Standing in my garden I feel a sense of accomplishment unlike anything I've felt in a long time. Yesterday Katniss and I finished transplanting all of the seedlings I'd grown on windowsills in my kitchen and studio, and now they poke out of the dark earth in neat rows, leaves turning towards the sunshine. Working in the garden together has been healing, I admit that I didn't think she'd be interested in gardening but she surprised me, not only has she been eager to get her hands dirty but her plant knowledge far exceeds mine; it was Katniss who suggested planting marigolds in between the vegetable rows to deter pests. I hope she continues to be interested, it's really nice to have something tangible to share with her, and an excuse to spend more time together.
Somehow talking while we're preoccupied in the garden has been easier than when we're sitting in her living room, facing each other like adversaries. I've been able to keep my emotions in check as the memories swirl around in my head. I haven't had any huge breakthroughs, but some of the fuzzy pieces are clearer now and a few small details have come back. I'm happy for every tiny bit I regain. I told Katniss that it would be fine if I never got back all of my memory, and that's true to an extent, but I'm really hopeful that it won't come to that, I'm hopeful that the memories will continue to be recovered. Every piece that clicks into place in my mind makes me feel better, makes me feel more whole.
Today I feel strong. Today I feel almost like the man that people tell me I used to be.
Today I want to go to town.
Katniss is in the woods, she left right after breakfast. I know she was anxious to hunt, having missed several days while she helped with the garden. Even though she doesn't need to hunt for survival anymore the act of hunting, or perhaps the woods themselves, seems incredibly important to her mental health. The days that she comes home with her game bag full she seems brighter, more focussed.
Happier.
After I've watered the garden I sit out on my front porch with one of my sketchbooks to wait for Katniss. I'm sketching what I remember of the bakery, which sadly isn't everything. I was born above that bakery, as were both of my brothers, and my father too, and his father before him. It's hard to believe that it's gone. Part of me thinks it's a mistake, that I could just walk into town and find the bakery standing there, my brothers flicking bits of dough at each other, my father chuckling even as he tries to chide them for wasting ingredients. My mother, well, she'd probably be yelling at me to put on my apron and get to work. I miss them all.
The first time Dr. Aurelius showed me the videos of my family being interviewed during my first Games, what they call the 'final eight' interviews, they'd been strangers to me, but now I remember much more of them. Sometimes I even see my father in my dreams, though he never says anything. I can see his smile, that twinkle of pride in his eyes that I never saw when he looked at my brothers. We had a special relationship, he and I. We were so very much alike. What I wouldn't give to talk to him again.
I'm so lost in sketching and remembering, and in the melancholy that sometimes accompanies remembering, that I don't notice Katniss approaching. She sits down on the porch steps beside me, leaning over to look at my current sketch, and my train of thought is completely lost. She'll never understand the effect she has on me, just being near her makes my heart speed up. Her finger reaches out to lightly run over the lines of my drawing, something she does nearly every time she watches me draw.
"The apple tree was here," she says quietly, tapping the space just to the left of the bakery in my sketch. As soon as she says it I can see it in my mind's eye, the old, gnarled tree. The gaunt little girl leaning hopelessly against it in the rain.
"Is it still there?" I ask, my own voice barely a whisper. She shakes her head sadly. Of course a tree wouldn't survive a firebombing, I think, but it makes me sad nonetheless. I need to see it. I need to see what is left. Taking a deep breath, I ask her, "Katniss, I want to go see the bakery today. Will you come with me?" I try to keep my voice light and even but am unsuccessful, I sound afraid. I sound small.
She nods. "Of course, Peeta." is all she says.
There doesn't seem to be any reason to put it off any longer, so after I deposit my sketchbook on the small table in my entryway we head out. The walk is nearly silent, I'm painfully aware of my footsteps as the gravel crunches beneath my feet, especially in light of how quiet her steps are. She's right; I'm loud when I walk.
When we reach the point where I would normally veer right towards the train station, which is the only thing in Twelve apart from Victor's Village that was spared in the firebombing (being too far from the town proper for the fire to have spread), we instead continue straight and I start to get disoriented. From here I should be able to see the roof of the Justice Building, but there is nothing. My confusion increases the further we go, where other rooflines should be there is only sky. Once we're close enough to make out the rubble that is all that's left of my former life I begin to slow down. Katniss adjusts her pace to mine but says nothing. The ground under our feet switches from gravel to paving stones, it's the only way I can tell we've entered the town square. I stand, bewildered, craning my head left and right, looking for something, anything to orient myself with. There are outlines of stone foundations, piles of rubble, a few partial walls. Everywhere there are carts filled with debris, ready to be taken – where? There are the beginnings of new construction too, piles of fresh lumber, stacks of bricks, new wooden frames covered in tarps that flap in the breeze. And everywhere dust, so much dust. A handful of men work nearby, wearing bright yellow helmets, but even with their presence the area feels eerily quiet. Haunted.
I don't know how long I stand in confusion before I feel Katniss's hand gently take mine. I let her lead me to a partial brick wall, but I don't recognize that we've crossed into what used to be the bakery until I see the melted and twisted chunk of metal. I realize with a start that the doors and frames of the bakery's two ovens melted in the fire. My father's voice rings in my head, you have to stoke the fire hotter Peeta, good bread comes from a hot oven. How hot must the fire that devastated Twelve have been to have melted ovens that were full of fire for more than 70 years? My family never had a chance; they were killed by the very thing that provided our livelihood for generations. I wonder if Snow thought that was funny, if he enjoyed the irony.
'Not Snow,' a voice says, and I look up into glowing red eyes, narrowed at me, full of hatred. Under them, shiny red lips sneer at me, fangs dripping with blood. 'You know who did this, I killed your family, I burned them all, and I'll kill you next.' Fire blooms all around me, acrid smoke burning my eyes, making the room hazy and dark. I can feel the heat of the fire on my face, on my back, on my tender healing skin. All around me I hear screaming, all of them, they're screaming in pain as they burn. My heart pounds in terror, beating so fast it feels like it'll leap right out of my chest. Bile rises in my throat and I'm panting from the smoke and my fear. The mutt is reaching for me now, she's going to kill me, like she killed my family, like she killed everyone in Twelve. I have to stop her; I can't let her hurt anyone else. With shaking hands I try to push her away but she's as solid as steel. I lash out with all of my strength and a burst of pain blooms in my hand.
The pain seems to slow everything down, and the roar of the fire in my ears dims slightly. I hear a voice calling my name over and over; I squeeze my eyes closed tightly and try to hold onto it.
"Peeta! Peeta, it's not real, it's not real, you're safe Peeta," the voice implores, and I can hear the desperation. Slowly I begin to realize that the voice belongs to Katniss. I open my eyes and the orbs that stare back at me are not red, but silver, and they're filled with tears. "Come back Peeta, please, don't let him take you from me," she says softly, her voice cracking. Those words, she's said them to me before. Those words are real. Katniss is real, not the mutt. The mutt is not real.
I shake the last of the haze away, there is no fire, no smoke, there is just the sunshine of a spring afternoon and the concerned face of the woman I love watching me warily. We are both kneeling in the dust, I'm not sure how I got down here, but my prosthetic is twisted uncomfortably beneath me and chunks of debris press into my knee. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. I want to tell her that I'm so exhausted, that I just need to rest for a few moments but I can't say a word. I slump forward and feel her arms gather me against her chest, supporting my weight before everything goes dark.
There are flashes of light, the quiet murmur of voices. I feel a swaying, but I can't force my eyes open to see if it's real.
When I finally begin to surface again I realize that I'm lying down. I can feel the texture of my couch cushions against my cheek, the softness of a blanket under my chin. Reluctantly opening my eyes, my living room gradually comes into focus, golden in the late afternoon sun. A hand gently brushes my hair from my forehead and I crane my neck back to look into Katniss's eyes. For a few moments I just stare into their silver depths, unquestioningly, until the realization hits me like a train: we were at the ruins of the bakery, and now we're not, and I have no idea how that happened. I bolt upright, the sudden change making my head spin.
"Peeta, shh, it's okay, you're okay." Her hand reaches for me, slowly, tentatively, as if she's giving me time to back away from her. It's absolutely the last thing I want to do, I need her to tether me to reality. She touches my shoulder, then inches closer to me and starts to rub my back soothingly.
"What happened?" I manage to croak. Her hand stills, and her brow furrows slightly. She drops her eyes, but her hand begins to rub my back again.
"I was hoping you'd be able to tell me. What do you remember?" she asks softly. I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking.
"We were at the bakery. There was fire."
"Not real," she interrupts, firmly. "There was no fire Peeta. We were where your family's bakery used to be. It burned down, but there was no fire there today." I nod; I know the fire was months ago, rationally I know that.
"I… I had an episode?" It comes out as a question, but it's not, not really. Obviously I did, and in front of Katniss no less.
"I think so," she says, nodding. "Your eyes, your pupils were really huge, just like in the Capitol." In the Capitol, when she pulled me back from the edge, when she kept me from dissociating. But I must have dissociated this time. Damnit, and I'd been doing so well at fighting them off! A horrifying thought comes to me.
"Did I… oh God Katniss, did I hurt you?" I'm so afraid to ask.
"No," she says firmly, but she won't meet my eyes, and the way she shifts a little beside me makes me think she's not telling the whole truth. My heart sinks, but then she continues, "You hurt your hand pretty good though. I don't think it's broken, but I can't be sure. You should probably put some ice on it at least." I look down; my right hand is wrapped in white bandages. I look up at her, questioningly. "You punched the oven," she offers. I remember now, the pain in my hand, the pain that became my window back to reality.
"I'm so sorry Katniss, I didn't think… I thought I could handle it. I… I should never have asked you to come with me." I'm morose, she watched me lose it, go mad, punch an oven of all things. If she knew what I probably thought I was punching…
"You have nothing to apologize for Peeta." She absolves me curtly, but her hand rubbing slow circles on my back softens the harsh edge to her words.
I drop my head into my hands. "How did I get here?" I ask her, my words slightly muffled.
"You mostly walked, though you were pretty out of it. Thom helped keep you upright." I nod, I'm always so exhausted after an episode.
"Thank you," I whisper. She says nothing, and we sit silently for a while, I keep my face hidden in my hands, she continues to rub my back.
"Peeta, will you tell me what it's like… when it happens?" I look up at her in horror; I can't possibly tell her that she is what haunts me, that sometimes I see her as a mutt coming to kill me. She must see my shock because she quickly clarifies, "No, not what you see, I… I think I have a pretty good idea about that actually." I cringe, but she continues, unperturbed. "Do you know what triggers them? I… I want to know where you go, so that if it happens again I'll know how to help you come back."
How do I explain to her when it's all so confusing even for me? How can I possibly tell her that she triggers the majority of them, directly or indirectly? Her presence, thinking about her, memories of her both real and not real. I can't. I won't. "Oh, well, I'm not really sure what triggers most of them, honestly," I lie. She seems to accept it anyway. But she needs to know more than that. Maybe if she understands what's happening then she'll know when to run away from me, when to flee for her safety. I take a deep breath, part of me is terrified that if I share this with her she'll back away, she'll decide that crazy Peeta isn't worth the effort. I wouldn't blame her. I sigh.
"I have flashes of the images that the Capitol implanted in my head," I start. "Sometimes I have flashes of real memories too, but the ones that the Capitol altered are the most upsetting and the hardest to ignore. I'm getting much better at it though, I can usually recognize the ones that aren't real, and fight them off. But sometimes, when I'm tired or anxious or… or afraid, sometimes I can't fight them. Sometimes I slip away inside my head and get locked in the altered memories. The doctor calls that 'dissociating'. I… I become a mutt." I finish sadly.
"No Peeta, never a mutt, that's not you." I shake my head and stare morosely at the cold fireplace. I wish it wasn't me, but I saw the video when I attacked her and killed Mitchell in that state. It was definitely me. "Peeta?" she continues. Even in my dazed and miserable state the sound of my name on her lips gives me goosebumps. "How do you stop it? The dissociating?"
"Remember when we were in the Capitol?" She nods and I continue, "I would pull against the handcuffs because the pain helped ground me in reality. Now I hold onto something hard or I dig my nails into the palms of my hands. Mostly it works, but not always I guess."
"So that's why you punched the oven today?" I can feel the heat rising in my face, I think I know why I punched the oven and it had nothing to do with reality.
"I, uh, no, I don't think so. I'm not really sure why I did that. But it helped, it didn't bring me back, but it, well it sort of made the shiny images fade a little, so that I could focus on reality. It was you who pulled me back."
"Me?" She seems skeptical.
"You. I heard your voice, your words, and I held onto them, and it led me back out of my mind." It seems a simplistic explanation, but it's the best I can describe it. A slow smile spreads across her face. Her hand moves to wrap around my back and she rests her head on my shoulder. I tilt my own head to rest against hers, and we sit comfortably together.
"I was so afraid Peeta," she admits softly and my heart hurts. She should be afraid of me, I know that, I could snap and kill her, but I would never ever wish her any harm. She surprises me though by continuing. "I thought you were gone. I was so afraid that you wouldn't come back. But you did. You came back to me."
My bottom lip is trembling and I turn my head to press my face into her hair, inhaling deeply before murmuring "Always."