January 12th, 2012
Author's Note: I truly apologize for the long wait between updates. I would blame it on holidays and getting back to school, but I actually just struggled writing this chapter. Every once in a while, I get so excited to write a certain scene in a story that it's really hard to form the bridge to get there. I am thrilled with everyone's comments and felt so guilty that I forced myself to finish this chapter. You are all greatly appreciated!
Somehow I find my way to bed and fall into a deep dreamless sleep. The morning brings with it a sense of calm. Or maybe just despondent acceptance. Forgetting the bout of vomiting that seems to be a now daily occurrence, the girl staring back at me in the mirror doesn't appear any different on the surface. As I scrutinize my reflection, I feel anesthetized, limbs heavy, body numb. Only Prim's voice cuts through my trance; her shouts for my mother echoing off the downstairs walls. I try not to think of the time when I will answer to that call.
I have half a mind to find Gale and just break the news. I don't see how waiting will help me gain any clarity or change my perception of the situation.
Instead, my knuckles wrap hard on Haymitch's front door.
I knock three times before letting myself in. I hadn't really expected a response anyway.
It still smells like alcohol and something stale, despite Hazelle's multiple attempts to scrub the years and years of abuse from the hardwood and carpet. I swallow past a wave of nausea that sends my head spinning. Stabilizing myself against the wall, I stagger into the kitchen.
Haymitch watches me slump unsteadily into the nearest chair, eyeing me suspiciously, his mug halted halfway to his mouth. He's lucid enough to appreciate that this visit is not the formality of me checking in to make sure he hasn't drowned himself in a puddle of his own filth.
"Drew the short stick, did we, sweetheart?" There's only a slight slur to his words, but he sloshes his drink, and I can smell the liquor laced orange juice from across the table. I absently wonder why he even bothers with adding the juice at all.
Ignoring my roiling insides, I lean forward on crossed arms, never taking my eyes off of him. He interprets the seriousness of my body correctly and mimics my posture, a slight lean to the right the only giveaway to any inebriation. Hopefully, the topic I'm about to discuss will sober him up fully.
"What's the Capitol opinion on children out of wedlock?" My voice is surprisingly steady despite the fact that I'm clutching my elbows in an effort to still my shaking hands.
Haymitch's unkempt eyebrows practically rise off of his face as he leans back in his chair. His weight hits the back heavily and the wooden legs screech across the hardwood floor. He whistles a low tone before fixing me with another piercing stare. I think he gets the impression that this is a hallucination of his intoxication when he eyes his mug with the same suspicious look he had fixed on me.
"You know, they said the key to your success in the arena," Haymitch says – I wince as the memories threaten to break the surface – "was your unpredictability. Don't think I gave that the necessary credit where it was due."
"Haymitch," I say. I refuse to be baited into an argument. There are far more important matters at hand.
"Hypocritical," he says. I frown. "It should be no surprise really. Children out of wedlock are an everyday occurrence in the Capitol, but for the Districts to behave in such a fashion…"
He makes a tsking sound and I feel my face fall. My Seam mask does not slide into place fast enough to hide the slip from Haymitch. I expect a biting remark, but am met with a look of sincere sympathy. I grind my teeth and pick at some dirt beneath my fingernails. I did not come for soothing words and comfort.
"Yup, unpredictable. Wouldn't have thought with your lukewarm sentiments that you and Peeta would have…"
I stop digging the skin of my thumbs and my eyes meet Haymitch's bloodshot gaze with enough truth leaking through to stop his sentence midstream. The tell is enough to show him his mistake. I'm not sure what I'm expecting in the ensuing silence. Certainly not that it would last this long. I'm almost wishing for yelling and screaming when Haymitch rises and crosses to the telephone. He's dialing a number before I find the words to ask what he's doing.
"Calling Peeta," he says, as if it needed no explanation.
"Wait!" I cry, and the outrage I feel welling within me shocks me with its ferocity. This is my secret to share and I'll be damned if Haymitch is the one who starts spreading it. "I haven't even told…"
"QUIET!" For a second, he looks less a mentor and more like the mad raving drunk the Capitol sees every Reaping. I scowl, not sure if I am more upset with being scolded, or that I feel like I feel I should be scolded.
I can hear the dial tone as the line connects and rings once, twice, three times…
"Hello?"
"Peeta, are you next door?"
"Yes…"
"Get over here. Now."
The phone slams in the cradle.
Peeta is a saint. He walks into the kitchen so quickly that I suspect he was standing in the other room of Haymitch's house this entire time. If Haymitch had spoken to me like that, I would've intentionally waited an hour before deciding to amble over when I felt I had waited long enough to make my point. Then again, Haymitch would have probably known well enough to just track me down and corner me, so I couldn't escape the inevitable.
Peeta sets a small box of baked goods on the table. The sharp yeast smell makes me mouth water and my stomach revolt. I fight the urge to run to the sink. I have nothing left in me anyway. Pressing my lips together in what I hope looks like a smile is my weak attempt to show Peeta my appreciation. Worry changes his bright blue eyes to a deeper turquoise that cuts through me and I bow my head. I never refuse cheese buns.
"Leave it," Haymitch says, when Peeta starts to remove his coat. "We're going for a walk."
I'm the last out of the house, and the extra second it takes for me to close the door and check the lock forces me to jog a few strides to catch up with Haymitch's long gait. No one tries to break the uneven silence that settles heavily around us. The wind swirls some loose powder around, the small frozen bits stinging my cheeks, and I wrap my coat around me tighter. There's still a sharp edge to the cold air, but the undertones of warmer times ahead feel like spring is reassuring me of its impending arrival.
I do not feel comforted in the least bit, and my wariness probably saves me from starting when Haymitch wheels around to face Peeta and me. Actually, his eyes never waver from me and I start digging in the snow and gravel as if I don't notice his pointed patience. Peeta is at the end of his rope because he's the first to break the silence.
"So what is it I don't know about this time?"
The exasperation in his tone catches me a little off guard and I visibly flinch. Hostility is not something I expect from Peeta and when he shows he is capable of it, I recoil like I've been struck.
"Well out with it sweetheart! We haven't got all day," Haymitch says.
"I'm… I, um…"
It's really only three words, I think. How hard can it be to say them? Impossibly hard, apparently. My cheeks are flushed with an insane amount of heat and suddenly I feel wobbly. My unease makes me want to vanish and with the way the world is swirling, I think I might actually accomplish the task with surprising quickness.
I catch Peeta's beautiful blue eyes and watch them change and soften as he realizes my struggle. He places his two gloved hands on either of my shoulders, grounding me. We both ignore Haymitch's impatient snort.
"It's okay, Katniss," Peeta says softly, encouragingly. Somehow, I believe him.
"I'm pregnant," I say.
Peeta's face pales and I can see him replaying my words over and over. I know he's trying them out and is unsure how to respond because his mind keeps rejecting that I actually said that damning phrase. It takes a lot of effort not to break off his vacant stare, but eventually my embarrassment forces me to look away.
"We'll have to handle this delicately," Haymitch starts.
I'm not sure he's really in the same world that Peeta and I are occupying. Saying such things aloud makes them tangible and overwhelming. Although we're reeling for very different reasons, Peeta and I are both reeling.
"The Capitol is not usually sympathetic to this sort of situation, but you two have them so head over heels in love…
"Is that why you and Gale want to run?" Peeta asks.
"…we should be able to win… excuse me?"
Both sets of eyes are now solely on me and I feel the panic start to rise and clog my throat.
"No," I say. I answer Peeta first. "Gale doesn't even know yet."
Peeta staggers backward and fluidly turns to catch himself. He walks away from us a few feet, his hands finding his hips and his head back, eyes trained on the swirling snow above us. I watch him, my expression one of pain and guilt. I feel horrible for continuing to destroy him with every chance I get.
"You think you can run?" Haymitch is incredulous. Angry this time, not amused at my naiveté.
I don't even look at him.
"You can't just run away from the Capitol! Where are you going to run to?" Haymitch's voice increases with his shock. "The woods?"
He laughs suddenly, the tone of his guffaws biting and sarcastic. I can hear what is not said on those cackles. What a silly girl! What a dumb poor silly girl! Running away from Panem, breaking for the woods!
"They will hunt you down in two days flat!"
"That's why we need a good head start," Peeta says, rejoining us.
"You're going too?" Haymitch throws up his hands when Peeta doesn't deny it. They fall back to his sides with a resounding slap.
"I don't have much of a choice," Peeta says. I look down to my booted toes again. Then he adds, "But I would've asked to come anyway."
The sincerity in his voice effectively silences any biting comment Haymitch had ready and waiting. He evaluates Peeta and me, his eyes carefully studying one and then the other. I wonder if he thinks this is a practical joke. His eyes finally settle on me.
"Is this true?" he asks.
"You could come too," I say, though I know Haymitch will refuse the offer anyway. At least, I tried.
"It's too late for me, sweetheart," Haymitch says, and though the words bite, the way he says them sounds sad, regretful.
"We could use your help," Peeta says. It breaks my heart that he can be so diplomatic and helpful despite my complete lack of awareness for his feelings.
Or rather not lack of awareness. Blatant disregard is probably a more honest statement. I feel sick to my stomach again, and this time, I am pretty sure I cannot blame it on my pregnancy.
There's a charged standoff as everyone lets the outpouring of news marinate in their systems. Even though, none of the revelations is new to me, I still grapple with acceptance. It was one thing to think these thoughts, to envision this plan of escape. It's entirely something else to actually commit to it.
The tips of my ears and the end of my nose sting with numbness before Haymitch finally opens his mouth to say something. He immediately closes it again and we all whip our heads to the faint wailing on the horizon.
At first, I think it's just a gust of wind, whistling angrily through the buildings of District 12. But it grows and dies several times, in regular even intervals. My heart plummets.
Peeta grabs my arm, but I shake it off violently and my feet are already packing snow as I bolt forward.
"Katniss!" they call. "Wait!"
But I can't wait.
Those sirens only wail for one reason.
There's been a disaster at the mines.
~Fin