I'm numb almost all the time. I can't speak. I can't move. I can't feel. I've shut myself down because he's everywhere. He's in the comforter on my bed. He's in the food Prim forces me to eat. He's on the couch and in the kitchen. He's in the floorboards and on the stairs. He's in the breeze that rustles my hair and the sunlight that snakes it's way through the windows. I don't understand how I can feel so empty if he's everywhere; when I'm reminded of him by the most inconsequential things.
Grief is strange. I've never experienced it this way before. Yes, I was distraught when my father died. I am familiar with the itching heartache and there was a time when I was so overcome with sadness and stress that I almost gave up. Of course, that is, until someone helped me. Until someone showed me that there's hope in even the most dismal of circumstances. The thought makes me so sick now that I have to focus solely on breathing until my mind stops swimming.
I know this isn't what he wanted. It's the exact opposite, actually, but I think he underestimated the effect he had on me. Even before Prim's name was called, Peeta Mellark was a shining light in my life. I was just too stupid to really understand it. He saved me after my father died and just seeing him around the District, though not understanding what it meant at the time, was comforting. And then the 74th Hunger Games happened, binding the two of us so tightly together that when we are ripped apart I can't feel anything at all. I don't want to. The crushing sadness is too heavy for me to bear and even Prim can't help lift it off me. God knows she's tried but I know that he's the only one who can. He can't, though. He's not here.
The memories hurt the most. That's why I'm currently curled in a ball on the bottom of the upstairs closet, hoping the dark, enclosed space will wash them away. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see spots. Mother spent hours pulling the thorns from the rosebush out of my hands. It took three weeks for them to heal completely, probably because I kept reopening the wounds. I didn't notice, though. I didn't notice anything.
It was Gale who finally pulled me out of the cold that night. I fought him, punching at his chest and leaving bloody marks on his thin shirt. My fight didn't last long, though—it seemed to leave my body completely as the last of the flower petals fell from my fingers. I vaguely remember see Madge hugging Prim in the corner of the living room as Gale carried me upstairs and into the bathroom so Mother could tend to me.
Those first few weeks I stayed in bed. It felt—still feels—like someone dropped an iron weight on my chest, only now I'm more used to the suffocating sensation.
Enobaria won. I found out a week afterwards, having overheard Gale talk with Madge outside my bedroom door. I had pressed my fists into my ears, trying to drown out the noise and reopening the cuts on my hands in the process. It wasn't as bad as when I found out his body wouldn't be returned to District 12, though. The day Effie called, explaining that Peeta was to be buried in a Victor's cemetery in the Capitol, I broke every glass object in the house and locked myself in the basement. It took two days for Prim to coax me out.
I'm tired but I can't sleep. When exhaustion finds me the nightmares follow quickly. Peeta is in most of them: variations of the mutt cats, his mangled shoulder, seizing on the forest floor, crying my name, Gloss' spear. Sometimes my nightmares are completely fictional but terrifying nonetheless. But sometimes I'll dream of sleeping in Peeta's arms only to wake up cold and alone. I don't know what's worse: waking up from nightmares to realize it's not real or waking up from happy dreams to realize, at one point, it was. I guess it's something that I'll just have to accept. This is how my life will be: miserable, but I'll survive. I always do. Then again, maybe I'll just die with the rebellion. Follow it through, like he asked. I'll fight along with the rebels and die in battle. Not on purpose, though. Never on purpose. I won't willingly exit the world when life is a gift so easily taken away. I'm not a coward.
Then what are you doing on the floor of the closet again, Katniss?
I press the heels of my hand harder into my eyes, trying to wipe away the memory of Peeta that brought me up here in the first place. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep hiding away when the sadness becomes too much. When Prim finds me here again she'll just tell Rory who will tell Gale who will worry. Gale's taken to worrying a lot. His worrying is what pulled me from my bed and into the bathroom for the first time after three weeks of wasting away.
"He said that if you got this way, to remind you of your promise. I don't know what that means, but damnit Katniss you're scaring me."
I finally meet his eyes at the mention of my name. He's pulling anxiously at his hair and I'm unable to come up with a response.
"I know now," he says again. "I'm sorry for what I said before the Games started. I didn't understand and I was jealous and wounded and stupid."
I don't process Gale's words, only that my limbs hurt. I'm not used to standing, so I slide down the wall until I'm sitting on the floor. It was a mistake, I realize. Bathrooms remind me of Peeta. I want to leave but Gale is blocking the door and I'm too weak to push past him. I choose to stare at the spot above Gale's head as an alternative.
"You owe it to him to get the fuck out of that damn bed. What do you think he would do if he saw you like this?" Gale asks, his voice rising slightly. I think about this for a moment. Peeta would probably be upset if he saw me like this. I wonder what I look like now; I haven't looked in a mirror in a while and I don't remember the last time I showered. My gaze turns to my bandaged hands. Peeta would be upset I hurt myself but I think he would appreciate the gesture: the rose bush doesn't exist anymore.
"You haven't spoken to anyone, Catnip," Gale whispers. I look at him again, not used to the endearment. "Madge is worried sick about you. Did you know that? She wants to come in here but your Mother told her to wait until you started…" he trails off, unsure of what to say. Until I start what? Acting normal again? Impossible.
"Prim can't take it that much longer. Rory tells me she can't stop crying at school. Did you know she saves her crying for school? She doesn't want to do it around you."
With that piece of information my head snaps up so quickly my vision goes black for a second. Gale looks down at me expectantly.
"I…" it's the first thing I've said in weeks and my throat protests from lack of use. "I didn't know that," I finish lamely.
"Shit, Catnip," Gale sighs before sitting down in front of me. "I've been over to Haymitch's a few times. Doubt he remembers, though. He's always been too drunk to form words." Gale runs his hands through his hair before continuing.
"I know I can't understand this. I know that I never will. I get that now. OK? But you need to understand that Peeta—he didn't want this."
I don't know if it's because I'm tired or frustrated or sad, but Gale saying Peeta's name makes tears fall from my eyes for the first time since he died.
"I know," I whisper. That's why it's so hard. I can't seem to do the one thing he asked of me.
"So what are you going to do about it? Why can't you get up?" he asks, his voice quiet but alarmed.
I curl up on the bathroom floor as a response. If Gale leaves I don't hear him.
xxx
I start when I feel someone touch my cheek.
"Katniss."
I turn onto my back, letting my greasy hair fall over my face. Hazelle Hawthorne looks down at me and I'm so shocked to see her that for once I don't pull away. She runs her hand over my forehead and stares down at me with a strange expression on her face. It's not a look of pity or regret, though. It's one I saw from my Mother after the announcement and all through the weeks leading up to the Quell. It's one of understanding. She knows what this suffering is like.
"Let me wash your hair, sweet girl. At least before things start to grow in there." I look up at her through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. I do something that shocks even myself. I allow it.
With heavy arms I push myself off the floor and lean against the bathtub. Hazelle turns on the faucet and fills it to the brim with warm water. I can feel the vibration of the rising water against the porcelain.
"Get on in there, now. You can leave your underclothes on," Hazelle instructs. I look at her for a moment before nodding. Even if she had asked me I wouldn't have taken everything off. A part of me knows I'm being ridiculous. Hazelle Hawthorne is practically my mother but I take a small comfort in knowing that Peeta is the only other person who will ever see me like that again.
I step into the warm water and try to ignore the fact that it feels incredible. I don't want to feel anything. Hazelle takes my arm and starts to scrub the grime away meticulously while I stare at the wall. Once my body is scrubbed clean she works on untangling my hair.
"You nearly scared the teeth off my son," she says suddenly. "Came running into the house, going on about how you were gone." I close my eyes, knowing there's nothing I can say to explain myself.
"Gale isn't one to understand these things, though. Not unless he experiences it," she continues, squirting a generous amount of shampoo on top of my head. "Did I ever tell you about your Mama?"
I grit my teeth. Hazelle must sense my sudden apprehension, the way my muscles tense, but she pays me no notice.
"Your Mama lived in Town but you know that. Beautiful girl, she was. Looked exactly like Primrose and had all the boys hanging on her every word, her best friend included," Hazelle explains while working my hair into a lather.
"And she had no idea," she laughs softly. "It was so obvious that us girls and boys of the Seam knew about it. Everyone knew about your Mama and Bryn Mellark. They were attached at the hip. Some people mistook them for brother and sister until he started looking at her a little differently. We all thought they'd end up together. The apothecary's daughter and the baker's son... It made sense for them to be together. But then again, not one person—Seam or Merchant—expected your Mama to fall so hard for your Daddy."
I swallow thickly and am thankful for the stream of water Hazelle pours over my head. It masks my tears. The similarities between my mother and myself are startling. I hang my head and think about Gale and how I guess it made sense for us to be together as well. Until Peeta stole my heart.
Hazelle grips my chin gently in her hands and forces me to look at her.
"You're a lot like your Mama, honey." I turn my face to look away but Hazelle holds my head steady. "But you are also very different. Your Mama lost her man. I lost my man. You lost yours. There's nothing that can take the pain away. It will always be here," she says, placing a hand in the middle of my chest. "It will always be with you. No one can tell you different. Not Primrose. And definitely not my son. But you gotta know you are not your Mama."
Hazelle starts to ring out my hair but I stare at her, thinking hard about what she said. I am not my Mother.
"You are strong and brave," she whispers fiercely. "Why don't you start by leaving your bedroom? Your sister will be home from school soon."
That was weeks ago. I don't even know how much time has passed since it all ended. Months, I think. I'm not always like this. A heap on the floor, that is. Over the weeks I've almost been able to pretend to be myself. But every so often I'm pulled under so deeply that time and space have no meaning until someone finally figures out which closet I've been hiding in.
Yes, I think. Gale is definitely going to be upset when Prim tells him I'm in the closet again.
Prim was shocked to see me at the kitchen table after I left my room the day Hazelle came to see me. She stood in the doorway for a moment, her mouth catching flies, before she bounded at me and gave me a fierce hug. It took me another week to leave the house but as soon as I reached the porch steps I had to go back inside. Seeing his house across the way was too much. I spent a long time in the closet after that, I remember to myself.
I feel ridiculously pathetic most of the time.
I am not my Mother, I repeat to myself like a mantra.
It's hard to ignore, though, on days like these when I can't get off the damn closet floor.
I almost feel badly for thinking ill of her. She has been more doting in the past few weeks than she has in the last five years. Maybe that's what it takes to turn around: watching your daughter change into the miserable person you've become. Maybe she could see it coming before I could. Maybe that's the reason she always looked so sad when she watched Peeta and I. If how I feel now is how she felt all the time after Dad died I should apologize to her for acting the way I did. I know I should ask Prim about it but the only person I really want to talk to isn't here anymore.
I shift on the hard floor of the closet. My limbs are stiff and my fingers and toes are cold. I grip Peeta's sea glass tightly in my palm. Prim placed it in my bandaged hands a few days after it all ended and I haven't let go since.
"Is it so bad?" he asks, running his nose along mine. "Kissing me?"
I choke at the memory. I've been trying so hard to keep it away but it's really no use.
"If it were so bad why do you think I spent almost all of last night with your mouth attached to mine?" I respond, trying desperately to entertain the thought of pulling away. He's making it hard, though. The way he has me pressed against the counter, his hands gripping my hips, doesn't help.
Peeta laughs against my neck. "Good point. So why can't I kiss you here? In your kitchen? Your mother and sister won't be here for hours," he notes while pressing his lips along my neck and under my jaw.
"Because your sweaty," I breathe out, unable to ignore the way his thumbs hook into the top of my pants. Peeta responds by brushing his lips over my ear.
"So are you," he murmurs into my skin with a smile.
"You smell bad," I whisper and Peeta laughs loudly, pecking me once on the mouth before pulling away to look in my eyes.
"That," he says with a smile, "is your fault completely. If you didn't have me running all over the District, and then lifting weights, I don't think I'd smell so bad." I scowl at his nonchalance. He's leaving soon. He knows why I make him train.
"Besides," he continues, bringing his mouth dangerously close to mine, "and I might be wrong here," he says kissing the outer corners of my mouth, "but don't girls typically enjoy kissing the boys they love?"
He's got me. Ever since I've said the words he's had me wrapped around his finger. I can't say I mind so much, especially when his breath mingles with mine.
"You're an idiot," I whisper with an uncharacteristic smile before I bring my hand behind his neck and pull him down to me.
A sob gets caught somewhere in my throat. He's everywhere. It's not like this hasn't happened before, either. These meltdowns happen almost weekly but the regularity doesn't lessen the pain.
Regardless, I need to get up.
"I am not my Mother," I repeat in my head until I have the strength to lift myself onto my elbows, and then my knees. I feel faint from the exertion.
Pathetic.
Even in the dark I can make out the white scars that decorate my hands from pulling apart the rose bush.
"I am not my Mother."
Through the door I can hear Prim making tea downstairs—she must have just gotten home from school. If I go into the kitchen now, she won't know I've been in here at all.
I'm able to leave the closet but the memory of Peeta that brought me there sits on my shoulders like a heavy coat until I'm able to escape under my covers that night where I cry fully and in secret.
It's a Saturday when I finally go to see Haymitch. I know this because it's the middle of the day and Prim is at home playing with Buttercup. She doesn't question when I leave the house, knowing that it's best not to bring up any progress I might be making. Drawing attention to it usually results in a meltdown.
It's warm out, I notice, as I cross the lawn to Haymitch's. But there are no budding leaves on the trees. Not yet. I don't even bother to knock on his door. Actually, I'm assuming that Haymitch will just be passed out drunk. It's part of the reason I came over: to be able to say "I tried" but not actually having to confront anything. Unfortunately for me, though, things never go as I plan.
"It's against the law to break into houses, you know," I hear Haymitch say across the dark room. It smells of vomit and stale things.
I spend a solid 90 seconds searching for a reply but my witty remarks seem to be lagging. I decide silence is probably more disconcerting and just go with that. I pick my way across Haymitch's living room and sit down on an unsoiled piece of carpeting across from his couch.
"Took you long enough to get over here," Haymitch says quietly.
"I could say the same for you but I haven't seen you either. Did you forget you still had one Tribute left to take care of?" I ask bitterly but I regret my words almost immediately. Haymitch's jaw clenches and his eyes go blank. With nothing else to do, I watch him.
"I never forgot," Haymitch finally says. "I'm just a coward, I guess."
"You scared I'll bite your head off?" I ask quietly and with zero malice.
"Just scared of failing again," he says, putting an empty bottle of liquor on the floor.
"What do you mean?"
"I'm bad a keeping promises," he answers, as if that is explanation enough. We sit in silence a little longer before he speaks again.
"I'm failing that boy," he whispers and a lump forms in my throat. Aren't we all? I'm failing him on an epic scale. Walking over to Haymitch's house was the biggest accomplishment I've made since who knows when. "I'm not taking care of you," he mumbles.
"I don't need to be taken care of," I snap angrily, forcing my stupid eyes to remain dry. I've gone a full six days without crying and I intend to keep it that way.
"Sweetheart, you do. And you are, you just don't know it. You've got your sister and your mother. Tall, dark and handsome and his kin. That Donner girl, even."
"Undersee. Her name is Madge Undersee, Haymitch," I tell him. Poor Madge. She's been as loyal as ever, coming home with Prim after school and sitting with me in silence as I force hot tea into my stomach.
"Looks like her Aunt," he says quietly, almost to himself. I want to ask him what the hell he means but Haymitch speaks before my mouth can form the words. "The point is, sweetheart, you've got people who care about you. You're being taken care of. It's just the person you want to be taking care of you isn't here anymore."
I look away from him and towards the kitchen, thinking of everything and nothing at the same time. It's overwhelming.
"I'm tired," I snivel in a way that eludes to the fact that I'm on the verge of crying. To his credit, Haymitch doesn't respond immediately.
"I've been tired for 25 years."
I pull at my braid as I study the littered mess that is Haymitch's home.
"Who's taking care of you, Haymitch?" I ask quietly, wondering why I didn't ask this before now. Before the Quell, even.
"I don't need to be taken care of," he responds wearily.
"You've got people who care about you," I reply, hoping he understands that I'm talking about me. I don't think I could say it out loud. "It's just…is the person you want to take care of you not here either?" I say quietly so as not to let my voice break. I see Haymitch close his eyes.
"I think you should go," he says.
"I miss him," I blurt out suddenly. "He's…I just miss him so much I can barely breathe sometimes." I say the last bit in a hushed rush and peek a look at Haymitch. This is most I've talked to anyone about Peeta and it hurts like hell. But it feels right to talk about this with Haymitch, whose eyes are still closed.
"I know," Haymitch responds. "I miss the kid, too."
Another week passes. I don't know what exactly pushes me to ask Gale about the rebellion but he doesn't seem to be particularly surprised when I push him into my bathroom and turn on the faucets. The bow and arrow are still there—I can't bring myself to move them.
"What's the news on the rebellion, Gale?" I ask him.
"I was wondering when you would ask about that," he says quietly. There's something off, though. He doesn't look excited like I thought he'd be. I had presumed Gale would be ecstatic with me showing interest in the rebellion. Instead he looks disappointed. Regretful, even.
"Gale?" I ask again, prodding.
"There's nothing much to report, I'm afraid," Gale responds, switching his gaze to the tiled floor. "There's no plan. There's…Madge is still listening for updates from her house. We're at a standstill, almost."
"What?" I ask, my disbelief evident. "How? You said that it was growing? That the number of people in District 12 willing to get involved was growing steadily."
"I know. And that's still true. You haven't been into Town or down by the Seam, Catnip. You haven't left Victor's Village in months. If you went around the District, you'd see just how upset people are. With what happened during the Quell…that was the last straw on the camel's back. People lost it. New Peacekeepers from District 2 were sent in. The Hob was shut down."
My head swivels on my neck.
"What? Why didn't you tell me?" I ask him, put off and confused and scared.
"You haven't been in the best state of mind, you know. I don't know what's going to set you off. I don't know what's going to send you into the closet and make you a zombie for days," Gale answers back, his voice rising. "Don't blame this on me. You're not exactly stable right now," he says almost angrily.
"I deserve to know," I bite back, hackles raised.
"Well I'm not going to baby you. If you want something, ask for it. I'm not a mind reader and I'm definitely not your babysitter," he shouts. "I don't even know you anymore," he adds in a low voice.
Anger has been laced behind every thought I've had the past few months. Anger at Snow. Anger at the Capitol. Now it's an anger so obviously directed at my oldest friend that it makes me dizzy.
"Get out," I whisper so coldly I can feel it on my tongue. Gale falters at the door; he looks just as pissed as I feel.
"OUT!" I yell, uncaring of the microphones or whatever Capitol sensors are planted throughout the house. I know they detect the slam of my bedroom door as Gale leaves. I sit on the edge of the tub, fuming silently at Gale's words until I hear a commotion downstairs.
"No! Definitely not. Do you have any idea what seeing you would do to her?" I hear Gale shout. Suddenly I'm terrified and my muscles stiffen painfully. Who could he be talking about? I automatically assume the worst yet not knowing what the worst could possibly be. I hear the intruder speak but can't make out any coherent words.
Grabbing my bow and sheath of arrows off the bathroom floor, I hurry to the top of the stairs. Slowly, I make my way down, careful to avoid the creaky middle step.
"I don't care why the hell you're here, just get out," Gale seethes, his voice growing louder the closer I get. I knock an arrow and pull the string back just as the intruder speaks again.
"Fine then. Just give her this, alright?"
As I cross the bottom step I finally see him. The physical similarities are extraordinary and for a second I think it's him.
"Katniss," he says, alarmed. I have the bow trained on his chest and he puts his hands up in a surrendering gesture, backing away slightly. His blonde hair is a shade darker than his brother's and he's taller, too, standing about an inch shorter than Gale. My mouth hangs open and Gale turns his head in my direction.
"Catnip," he says, the anger from our earlier argument completely gone. "I'll kick his ass, just say the word."
Rye Mellark glances at Gale and then back at me.
"Why are you here?" I ask him. "What are you supposed to give me?" My voice is surprisingly level but I know there's a fire in my eyes that has been absent for too long.
Rye pushes a wrapped package in my direction. I don't have to open it to know that it's a loaf of bread.
"I'd like to talk to you, if you'd allow it," Rye says quietly. I study him for a long time and he shifts uneasily under my stare.
"And why should I allow it? You were completely absent from Peeta's life after the Games. What makes you think I want anything to do with you?" I whisper menacingly. Rye looks confused before his expression turns unbelievably sad.
"You must have really loved him," he says quietly.
"I never stopped loving him—I still do! Which is more than I can say for you," I spit out. I know I have nothing to prove to him but the words fly from my mouth anyway.
Rye shrinks under my harsh accusation and his hand goes to fiddle with something on his right wrist.
The train sways as we move through the woods connecting Districts 9 and 10. Peeta leans his head against the glass and I mirror his position, appreciating the coolness against my cheek.
"When I was eight, my mother had a pair of really expensive leather shoes," he starts out of nowhere. I turn to look at him. He's staring into the dark woods with a small smirk on his face.
"They were hideous. They had been died this awful red color and she thought she really looked great in them. Rye and I always made fun of her behind her back. One afternoon I accidentally dropped a bowl of icing on the ground. My hands were too slippery and I didn't have a proper grip. That was the first time she hit me on the face."
He pauses and meets my gaze hesitantly. There's a funny look in his eyes and I don't know how to place it. Tentatively, I reach between us and take his hand, turning it over in my lap. I look back up at him, gauging his reaction. Peeta looks slightly perplexed but I run my thumb over his palm anyway. When I don't speak he continues his story.
"The icing had gotten all over my mother's shoes and she made Rye clean them. I spent the rest of the day pretending not to cry while cleaning up the stock room of the bakery. Rye came in towards closing time with this evil look in his eyes. 'I did something Peet,' he said."
Peeta smiles at the memory and I lay my palm flat on his before twining our fingers together.
"Rye pulled out these red, leather straps and he was smiling so big that I finally stopped crying. Rye had cut off the straps to my mother's precious shoes. Shoes she probably loved more than her own children. 'She'll probably just think her fat feet made them snap off,' Rye explained. I was laughing now because my mother does have really fat feet," Peeta says with a light laugh. He tightens his grip on my hand and begins running his thumb along the inside of my wrist. It tickles and I'm not sure if it's that what is making me smile or if it's Peeta's story.
"Anyway, we ended up wearing the straps as matching bracelets. She never found out we were the ones who broke her shoes, miraculously. The bracelet was my token in the Games and I lost it in my scuffle with Cato. I wish I still had it, you know?"
Rye turns the red leather bracelet over on his wrist.
"I still love him too, you know," Rye whispers. "He was my brother. Still is."
Gale stands awkwardly at the door. Seeing the look on my face he must realize it's alright to leave me alone. I nod at him anyway and lower my bow.
"Um, so…here's a loaf," Rye says, handing me the wrapped package. "It's good. It has nuts and dried fruit in it. Bakers can't do much other than bake so it's actually the most I can do for you probably," he says with a smile. I look up at him. His eyes aren't the same color blue as Peeta's: Rye's are paler. I open the package and can see that the bread Rye delivered is the same bread that Peeta threw to me in the rain almost six years ago. I feel like crying.
"How…" I trail off, not meeting his eyes.
"Peet told me to make this kind. Before he left he told me. It took me months to follow through with it. Probably because this kind of bread reminds me of him. It's harder to do things that remind me of Peet," he finishes quietly, twisting the leather bracelet around his wrist.
I don't feel like talking anymore so I nod at him. There's a lump developing in my throat and I hope that Rye leaves before it bursts. He must sense that our conversation is over because he starts to head for the door.
"Thank you," I choke out. "For the bread." Rye looks at me over his shoulder and smiles crookedly. It hits me square in the heart, reminding me of what's gone.
"Thank you for the bread," I repeat louder.
After Rye leaves I cut myself a massive slice of Peeta's bread and eat it methodically. When I'm done I climb the stairs, crawl into my bed and cry silently into my pillow.
That bread reminds me of him, too.