and a strong hand gently stroking my hair.
"Hey, Katniss," Peeta says quietly when he realizes I'm awake. His affection, combined with the look of anguish in his face, has completely disarmed me, and I know I won't be able to get away with ignoring him this time.
"Hey," I say back. I close my eyes again, lulled by Peeta's touch.
"Will you come to dinner? Dad is cooking."
"Maybe," I say.
"I wish you would." I know he won't fight me if I say no.
"Why are you still here?" I blurt suddenly. I don't mean for it to sound as indignant as it does.
Peeta takes a deep breath before he begins. "Because you're real, Katniss. Because back on that day…that day when the bombs went off in the City Circle, when I saw you on fire, I had this feeling that I can't quite explain. But it was the most real thing I had felt since the hijacking. I knew it meant that…that I love you, that I always have. And the whole time I was in that hospital, the only thing that kept me going was the thought of you. Even when I couldn't remember who you were. There were days, Katniss, when I didn't want to get out of bed, when everything made me confused and angry. But Dr. Aceso had me start a list, a list of things I know for certain. And every time I became agitated or upset or confused, she had me recite my list, so that I would be reminded that there are things I do know to be true, information that I can rely on. The first thing on my list is you."
We sit in silence as I take in this information. Then, "Maybe you need a list, too, Katniss. A list of reasons to get out of bed. Because life is going on out there, with you or without you. Except it's much lonelier without you."
"You're lonely? With your dad and your brother? But you're with them all the time now, and…well, sometimes I-" But Peeta pulls me into a kiss before I can finish, and a warmth washes over me. Not the hunger I'd felt once before, but enough to make me wonder if that hadn't been a fluke.
"Oh, Katniss, I'm sorry. I know I've been spending a lot of time with them. I honestly thought you were just letting us catch up." He peppers my face with small, sympathetic kisses between words, melting away my bitterness and making me feel closer to Peeta than I have in a long time. "I shouldn't have left you so alone."
"It was my fault, too," I say, thinking of how distant I've been lately.
"It's okay," he replies.
The next morning finds me hunting under a wan winter sun. It is the type of winter day that makes you think that spring is just around the corner, despite what the calendar says. With the cool, fresh breeze clearing my mind, I'm able to focus on my hunt, and to great results.
The lucidity of the day casts a new light upon everything. Recalling my imaginings of running off to see Gale, I wonder how I ever could have considered it an option. District 12 is my home, I owe Peeta everything, and it would devastate him if I left, yet I don't really think any of these are why I know I'm not going anywhere.
Well before lunch, I'm heading back home with all the game I can carry. When I get to the edge of the Meadow, a flash of color catches my eye and I stop. No, it couldn't be. It's far too early. But then I think about how relatively mild this winter has been. Or maybe it's just a tenacious holdout that refused to die in the fall.
Whatever its origin, I am staring down the yellow eye of a singular dandelion. No, not solitary. On a second stem is another, not a flower but a white ball of snowy seeds. In a fit of girlish whimsy, I pluck this, hold it to my lips, and make a silent wish as I blow the fluffy little seeds off their stalk. It's something my dad taught me to do when I was a little girl. The breeze sweeps the seeds across the Meadow, and the yellow flower again captures my attention.
My mind returns to Peeta, and his list. Perhaps he's right, and I do need my own list. A list for the times when I don't feel as if I can go on anymore, when the atrocities and injustices become too much to bear. A list of every good, kind, true thing I have ever seen anyone do. I begin with the actions of a brave young boy who made a sacrifice so that I could go on another day. And the brave young man who continues to do the same.