A/N: As some of you may know, it's the end of Q3 2012 so I've been super swamped with work. Alas, the load slows down today, and I've had a bit of trouble trying to dip my feet back into the story. Booo writer's block.
I am standing by my door and my hand is digging deep into my bag looking for my house keys. I really need a new bag. This one is old, and not very functional. It is a challenge to fish anything out. I need something bigger, leather, and perhaps a brand name from District Eight. I have never entertained brand names before, but I may treat myself this time.
I finally feel the cool metal against my skin and pull my hand back up, and with the keys, I have managed to drag up something else that sounds like rattling sands and it drops on the floor. I scamper to pick it up; as if I was nervous that someone would see it. It's my pack of birth control pills. I shove it back in my bag and head over to Peeta's.
I have asked him to bake star-shaped shortbread cookies for my students and I'm trying to help him. We're progressing well into the night, and the cookies that are out of the oven and already cooling on the counter we are inserting into small plastic wraps, tying different coloured ribbons around to close it.
He is perched over the sink, rinsing sticky batter from the bowls. "Katniss. I know I've been telling you this for years, but you are going to have to learn how to bake. No excuses," he sounds definite.
I pause from arranging the cookies, hunched over a wide basket and glance at him from across the island counter. He is peeking at me from over his shoulder.
"I have to?" I ask.
"Yeah. I need someone, you know, to carry on the business forward. Mellark Bakery, Serving Quality Baked Goods Since the Dark Ages," he recites in formality.
I have detached from my basket and I'm now standing upright with my hand on my hips.
"Is there anything I should know and are you going to disappear on me Peeta Mellark?"
"Well, no, but just thinking ahead. You have to be prepared for future situations. Either you, or…," his eyes shooting upwards as if seriously considering something, "…our kids will have to run this bakery one day." His eyes descend slowly back down to mine and he's waiting for my reaction. I usually have none, especially in regards to matters such as children, and not just any children, but 'ours'. I react anyway.
"Children, Peeta?...I don't know," and it isn't much of a reaction. I'm playing with a string of ribbon in my hand, suddenly imagining a little version of Peeta, or me, running around in the kitchen, being cute and wreaking havoc with Pebbles. It will be like having two little balls of hurricane. I shake my head, look up, and shoot Peeta a smile.
"Look, I know it takes thoughtful planning to have kids. I think with the income that is being generated from the bakery operations, I'll be able to support our family…if we were to have one," he wipes his hands off a kitchen towel and approaches me. "And you, you can go back to teaching if you want, or just do something you enjoy at home and knit, maybe get a flow of income from that."
My mind is doing loops and calculations, and now I'm not really sure what has been stopping me from stepping up onto the next level in my relationship with Peeta. Suddenly I find myself trying to trump down the voice of my sixteen year old self that was revolted at the thought of having children due to past circumstances.
"I have been playing with the idea lately…" I finally admit to him, and such a short sentence took quite a lot out of me. This time he returns my smile.
"Just imagine. They'll be little hunters, or bakers. They'll have your magnificent singing voice or your accuracy," he cocks an eyebrow at me, "and from me, my uhh…" he trails and his pensive face is back on, and he can't seem to come up with anything. "…my stunning good looks, I guess." We both laugh but he's laughing harder. He seems to be enjoying this so he continues.
"We'll have cake and cookies for breakfast, lunch and dinner. And when they're being bad, that's when you butt in and punish them and say, 'That is it! We are eating squirrels tonight! No ifs or buts.' and they'd be all excited and go, 'Yay, squirrels!"
I am now laughing as hard as he was earlier as he sneaks his arms around me and locks his hands behind my back.
"That's terrible," I tell him as my laughter finally dies.
"Squirrels usually are."
I toss and turn in bed, positioning and re-positioning my arms, legs and my head, in dire need to find a comfortable spot. It is a bit after three in the morning, and it is chilly in Peeta's room because the window is about two inches open, as per old habit.
I scoot nearer to him, the handsome pile of bones and muscles sprawled across on my left, one of his arms clutching a pillow, and the other placed underneath my neck. I press closer to his side as my right leg, having a mind of its own, twists around his, and I let my fingertips slowly trace the planes, the rise and fall of his chest, adoring every inch of his milky smooth white skin.
My eyes continue to luxuriate and crawl upwards and stop at his neck, studying the curve of his Adams apple, and further down, that dip between his collar bones. I linger there for a bit, suppressing my want to press my tongue against it, and then I continue my focus on to his well-defined chin and the strong angles of his jaw line. I love the structure of his jaws, strong and masculine, and I'm suddenly fighting the urge to touch it. Moving along, to the curl of his thin lips that I love to kiss. I take note of the growing facial hair that makes him look rugged and in which I find too irresistible. I admire his long, blonde lashes that naturally curl, and his blonde hair in disarray against the white pillow.
I feel the corners of my lips tug into a smile. I am looking at his face and I begin to think of thoughts that rarely occupy my mind, and start to imagine how our son or daughter may look like. I am caught in a flash of images of a bouncing little baby. I wonder if my daughter would inherit Peeta's eyes, or if my son would have dark brown hair like mine. I imagine their little hands and little feet, and how they would sound like when they cry. Or when they call me mommy.
Peeta breaks my reverie as he shifts in bed, and once he registers the feel of my skin against his, he inwardly curls his outstretched arm under my neck and draws me in a little closer. I continue to watch him, my eyes awake and smiling, until his eyelids start to crack open, slowly and hesitantly.
He looks like he's painfully wincing as his eyes dart down at me, hazy and drunk from sleep, "I love you," he mutters, and adds some sweet-nothings, promises me forever, repeats them some more, and falls back to sleep. It doesn't take long until I follow back into slumber.
I wake up shivering and my hands are rabidly searching for my undergarments sitting on the end table. I sit up to put them on and quietly leave the bed, picking up my clothes that have congregated on the floor below me. I button my jacket as I note the layer of frost on the window. It has not stopped snowing since Peeta and I finished baking shortbread cookies earlier in the night.
I kiss the tip of his nose lightly before I leave the room, tread down the stairs quietly, and crawl out of the living room window. Two feet of fresh snow greet me on the ground as a cold puff of winter wind slaps snow flakes into my face. Once again I have sneaked successfully out of his house, and I'm not quite sure why I even do it, but old habits die hard and I'm still trying to kill this one.
There are smudges and dust on my bathroom mirror that I have been analyzing quite tediously. It's on the upper left hand corner of the mirror, and I blindly reach for the glass cleaner and the rag sitting on the sink. I reach up and spray on the dirt repeatedly, followed by hard scrubbing. I let my hand continue to glide across the area of the glass, appreciating the sparkle and the clarity it leaves behind. As I put the rag back down, I realize I'm now studying my own reflection.
Twenty eight years have slimmed my cheeks, and carved a shallow wrinkle on my forehead. My hair does not have the same thickness or the luscious bounce I once had when I was young, but it's still nice and long. My eyes look a bit tired, and I now possess working hands. Even though years have been added to my life, I'm confident to say I am still radiant, and I have aged gracefully.
I throw the rag into the garbage bin and close all the cupboards underneath the vanity. I pick up crumpled pieces of papers, random receipts, and some strands of my hair I have left in the bath tub, and also throw them all into the garbage. Lastly, I open one of the drawers and survey the inside, gathering empty medicine bottles, old toothbrushes, and empty containers of lotion, to chuck into the garbage as well. Somewhere deeper inside that drawer, as if hidden with care, I spot the rest of my birth control pills and grab them, all packaged neatly by month, and contemplate over them with my hands. I marvel at the types of medicine that is invented these days, and the specific effects they have on the human body.
I play with it some more, and feel myself inch closer to a new decision as I try to look ahead into the future the way Peeta does.
And I send the birth control pills away to suffer the same fate as the rest of the garbage.
I finish my morning class and bundle up before I head out to pay Peeta a visit in his bakery. I'm eager to tell him that the students loved the cookies so much, and that I have finally softened up to the idea of having children after a painstakingly long time. I finally feel free from the guilt that suffocated me after losing Rue, and Prim, and it's time to shake away and step forward from the claws of the past that have always held me back. Nothing is more refreshing than an epiphany.
I wrap my own knitted scarf around my neck and trudge happily into the snow. I spot a few of my students, mostly boys, marking their territory in a park during their recess and throwing snow balls at each other. I make a quick stopover at the market to buy mushrooms and spices so I can make Peeta a bowl of soup for tonight. I continue my journey through the snow, my cheeks and nose red from the chill.
The scene outside the bakery is of an old familiar one, with people milling about by the main door. The bakery is closed again during its peak hours. I should suggest to Peeta to leave a sign on the door that notifies customers he is away for the meantime. I whip my phone out of my oblivion of a bag and dial his number. His phone does not even ring. It's turned off. I huff and turn around and head for his house.
As soon as his house appears in my view I am overcome with a heavy feeling of dread, noting the door that is left wide open. I start to run towards it, almost toppling over myself, and slow down as I reach the door. Some snow have made it inside his living room, scattered about and starting to melt, creating a pool of cold water on the floor.
I let myself in and switch the main light on, and shut the door behind me. The house is robbed of heat and it is severely cold. And what I see in front of me is choking my heart from beating, as I scan the whole first floor with very alert eyes.
Thud. Thud. Thud. I hear my own heart right up in my ear.
The couches are in disarray, and it looks like they have been pushed and pulled from a good distance. One of his shirts is tapered carelessly over the window, as if brought on by paranoia of someone from the outside looking into his house. The lamp shade is laying across the coffee table, and coloured pencils and small tubs of paint are dispersed all over the floor. The wooden legs of his art canvas are cracked, tucked in the corner of the living room, and I wearily approach the canvas itself, laying on top of all the broken wood, and mere strokes of thick, black paint strewn all over it.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The beats are echoing louder and louder.
"Oh no…" I whisper to myself when I conclude that Peeta is having an episode at this very moment.
"Peeta?" I finally ask the room. I bolt up the stairs and peek in nervously through each doors, and confirm that the rooms are untouched. However this doesn't add to my relief and I barrel right back down to the first floor, pacing back and forth, trying to think, to get my brain working, but all I'm hearing is my heart beating in a frenzy.
Thud. Thud. Thud. I take a deep breath and try shut down my emotions. I need to clear my head.
He is not in the bakery. He is not in his house. He can't be in the woods; he wouldn't go in there without me, would he? I'm looking out through the kitchen window, hoping I could see him in the backyard but there is nothing there but thick, unplowed snow. Where could Peeta possibly be?
A part of me is scared, somewhat expecting him to appear from behind a wall and chase me with a knife, so I remain still and vigilant, hands ready to defend myself. A sudden thought sparks in my mind and I waste no time as I head out through the door and begin to trudge through the snow.
The cemetery gatekeeper is looking at me suspiciously through a protective glass wall from inside his little kiosk by the gate. He is a very old man with thin, white hair, wearing khaki jumpers and a white shirt. His desk is laden with loose earth, and there are three flashlights organized in a neat line, and a neglected crusty muffin on top of disorganized papers. His phone has been ringing and he has been ignoring it.
He is shaking his head, as if he is bogged down by fatigue and he does not want to deal with me.
"I'm telling you, there has been no visitor here today. Have you looked all around you, girl? Ain't nothing here but snow," he tells me, half wheezing.
"Can you at least let me in? Please?" I beg him. He lets out some inaudible noise that I somehow make out as complaints, put his winter jacket on slowly, and leave his kiosk. He appears from behind the metal gates of the cemetery and unlocks it. I nod at him as I spring right by him.
"Just don't you get buried in there like the rest of them," he suggests, and a nagging feeling of fear crawls up my arm, "In the snow, I meant." A new set of snow disembarks from the heavens and lightly graces us. I don't respond because I am rather creeped out by what he told me, as I make my way through trees and tombstones, careful not to step on anybody.
I pass by Prim's cross, and quickly dust away the snow that have covered the candles, and the old, wilting flowers Peeta must have placed on it earlier in the month. It's only a few feet now before I reach Peeta's family's grave site. I am suddenly having a hard time breathing, and my legs are cramping. I continue to drag through the snow, regretting the weight of my bag that is swinging from my shoulder, entertaining the idea of ditching it with the old man in his kiosk.
My eyes shrink at the sight a few yards in front of me as I make out a figure squatting on the ground, frantically digging into snow, the lightness of his blonde hair mixing in with the fairness of the snow around him. I hold my breath as I approach Peeta who is too occupied scooping up snow and throwing it aside. His back is towards me and seems to be clearing his father's makeshift tombstone.
"Peeta," I begin, petrified, and I forget at this very moment how I managed to handle him back when his episodes were more frequent, which was ages ago. And it's definitely something I don't try to remember either.
He suddenly tenses up, arms frozen and shoulders rising and falling, like he's been panting hard. His head slowly turns towards me, followed by the rest of his body. We are staring at each other, and I remain about ten feet away, refusing to move any further.
"You," he says with disgust. As soon as he takes a step toward me, I take a step back. My arms and hands fly up in surrender.
"Please remain calm, it's just me. It's me, Katniss…I'm your friend…" I say patiently, my voice trembling.
"It's you. It's because of you this whole country went to hell. And as if you weren't happy enough with that you just had to drag my whole family down, didn't you," his other foot comes forward and he takes another full step. I take another one back.
"…please remember…" I make a loud wish. The cold is starting to hurt the exposed skin of my fingers as I keep my hands raised. I am also hurting my head trying to come up with reasons why this episode was triggered in the first place.
"You killed them!" he shouts angrily at me. "You're a mutt."
I'm shaking my head wildly and tears are brimming in the corners of my eyes. And in one swift movement, he is pulling up a gun from his pocket, and points it straight at my head. He takes another step forward. Oh no.
It's a gun it's a gun it's a gun.
I'm defenseless, walking backwards like a coward, and my shoes are making it hard for me to move through the snow on the ground.
It's a gun it's a gun it's a gun.
My thoughts are bouncing at me, a red flag waving. I recognize the gun. I've seen that somewhere.
It's a gun it's a gun it's a gun.
I remember. Chip and Ashton. Apartment. Moving boxes. Personal Belongings. District Thirteen. Firearms. Illegal firearms. Firearms that were supposed to be returned to District Thirteen Military to be locked down in a high security volt. Sneaky firearms.
How do I escape from a gunshot? Do I run away? Do I drop into the snow? Do I play dead? Do I die here, right now?
In the midst of my life being threatened by Peeta's hands, I see something from my side vision move. My eyes slowly roll to the right and spot the old man gatekeeper running back out towards his kiosk. Help, I plead quietly.
"Peeta you don't have to do this," I cry. My life tries to flash before my eyes and all I see are happy memories with Peeta and Pebbles. Lady. Even Buttercup. Prim braiding her own hair. My dad singing. My mom sitting in her favourite chair looking out the window. Flowers. Haymitch. Haymitch's geese. Summer nights. Dancing by the river. Hot chocolate in autumn. Peeta's scarf and mittens. Rue whistling. Braised lamb in rosemary. Candy apples. Peeta's notes. Peeta's sport magazines. Peeta's cleft chin. Peeta's smile. Peeta's cookies. Peeta's apron. Our willow tree.
Seconds stretch into what feels like forever, and I feel cold tears streaming down my face. He is screaming at me, calling me names, telling me things that hurt and that are untrue, his hands shaking as he maintains the iron grip around the gun.
I see that he is weeping too, and it's odd. He never weeps during an episode until now. He is crying, but he looks savage, spiteful, tinged with a killer instinct. I see sweat framing his forehead, and the shade of his face slowly turning red.
He takes another step forward, but this time, I dare myself to not move.
I close my eyes and hear an explosive sound and I am pushed back with such brute force, my bag drops on the snow and I see my mushrooms roll out all over the ground. Oh no. I need those mushrooms to make him a bowl of soup tonight.
My eyes swing open and try to rise up, using my elbows to perch me up from the ground. My ears are still ringing, and my loud heart beats have returned, and I shake my head to make it go away because it seems to be all that I'm hearing.
I'm on a half-attempt to a sitting position and I cringe as my muscles sting and complain, and I am so dizzy and I'm having difficulties trying to figure out what is happening in front of me. I see police men gathering around Peeta, some are holding his arms back behind him, and some are punching him in the stomach. One police man punches him in the face when he tries to resist and fight back. I see that the gun has been knocked out from his grasp and it sits on a patch of tall dead grass, and the police are still trying to contain him as his rage continues.
I try to find my hand so I could lift myself off the ground but I see something alarming. There are trails of blood, contrasting and staining the white of snow surrounding me. Random, round stains of blood. I look down at my beige jacket and realize it is soaked in more blood. I wipe at it and bring the hand to my eye level, and I squint at it.
My head is racked with enormous pain, my breathing slows, and everything turns black.