Chapter 4: Stupor

Heart's a Mess – Gotye

You have lost Too much love
To fear, doubt and distrust
You just threw away the key
To your heart

You don't get burned
'Cause nothing gets through
It makes it easier for you
But that much more difficult for me
To make you see...

I don't know how long we sat there in the guest room. Eventually Peeta stops whispering his assurances- three to four word statements that I hear but leave no impact on my heart- and my trembling stills. I feel very aware that I am still wearing the same soiled clothes, so I pry myself out of Peeta's arms and shuffle to the guest bathroom, wordlessly strip, and step into the shower.

I scrub hard, leaving my skin red. I want to rid myself of the shame that covers me. I want to remove the memories of the life that once was from my skin. I scrub, hoping maybe I can change who I am, to watch the broken and afraid parts of me mix with the water and soap and disappear down the drain. When I've rubbed my skin raw I remain standing there under the spray, mostly emotionless. I wait to feel something.

I don't.

When I get out, Peeta is waiting, but doesn't say or do anything. He sits on the floor, back to the wall across the guest room, legs straight in front of him. He studies me with cautious eyes. I can tell he wants to help me, wants to talk about it, but he stays on the other side of the guest room, shyly eyeing the new set of clothes he'd gotten me and placed on the bed during my scrubbing. I wordlessly and slowly dress, get into the guest bed and, lay flat on my back, eyes wide open. After a few minutes Peeta clicks off the light and joins in a similar position. Neither of us say anything- we don't know what words would suffice.

Thirty minutes later, I know we're both still awake. I can practically feel the silent tears streaming down Peeta's face. When I speak, my voice sounds lifeless, the weight of my words holding little force. "I'm sorry."

Peeta could tell me what he's already said. He could again and again say the assurances. He could try to reason me into contentedness. He could berate me for blaming myself; yell at me for letting it happen, anything. However, he responds by intertwining our fingers together under the covers and holds my hand in the dark. "Me too," he silently says.

…

Two weeks pass with little development. Days pass by like years, yet I feel my life is slipping out of my hands at a rate I can't keep up with. I try to move on as normal, but nothing is the same. My mother hasn't called, but I know she has talked to Peeta. Haymitch looks at me like I'm one of the walking dead, flashing un-Haymitch-like supportive smiles in my direction. Peeta is a rock- he bleaches the bathroom, throws out the clothes I wore, takes care of me dutifully. Yet, we don't talk about it. We go through our normal routine, but there is a pain mutually shared- we both feel it. He seems scared, like I'm a bomb about to either short circuit and be a dud or explode, destroying everyone around me. Maybe it hurts too much for him too. Mostly I suspect he's waiting until I'm ready.

I'm not ready, though. Not at all. Even if I was brave enough to face it all, I wouldn't.

My nightmares are full and frequent. Jabberjays chase me, the sounds of a crying baby escaping its beak, hunting me down as I run. Everyone I love is torn apart by mutts. I stand on a platform in the second Game's arena, looking around to see that I'm completely alone- it is me against me. There is no winner. There is no loser. Just me, sent to be punished. Often when I awake from these I see Peeta looking at me, concerned, and feel tears on my face. Peeta pulls me close to comfort me, but I grow rigid, murmur "I'm fine" and roll over, pulling myself from his embrace and sleeping on my own. He lets me go, and every time I try not to see the look on his face. I know it would help to have his arms around me, and truthfully I long for it. However, I feel enough weight from the shame of putting him through this, I shouldn't expect him to take care of me on top of it. I attempt managing on my own, supporting my own weight and dealing with my own sorrows. I want to pay him back for the agony I've put him through by being strong for myself. Despite all of this, I can't shake the feeling I'm hurting him more.

"For better for worse..." It rings through my head in these moments that I pull away from him. Despite it, I cant bring myself to believe. As victors, we were richer. Growing up, and now after the revolution has finished and wracked the economy, we are poorer. Peeta and I have exchanged seasons of sickness and health. Despite our pasts, we've managed to make our lives somewhat better- finding happiness and support in each other, making the best out of a situation where there seemed to be no sort of winning, only surviving. Is this what we meant as worse? Could this caliber of disappointment and pain be what we signed up for? Deep down, I think it has been too much for either of us to handle. This is not worse; this is desolation. Dreams, confidence, stability, pride: all of it is reduced to smithereens. The risk Peeta pleaded with me to take, the key to a hopeful future Haymitch had encouraged, the anticipation I had allowed myself to hold onto had crumbled, leaving me with my own shame.

One morning I find that Peeta has left me breakfast and a note. I stand over it, ripping off a corner of the toast and glancing over his calm and precise handwriting. I see the word "bakery" and get the point. I wrap the loose fabric of the jacket I stole from Peeta around me tighter. The house seems eerily empty and big, memories bouncing around the walls in patterns that my mind naturally follows. I hate it, and don't want to be alone.

A visit to Haymitch's house suddenly seems like a good idea. However, after a few knocks and shouting at the door, it appears he isn't home. My options are few: return home to memories, the smell of chemicals, and emptiness, venture into the woods which hold increased uncertainty, or walk down to the bakery where I would be a bother. Deciding that Haymitch has never been one for respecting people's private lives, I jiggle the handle and find it is unlocked. Letting myself in, I step through the threshold.

His house is messy, clothes piled in corners, dishes stacked up in the sink. It smells of liquor, and I see four different colored and sized bottles on the couch end table, all with varying quantities left in them.

Meandering over, I unscrew an opaque, mostly spherical yellow bottle and hold it up to my nose, smelling deeply. Its pungent, not so different from the rubbing alcohol my mother used to keep in her cabinet. Still, the momentary sting distracts me from the thoughts constantly running laps around my conscious.

Curious, I take a sip. It stings as it inches its way down, burning and branding the reasons I'm drinking on the walls of my throat.

One, two, three more swigs and then I find myself laying on the couch, lining up the four different bottles next to me. A forest green bottle that is curved, a lavender triangle shaped bottle, and an aquamarine tall cylindrical bottle with a long neck. One drink at a time I alternate all the different colors and sizes, evaluating the different stings of each.

I think of blood. Sip. The potential conversation when my mother calls because she knows what I've experienced. Tip back. I think of Peeta's future, nothing but me standing before him. Longest pull. My mind starts growing fuzzy, and it feels warmer and soft… I can see why Haymitch loves this so much. I could stay here sipping and sipping until all my worst memories fade into oblivion. So I do. I know I'll have to come back down eventually, but as for now, this is enough.

"Well, isn't this a surprise?"

My tongue feels three times its size and the words escaping my esophagus feel like sandpaper. "Hey Haymitch." I put one hand up in the air, waving at him.

"Does your husband know you're here?"

"Nope" my lips pop on the last syllable.

"Katniss, this is not a good idea."

"Well, I think it's a great idea." When I say 'great', my voice reaches an all-time high.

"Its not. Especially in your state."

I sit up straight on the sofa and look straight at Haymitch. My equilibrium is out of control, torso swinging around. "You have no idea what it feels like, Haymitch."

He scoffs. "What don't I know?'

"My 'state'."

Haymitch's eyes pierce me, he squints as he talks. "Listen up, sweetheart. I know more of the state of destruction and pain than you can imagine. Don't for a second tell me that I don't know what I'm talking about. Now give me the liquor before you waste it all."

Defiantly I pick up the bottle I like the best- the aquamarine one with a cork top that smells like licorice. Without breaking eye contact I raise the bottle to my lips. I drink too long, and when I take the bottle away I'm sputtering and coughing, trying to catch my breath.

Haymitch tries not to chuckle. Instead a sigh overtakes him and he sits down next to me on the couch, one by one picking up the bottles and returning them to their home on the table next to the sofa. He places a hand on my shoulder. "Dizzy?" I nod. "Head feel like it's on lockdown?" Shrug. "Want to cuss me out?" I open my mouth to let some foul names fly, but he ignores me and continues on. "Stomach churning?" I think, then ghost a hand over my stomach- I wont touch it, I don't deserve to touch there, where Peeta's baby had been. I let out a pained moan.

"It hurts."

"Well, that's probably because you drank on an empty stomach."

I shake my head back and forth erratically. "No, it all hurts. I'm responsible."

He's quiet. "No, Katniss. You aren't."

"Yes. I. Am." I suddenly understand why Haymitch is always so honest... he can't help it. My explanation slurs and tumbles and falls off my tongue. "Have you felt it? Have you lost something you're supposed to give life to? I was supposed to love our baby. Be excited for it. Instead, my body... it..." I don't finish my sentence. "Do you know what it feels like to completely reject someone like that? Do you realize what its like to be responsible for that sort of death of something so innocent?"

Haymitch leans back, putting both arms behind his head. "Actually, I do. Until you and Peeta, I spent nearly every year at the games drunk- ignoring the tributes, watching them die… I could've done more to get them sponsors. Could've trained them or let them know that I was sorry this happened to them. But I didn't. Instead, I drank myself into oblivion and attended every reaping, every interview, watched every moment of those games and sat back and did nothing."

I shoot him a glare. "That's not the same. It wasn't you who caused them to die."

He places a hand back on my shoulder. "And neither did you."

He doesn't get it. No one gets it. "You can't lecture me about self-medicating." I say boldly, almost shouting. "You just cant." It's a less than solid rebuttal, but in my current mental state it slips out.

"You're right, sweetheart. But I know someone who can. I'm going to make a call."

Haymitch shuffles out of the room, and I slowly stand and stagger my way over to the side-table, where I pick up my favorite bottle. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to make it count. One gulp- I stop replaying the event in my mind and sway in peace. Two gulps- the memory of my father holding me on his lap, telling me he can't wait to meet my children someday fades away. This time the silence of my inner monologue lasts longer, nothing on the horizon. Just to be sure though; three gulps- I almost don't hear the door whack against the wall as it's slammed open.

A voice curses Haymitch.

"Listen, Peeta, she was like this when I got here."

Peeta snaps. "You don't lock your doors?"

"I don't typically worry about my visitors, seeing that you two are typically the only ones." Peeta mumbles something my ears are too drunk to pick up. "She's in there."

"Thanks for the call."

"Anytime."

I'm holding now mostly empty bottle in one hand, my fingers loosening on its neck. Im aware that its slipping from my grasp, but in my drunken stupor my brain can't convince my fingers to tighten. Instead, it falls to the floor, clanking as it reaches the carpet. Im swaying a lot, and nothing crosses my mind. The extra swig did the trick- its like nothing but my physical being exists. I want to stay this way forever.

"Oh, Katniss." It's Peeta, and he sounds equal parts stunned, frustrated, and heartbroken. I hold up a heavy hand over my face, wanting to tell him to stay away, to not take care of me or even look at me, to let me be a wreck for a moment. All that escapes me, though, is a disgusting gurgle of syllables that don't make sense.

As he steps forward towards me, everything goes black, and I fall.

I jolt awake, in a bathroom now, much like the one at my house but with a different smell. I gather I'm at Haymitch's house. Cool, recognizable hands are on my face.

"Thank God," he exhales, brushing the loose tendrils of hair from my face.

"There's our girl." Haymitch is trying not to laugh, I think.

Then, I'm violently ill. Peeta keeps his hands on me to keep me steady as my body purges itself of my mid-morning snack.

"What's going through your head?" Peeta murmurs it, and I have a feeling he was asking it to himself more than to me. He doesn't sound angry, but instead pained. I don't ask him though, as another bought of sickness comes upon me.

When its all done, I lay my head on Peeta's chest, moaning as my eyes close again.

When my eyes open this time, on their own accord, I hear sounds of mumbling and clinking and shifting. It's soft beneath me, and a blanket is wrapped around me. I'm on a sofa which smells like must. My head pounds, most likely from the liquor earlier, but instead of going back to sleep I'm intrigued by what's going on. I peel one eye open slightly, taking in the scene. Haymitch rounds up what's left of his four bottles of liquor, swirling them around before taking a long drink. Satisfied with my observation I close my eyes again.

"Does that really help?" Peeta asks, slightly still aggravated, but a genuine longing for understanding in his tone.

"Sure as heck doesn't hurt. Want some, big guy?"

I'm sure Peeta will refuse, but when he says "Why not" my interest is piqued.

It's quiet for a while, but I hear the faint glug of Peeta swallowing. When I hear him gasp for breath and cough, Haymitch chuckles and forcefully claps him on the back with a ringing thunk.

"Easy there."

"That's disgusting," Peeta croaks.

Haymitch chuckles again in acknowledgement. "We manage in different ways. You've got your girl on fire, I have my throat on fire. To each their own."

Peeta is silent.

"How are you holding up, anyway?" Haymitch says this quietly, concern lacing his voice.

"Hardly," Peeta says brokenly. I haven't heard him express this kind of emotion since the event happened. Over the last week, he's been a rock- solid, there to support me, taking care of me. Never once has he expressed his own pain. "I don't know what to do about it, Haymitch."

"There's not much you can do. Be strong." Haymitch now sits backwards on a dining chair while Peeta paces back and forth.

"I am! But what else? What else can I do? I can't make it go away. I can't change it."

"You could try again." Haymitch offers this option, and my heart stops. No.

"I know. And Katniss' mother said that too. She says this whole thing isn't a freak accident, that there really isn't a definitive way to know what causes miscarriages, but it happens often. She said next time around we'd be able to keep a better eye on it, and that with all the trauma Katniss has been through her body would just need time to adjust."

"Can you tell her that?"

Peeta lets out a breath that he'd apparently been holding. "No, Haymitch, I can't"

"But I don't see why…" I don't know what Haymitch is about to say, but Peeta cuts it off. And I'm grateful. I don't know if I can take thinking about trying again. Not now.

"I'm so… angry." I hear Peeta's breathing growing heavier and more strained. "I'm angry at myself… I practically knew she was pregnant… but when she got sick I second guessed. It wasn't till she told me she had morning sickness that week that it began to click. By then it was too late."

"No one expected you to be an expert on pregnancy, Peeta."

Peeta shoves the comment aside, continuing his speech. "I'm angry that it was too late in the first place- that technology has everything from cameras operated thousands of miles away, the creation of disgusting muttations, tonics to make you throw up, to the ability to implant whiskers to your face but nothing to prevent infants passing away before they even get a chance. I'm angry with the world for letting this happen to us. I'm angry that we were so close to having a family, but that this had to happen. I've already lost all of my family except for her. She's lost everyone except her mother, who is barely there. Would it have been so hard for this world to let us have some sort of happiness? Would it?"

He's huffing, and he's not talking to Haymitch anymore, but letting out his sorrow. Usually he is so composed and articulate, but this erratic and pained side of him I'd seen seldom times before. Apparently Haymitch agrees, knowing if he suppresses this for much longer he could explode.

"What else?" I wait for him to be angry at me, bracing myself for what I know I deserve.

"I'm angry that Katniss…" his head shifts towards me to look at my mock sleeping form. I slam my eyelids back closed, ears pricked in intrigue. Here it comes- the berating I've been anticipating now for nine years. However, his voice grows softer and more pained rather than enraged. "I'm angry that she has to experience this. I hate that she blames herself… she already carries so much of this world on her shoulders. Prim, Finnick, Cinna, Rue, Wiress, Boggs, even me. She didn't need one more thing to carry around." His voice breaks. "How do I do it? How do I show her none of it is her fault? That she's just as much a victim as anyone else?"

"How do we do that for any of us, really?" Haymitch coughs. "Consistency. Assurance. Love. Letting things continue as normal."

"I'm losing her, Haymitch. Every day. She barely talks to me, and what she does say is so soft and vague. If I try to touch her, she either tenses up or pulls away. Her plate goes mostly untouched, and based on her expressions she doesn't seem to taste anything. We go for walks and normally she's looking at the trees and listening to the birds and lifting her face to feel the wind. Instead, she walks so stiffly, head down all the time." I grow insecure. I had thought I was doing a better job of masking my reactions.

"Give her time. She's a resilient one, that girl."

"Yet she's so much more gentle and kind and fragile than she even knows." My nose crinkles up, and I have to suppress myself from making my cognition known. I am not kind, nor gentle; I have proven it over and over. I am a destroyer.

Haymitch sighs in agreement with Peeta.

"She would've been an incredible mother, Haymitch." As easy as it is to fill my mind with pictures of Peeta and children, I can't conjure anything for myself. The only thing is one undisputable truth: what kind of mother's body rejects her own baby? Mine. Would I be a good mother? No. I already proved that.

"She still could be."

Ferocity finds itself back to Peeta's voice. "I'm not going to pretend that I don't want a child. I'm not going to say that I don't dream of it. And I'm not going assert that Katniss never wanted one either, although I grow less and less sure. Sometimes I think I see it in her, the way she's so broken over this. I could've sworn I saw the bit of a glow she had when she told me okay. I suspected that deep down, maybe in a part of her she never recognized, she wanted a child of our own as well. Maybe I'm still right. I could keep pushing and keep asking, and maybe she'd agree again."

"It'd be worth it," Haymitch says, "I'd be honored to know the little one that comes from such parents."

Peeta's voice breaks again as he talks. "But I want her more than I want a child. And I know maybe I could have both, but at what cost? Do I want a baby if Katniss is still a terrified shell, only in it to give me what I want?"

"No," Haymitch whispers.

"What I'm after isn't just her physical presence. I want her bravery, her wit, her wisdom, her spunk, her compassion. I want who she is." His breathing is labored now, and I wonder if he is crying. "At this point, I think forcing her into a baby might jeopardize that forever."

I feel my awareness sinking deeper and deeper. I want to keep listening, but there's nothing I can do about it. Perhaps its a good thing, for I don't know how much more my heart can take. I'm hurting him as I always do. Would I ever do it right?

The chances seem slim.

Without struggling, once more I let unconscious take me to far less confusing and heartbreaking places.

Ending Notes:

So basically Katniss falls asleep and wakes up a lot. I promise that she wont be in and out of consciousness every chapter. Also, there's not a ton of inner monologue in this chapter because I wanted to express what Peeta was feeling. Also, I figured you would know what she's feeling without me needing to pour out a bunch of depressing muck on you. Also, I wanted to avoid repeating myself over and over.