The material of the jumpsuit feels rough against my skin, my arms and legs unused to being confined in heavy cloth after so long in pajama like clothes. Three guards are waiting to accompany me. Lef and Dils, the two who took me to the restroom that first time, and Cilla, the stocky, pretty one who usually stands outside my door.
She tips her head as she watches me fidget in the ill-fitting uniform. "You get used to it," she assures me. "Once you get some meat back on your bones it won't hang on you like that anymore."
Lef and Dils grin and nudge each other while crimson floods up Cilla's throat to stain her cheeks. Bewildered, I look back and forth between them. The reaction pulls at my mind, a familiar but unreachable feeling. Lef meets my gaze and winks merrily. The wink clicks it together for me. Eirik and Carney teasing me about my crush. My knees begin to tremble and I lean a hand on the wall to stay upright, my head bowed and teeth clenched.
"Easy, now," Dils reaches to steady me, concern in his voice.
"I'm ok," I say, though my words are breathless and faint. "I just thought of something, but I'm ok."
The three guards look back and forth worriedly. "This might not be a good idea," Lef hesitates.
"I'm fine," I tell him. "That's why you guys are here. If I didn't need to be wrestled to the ground once in a while, you'd be out of a job. Let's just get going." He still looks worried, and I'm touched. He really is concerned. I reach out and pat him on the shoulder, but my hand freezes there awkwardly as I stare at it. The gesture happened almost without my knowing it.
After a weird, still interval, Dils snorts, "Come on, you'll make Cilla jealous," and moves out the door. Cilla blushes furiously and follows, hissing angrily at him, and I go next, Lef bringing up the rear. The ridiculous train makes its way down the hall to a staircase and we wait while Dils calls up, making sure the first few flights are clear. We wind our way upward, pausing every once in a while to clear the next few floors, while the pressing heaviness of the earth around us lifts from my shoulders. Even though we're still underground, the ascent makes me feel like we're emerging from the depths.
We stop outside a door and wait for a moment while Cilla clears a few people away so they can bring me in. I stand still and quiet, hushing the whisper that screams I'm being treated like a dangerous criminal, focusing on the sketchbook clutched in my hands. The rough cover and clumsy binding, the mismatched pages and the apology it was offered as.
The door swings open, we walk through a short hallway, and then another door and I'm in the kitchen. A corner has been cleared for my use, but the limited essential staff are all frozen at their work, staring at the dangerous lunatic in their midst. My eye twitches slightly, but that's all I give to the shrieking pitch in my head, and I lift a hand to the staff, waving a greeting. "Hi, everyone," I offer awkwardly. "Thanks for letting me use some of your kitchen for a bit."
My voice hangs in the silence until another voice rises to meet it. "Good to see you, Peeta," Greasy Sae calls softly. I flinch wildly backward, Cilla's and Dils' hands grasping me immediately while Lef springs in front of me. The kitchen workers flinch in the opposite direction.
"I'm ok," I say quickly in a low voice, "it just surprised me. I'm ok." The guards loosen their grips but watch me carefully as Greasy Sae walks slowly forward. She has scorched burns along both her arms and up her neck, disappearing into her hairline, and a limp she didn't have before. Her bright gray eyes, usually holding a defiant sparkle, look colder, harder. She has lost much.
"You look awful," she says, and I smile at her echo of my thoughts.
"Not enough wild dog stew, lately," I reply, and her chuckle travels deep into my chest and nestles there, warm and golden.
"Tonight's a good one," she says with a nod. "But you should have tried my rabbit stew when Katniss was bringing them in after hunting." My smile freezes to my lips and my ears ring as the whisper shrieks at me.
"Katniss goes hunting?" I ask carefully, negotiating around the scream budding in my throat.
"Oh, yes," Greasy Sae nods proudly. "She and Gale bring me all kinds of good things from the forest outside. Of course, not lately, not since she's been recovering from her surgery."
"Of course," I nod hollowly back. Katniss and Gale, outside together in the woods, hunting and breathing fresh air, being free of prying eyes, free of shackles, free of the miles of dirt piled on top of the roof, while I – while I…
"Peeta?" Cilla's voice is worried. I swallow the spiky knot in my throat and choke back the boiling fury blackening my vision.
"I'm sorry, I was just picturing some warm rabbit stew," I gasp, but even I can hear the strangled tone of my voice. "It's great to see you," I nod to Greasy Sae, "but I have to get to work. I'm a little behind schedule."
She nods, the hurt in her eyes reflecting my cold dismissal, but I have to leave now or I'll shred everyone I can reach. I move quickly to the corner that's been cleared out for my use. I survey the line-up of ingredients I've requested, but my vision is popping and swooping as I drag breaths through my clenched teeth, hiding my knotted fists in the pockets of the miserable jumpsuit. All I can think of is my dank little cell where I scream and thrash against manacles, while she and Gale stride freely through the cool, inviting green of the woods, together, happy and content, never once even coming to see me.
The swirling confusion slamming against my skull is making me dizzy. Did I really love her? How could I have loved her? With trembling hands, I assemble bowls and cups, but my brain is flickering between chaos and rage. Dils told me a story about Prim and Buttercup, the yowly yellow cat almost getting her caught out of a lockdown. They even have their family pet. I measure carefully, sifting and mixing, my heart aching as I picture my father doing this job alongside me a thousand times. He'll never do it again, I'll never see him again, and they even have their family pet.
The measuring cup clatters from my hand and bangs to the floor as I grip the edge of the table, the tremor quaking through me from head to toe. My false leg rattles against the metal table. I'm not even whole anymore! She hasn't lost anything, and she never even looks back. All the deaths for her, all the loss for her. All the grief and suffering and misery. For her. And she doesn't even look back!
"Lef," I grit between my teeth. "I need to sit down a second."
At the code words, my three guards quickly whisk me into the alcove off the kitchen and take positions around me, shackles at the ready. But I don't rage. I don't scream and I don't lunge for them. I sink to the floor and wrap my arms around my head, hands gripping my hair as sobs wrack my wasted frame. I shudder as waves of grief and loss and pure, dirty, unfairness crash over me, wailing my agony through clenched teeth and eyes squeezed tight.
"Oh, Peeta," Cilla's cracked whisper is misery. Dils sinks to the floor next to me, his hands reaching to soothe and calm, and I clutch fistfuls of his shirt, pulling myself into the warmth of his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Lef and Cilla's hands are on my back, on my head, stroking and comforting as the storm works its way through me.
Finally, the hot, heavy emptiness deep in my heart dulls from a piercing, stabbing agony to a blunted, weighty despair. I grind the heels of my hands into my eyes, humiliated and miserable. coward weakling sniveling child
"Mourning isn't weak." Lef's voice is gentle. "It helps. You should let yourself do it more."
I can't meet their eyes. Staring at the floor, I sniffle and wipe the back of my hand across my nose. Cilla silently offers me a rough square of cloth and I take it gratefully. "I should get back to the cake," I say quietly. Dils offers me a hand up and we go back to the kitchen. The staff studiously avoids looking at me and my cheeks burn. There's no way they didn't hear me whining and whimpering in the next room, and I must look a mess. Silently, I wash my hands and get back to work.
Thankfully, making such a large confection takes a lot of concentration. I've only done it a few times, and that was with my father's help. I narrow my focus until all that exists is the smooth, sweet batter, the lightly dusted pans, the roaring oven. The vile whisper.
Once the pans are in the oven, my shoulders sag and my head droops. I nod toward the door, leaving directions for when to take the cake out and how to cool it. A list of what I'll need tomorrow. Then, weary to the center of my bones, my guards escort me back to my room. Barely taking the effort to shed the stiff jumpsuit, I crawl under the blankets and pull them over my head. Burrowing away from the prying gaze of the titillated audience behind the glass, I wrap my head in my arms and let my tears soak my pillow as I tremble my way to sleep.
When I wake, the tendrils of my dream slide away from me as I try desperately to grab for them. I don't remember what my dream was, I only remember being outside. I remember feeling at peace, and as the feeling fades with my dream the hollowness replacing it weighs on me. I haul myself to sitting on the edge of the bed, my prosthetic kinked at an odd angle. Working it back around, I shake my head. I know better than to sleep with it. My hands still as I tighten a strap, the revulsion and resentment I felt yesterday echoing in my thoughts.
With the grimy sheen of a new day, I blow out a lungful of pent up breath, trying to shake off the heartache of the day before. Scrubbing my hands briskly through my hair, I swing my feet down and stand. Was Finnick right? Was I not so bitter and angry before? But Lef is right as well. I hadn't lost anything before. Not like this. Maybe I have a right to be hostile. My lips quirk cynically. That wasn't exactly what he meant, but it's better than blubbering all over armed guards. Resolving to get through an entire day without crying like a lost child, I ready myself to face the kitchen again.
A few hours later I step back from my work. I've only finished the base coat, but it took forever to get the shading right. Without the right tools and ingredients, I've had to improvise a little bit, but overall I'm pleased. The blue and green waver around streaks of pearly white, shimmering and suggesting depth and movement. Shadows and light seem to dance across the surface. I allow myself a contented smile.
"That is amazing," Dils says, shaking his head. "I watched you do it and I still can't believe it."
Cilla and Lef are examining it closely, but all three turn sharply when the door swings open and two visitors enter.
"Peeta!" Delly's voice is a gasp of awe. "It's gorgeous! It looks just like the ocean!"
"Not too shabby, piping prince," Haymitch drawls, though even his eyes are wide with admiration.
I grin my thanks, wiping my hands on a rag and running a wrist across my forehead. "It's alright, isn't it?" I agree. "Wait until I start decorating."
"There's more?" Delly beams. "What will you do?"
I nod toward my sketchbook on the counter. "Check in there, I made some quick drawings."
Delly and Haymitch lean their heads together over the book, flipping the pages and cooing admiring murmurs. A glow of pride warms my chest as I gather the bowls and knives, bringing the first load over to the sink and starting them to soaking. Cilla is bringing another armful and I smile my thanks as we pass each other. Moving back to the bench, I see Haymitch and Delly are still absorbed with the sketches, but they seem oddly still. When I get closer, they lift their eyes in unison to lock onto me and I feel my stomach drop.
"Oh, Peeta," Delly whispers, her eyes sparkling with tears. "Is this what you see?" Even Haymitch looks shaken and I curse myself silently for letting them see my book.
"They're just drawings," I shrug indifferently, reaching for the book. I shove it in a pocket of my jumpsuit and try to meet their eyes but the bottomless sorrow and pity wreak havoc with my control and my gaze darts away. "I don't… I mean, it's not…I don't think it's real anymore," I finish in a cracked mutter. "I know she isn't like that." But I still can't meet their eyes. Because even if I know she isn't like that physically, I'm not convinced it isn't true about her real self.
Haymitch is watching me with such a depth of grief that I can't stand it. "I know she's not," I insist, sounding like a petulant child. "In fact, I've been wondering why she hasn't been to see me. Everyone says she's fine, she's fully recovered. Why won't she come to see me? Is she the one who's afraid?"
Delly holds trembling hands to her mouth, shaking her head silently, but I won't back down from the goading of the whisper. coward child trembling coward weakling Haymitch tips his head to one side and studies me intently. "Do you really want to talk to her? Are you sure, boy?"
A sick dizziness shakes my belly, but I nod defiantly. "Why not?"
"Mr. Abernathy," Dils' voice is concerned. "I don't know if he's in good condition to-"
Rage sizzles over my skin. "Mr. Abernathy no longer makes my choices for me," I cut in, anger dripping from my sharp words. "Tell her I want to see her."
Spinning on my heel, I push my way through the doors and hurry down the hallway, my guards following hastily behind. coward fool idiot danger kill her The whisper's gleeful anticipation echoes along beside me as I clatter recklessly down the stairs. kill her kill her kill her