A/N: Just to clear things up a bit, in case anyone's confused, Peeta doesn't remember Katniss just as much as she doesn't remember him from District 5 . . .
Or does he?
Hehe, sorry, I just had to ^_^
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter Seven
I can't even look him in the eye anymore. After hitting Peeta the Slave and apologizing over and over again in hushed tones, I ran away. Not into the house, Effie and Johanna were both staring at me out the window, beaming at me as if I'd won the lottery. I ran out of the Seam and down a long, dusty track that seemed to have been unused for years. My hand still tingles and I can still hear the crack of the slap in my head.
I'am no longer any better than them. I'm just another woman. I hit him. I slapped a slave. Everything I believed in, shattered into nothing. I've not even been here a week and I've already managed to destroy my core beliefs. Am I a hypicrite? Am I really just like them? I just needed the right push towards who I really am? A monster?
No. That isn't me. I don't care about who I'm expected to be or who other people want me to be. I'am Katniss Everdeen and I'm going to change the odds.
Returning back to the house after fleeing at the speed of a cheetah was the hardest part. Thankfully no-one is home. I'm not sure where Effie went to but her car isn't in the driveway and neither is Johanna's. Maybe they went off to try and find me. If so, I should at least have a couple of hours before they return. To them, I could be anywhere in the whole of District 12.
I'm not sure how to go about doing this. Should I just come out with it? Or should I be more subtle? I plan to start helping Peeta the Slave with whatever jobs he's been given. That would show I'm no harm right? That I don't intend to treat him like everyone else does? Or, most importantly, would he believe it if it did work?
The front yard is seeminly untouched since I left. A pair of gardening gloves lie on the grass beside the flower bed but that's as far as the differences go. I pick the gloves up and rub the coarse fabric between my fingertips. Bits of soil still clings to the material and I have to shake them to get rid of it. My feet move of their own accord, walking round to the backyard, stopping by the backdoor. I know where my concious wants to take me but I'm not sure if the more aware part of me wants to follow. Last time I was out here, I spent too long thinking and almost went in anyway. Plus I do have to return the gloves . . .
Approaching the basement door, I become aware of the fact that maybe it needs a key and I won't be able to get in at all. That would make it final! It would mean I'm not supposed to go in there and talk to anyone. I can go on with my life and not wonder whether I was supposed to go into that basement or not.
But it isn't locked. This makes a small part of me thankful and a larger part more anxious than it was five minutes ago. This is his domain, I don't feel right going down there into the unknown without expressed permission from him. Is that strange? I mean, Effie goes in there all the time when she pleases but that's Effie. Not me. But I want to do this . . . I want to help.
Back in District 5, when I was only eleven, my father was publicy murdered for loving my mother. I don't know how they found out about them or why they decided to deal with it so brashly, but they shot him. I'm suprised my mother wasn't arrested. Maybe they only thought that my dad was the one emotionally compromised? I don't know. All I knew was that he wasn't there anymore. The basement was empty and my father was dead. My mother fell into a deep depression and wouldn't respond to us anymore. Prim was still only a small eight year old who relied on her mother to care for her and therefore decided to lean on me for support. Piled all the responsiblity onto me because our mother was no longer responsive. I don't blame her for it, I'd never blame her, because I'd do the same thing when I was her age.
It was my fault we nearly died. I couldn't feed us. I couldn't manage it. When the food ran out I started making mint water and hoping for the best. The black market scared me and there was no other way to get food if you didn't have the money. I had the oppurtunity to trade some baby clothes if I had the guts to go out and try but I was too scared to. I was afraid of the people who went there. The scary women who had those lifeless characters following after them. There was something about those people . . . the lifelessness in their eyes, their faces devoid of any emotion, following after them like obdient puppy dogs. They might as well have been dead. These ghosts of people frightened me more so than the women themselves did. It was the look in their eyes that was so empty, so helpless, that scared me to the very core and chilled me to the bone.
I don't remember a lot about that time. My mind was clouded with nothing but fear that all I can rememebr about back then was the hollow feeling of hunger and the desperation of knowing that if I don't bring back the next meal then the death of my mother and sister would be on my head. Vague memories would return to me at random times. The cold feeling of rain soaking my clothes and the rough scrape of tree bark against my back. Most of all, I remember blue eyes. Most of the time, I'd wave it off, say they belonged to my sister, but recently I haven't been so sure. Back then my sister's eyes were innocent, weak, tired, ready to give up but these eyes in my mind are the polar oppisote of all those things. They're wide with wonder, admiration, with a hint of fear of the unknown awaiting them. I don't understand the connection between those blue eyes and my past self but they somehow comfort me.
Peeta the Slave has blue eyes. I haven't gotten a good enough look at him to see what sort of blue eyes but something inside me keeps niggling at me, telling me the detail is significant. I think it's that niggling feeling that pushes me towards the basment and makes me open the door and climb down the stairs.
The first thing my mind processes is that it's dark. Very dark. The air is thick with dust and it it becomes harder and harder to breathe the more down underground I go. But I push on none the less until I reach the bottom. The sunlight streaming through the open door provides very little aid sightwise and my hand self conciously feels around the wall for a light switch. When it finds a small switch and flicks it on, the light bulb hanging from the middle of the room creates a small hue of light across the room that helps me see a bit more clearly.
"Hello?" I call softly. "Peeta the Slave? You down here? Look, I'm not here to give you an order or anything . . . I just . . . god, I don't know . . . I just wanted to see you I guess. Say sorry properly, out of the prying eyes of the others, you know?" There's no response. "Well . . . I'am sorry. . . for hitting you and the kiss was kind of uncalled for too . . . it was just a thing I remember my mother doing in the past and I didn't want to leave you with just a hit and . . . well . . . it was stupid and I'm sorry so . . ."
"I told you to do it though," a voice says, making me jump. I can hear him but I can't see him.
"But . . . it wasn't right," I say, feeling stupid talking to a seeminly empty room. "My hand still tingles and I can still hear it echoing round in my mind." There's a pregnant pause and I fiddle with my thumbs, knawing on the inside of my cheek while waiting for him to reply.
"That was nearly an hour and a half ago," he finally says. He says this as if he expects me to be over it by now.
"And? I still did it," I reply.
"You're not like the others are you?" he asks. "Riddled with guilt over a silly slap?"
"I hurt you, that's not silly. Slaps aren't silly," I contradict.
"When you're used to recieveing them then they are," the voice responds.
"Oh?"
"Yeah, don't dewll on it. Seriously."
I look around the room and still see nothing. "Where are you?" I ask. He has fallen silent again and my eyes search the room, desperately trying to find him but failing miserably. Where is he?!
"Why do you call me that?" He suddenly asks.
"Uh . . . what?" I frown.
"Peeta the Slave. Why do you call me that?"
"I . . . I . . . I don't know . . . I just . . . do . . ."
"We're not all baptised 'the slave' when we are born you know. You don't have to call me that," the voice replies.
"What . . . should I call you then?" I ask. "What's your surname?" There's no response again and I sigh, starting to feel slightly irrtated. "Mine's Everdeen if that helps?"
"Evergreen?"
"Deen," I correct. "Everdeen."
"Alright then, Everdeen," he says. "My name doesn't matter. Just call me Peeta, OK?"
"Fine," I reply. "OK then . . . Peeta." It sounds strange saying the name as if there's no difference between us and there isn't 'the slave' barrier preventing me from treating him normally. Which there really shouldn't be.
"That sounds better." His voice is suddenly right behind me and I jump, spinning around and releasing a quiet shriek as he materilizes infront of me from the shadows.
"How did you do that?!" I exclaim.
"Simple camoflague," Peeta replies. "The darkest corner of this room is sheltered by the stairs over there." He points over to where he was standing. "So the most likely place to hide is over that corner. The darkest one."
"Why would you hide?" I ask. Peeta quirks an eyebrow at my question and I nod my head, waiting for an answer.
"You shouldn't be down here," he says, changing the subject. "Without you having an order to give or having . . . other requests." A shiver runs down my spine at the thought of what these 'other requests' are. "You really should go, it's dangerous." He walks over to the steps and indicates for me to go up them. The light filters in from outside and makes his face clearer. A deep pang grows in my stomach as my eyes lock on his. The blue is familar, like the distant memory from when I was a kid. They can't be the same ones though . . . that's not possible . . . right? My gaze slides past his eyes and lands on the angry pink mark in the shape of my hand that sits on his cheek.
"I left a mark," I say, walking over to him and lifting my hand up to touch it before thinking better of it and retracting it back. "I'm so sorry."
"Believe me, you kept me more safe by hitting me than you would have by letting Effie and that other woman think that you were having a civilized conversation with me," Peeta assures. "Now go before you get yourself in trouble!"
"But I hit you! I never hit anyone before in my life!" I exclaim.
"Well now you have," replies Peeta.
"Isn't there a way I could make it up to you?" I ask. Peeta sighs and lightly pushes me up the stairs. He doesn't push hard, just enough to get me up and back out into the backyard.
"Maybe you can buy me a coffee next time we see each other," he jokes driliy before shutting the basement doors, shutting me out.
I crouch down by the doors and press my ear against the weathered wood, listening inside. There isn't much sound, just some rustilng and the occasional scrape against the floor. What could he possibly do down there and why was he so eager for me to leave? He can't care about my welfare of being down there and talking to him surely. When we weren't with him, I used to hear my father singing. His voice would float up the basement stairs and would reach our ears. It was comforting, like his way of telling us that he's still there with us even when we felt like he's wasn't.
A rustle drags me out of my thoughts and I frown at how close it sounded. Like Peeta was sitting on the very top step, doing the exact thing I'am doing right now. I lift my head and press my hand against the wood and wait. A couple of seconds pass before I feel the wood heat up slightly, as if someone's hand was on the other side, pressing against mine.
"I'm sorry," I find myself whispering. Even if he can't hear me, it seems that saying it out loud is all I can do because, in reality, I doubt sorry will ever be enough.
A/N: They're interacting more now! Yay! ^_^
Please R&R :D