What I wouldn't give to be in the kitchen right now. Baking soothes me. It's simple. I understand it and it understands me.
What I don't understand is this. How tragedy strikes people who are so undeserving of it. This beautiful, caring, snarky girl is barely holding it together as it is—and now she has to bury the last person in her life she's ever loved. She doesn't deserve this. She deserves the world and all the good things that can happen in it. Not this.
Katniss turns around in bed, waking up, and I pretend like I haven't been watching her for the last half an hour, finishing the sketch I started last night. I didn't mean to, but my mind went to the curve of her lips and the arch of her eyebrow and now I have an almost complete sketch of the woman that occupies my thoughts, conscious and unconscious.
It's only five a.m., but I could barely sleep last night. After Katniss dozed off, I just laid there and listened to her deep breathing and the steady beat of her heart. I couldn't stop thinking about taking care of her and doing everything in my power to help her get through tomorrow—or today, now, I guess. Around four a.m. I gave up trying to get more than a half hour of rest at a time and decided to draw. Her face looks so serene when she sleeps, perfect for my sketch.
"There's some tea on the desk," I whisper, setting my sketchbook on the nightstand and shifting down until I'm completely submerged under the covers again. I lift my hand and set it on her warm neck, running my thumb along the line of her jaw.
She nods her head and closes her eyes again, but I know she won't be able to fall back asleep. She tossed and turned all night—a fitful sleep—but she never woke up. And now that she is, the memories that must have been whirling around her head as she slept are now running though it on overdrive.
She looks so peaceful right now with her eyes closed, her eyelashes fluttering against the skin underneath her eyes. But I know that feeling won't last. In a matter of hours she'll be sobbing against my chest once again, and it will take everything I have not to join her.
Dressed in black, we climb into the car. I've done everything for Katniss this morning. Ordered her food, making her eat it, pouring her tea, making her drink it, packing her bag, carrying her bag—everything and anything I was able to do for her, I did it. It's the only way I know how to help. And she's been in a zombie-like state, going through the motions. She pulled on her shirt and skirt over her head and braided her hair with an empty look on her face. I can't decide which is worse: the epic sobs or the catatonic state.
Both. Both are worse.
The ride is silent. No music. No traffic. Just an empty road and an empty space in my chest where my heart used to be. Katniss leans her forehead against her window, staring outside. I want to reach out and hold her hand or put her in my lap or wrap my arm around her, but I can't and it's killing me.
I told myself not to get attached to her, but it was hopeless. Beauty like that only comes into your life once and I have an eye for beauty. I never thought it was a weakness before—more of a gift. Until Katniss. She's not what I want; I don't want anything right now. But here she is. Katniss and her inhuman beauty is quickly becoming my weakness.
When we reach Bar Harbor, I'm lost. Katniss was supposed to give me directions, this being the third time she's come here for this exact purpose, but I don't want to force her to talk to me. I drive through the middle of the town, hoping to find a sign or something to point me towards the cemetery, but so far I don't see anything. I'm surrounded by multicolored, Victorian-style shops that are sewn together, no space between them. Ahead of us is the ocean.
The ocean.
It's crisp and clear and blue. So blue. Indigo, sapphire, cobalt, navy, sky—I'm not sure which one. Maybe all of them. The water is silent and still and I'm distracted for a moment by its magnificence. Without thinking, I follow the small, paved road and make the turns until I'm in a parking lot, only yards from the water. I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn to Katniss. She's watching staring out of the front windshield, her eyes expressionless for the first time since I've met her.
I slip out of the car and quickly move to the other side to open her door. I unclip her myself and pick her up out of the jeep and set her on the black pavement. I weave our fingers together and I pull her with me, towards the long, perfectly crafted dock pier made of grey wood. Katniss is slow, so I walk at her pace.
When we reach the end of the dock, I turn to her. "You need some beauty today," I tell her, motioning towards the ocean. I glance around at our surroundings, trying to find something else to prove my point. I grab the only flash yellow I see. It's growing between the tight boards, a brightness in a sea of dark; out of place and unexpected. I slip the dandelion behind her small ear. "Some hope."
Her grey eyes flicker, some life coming back into them.
I want to keep that there. I want to help her forget, for just a moment, about the doom and remember the hope. I don't know if it will help, but I need to do something that might help her even just a little bit. So I speak.
"My mother used to hit me." I've never told anyone this before. Not Finn or Gale or anyone besides my father and my brothers—the people that saw it happen. And I don't know why I'm telling her now, someone I barely know, but I have to. "Just hard enough not to break anything and only where it could be hidden under my t-shirts." Her eyes widen, some sadness returning. I continue, "I don't know why she chose me—she never hit my brothers or spoke to them with the same viciousness she did me. But she told me I deserved it. She never gave me a reason other than that."
"But the truth is it doesn't matter why. She hit me. It happened. And that's what I'm telling you. You don't deserve this. But it happened. And you need to know that it can be good again. After everything that has happened and after all of your losses, things can be good again. This dandelion proves it." I point to her ear. "My ability to love others after my mother proves it. The fact that I now understand that I didn't deserve her abuse proves it."
I take her soft face in my hands. Her eyes are filled with unshed tears, from my story or her own, I'm not sure. "So Katniss, remember that. While you bury your mother and say goodbye, try to remember that this pain won't stop you forever. It will create pause and sorrow, but it won't kill you. You can find goodness again." I look back to the ocean, away from her unbelievably stormy eyes, my hands falling from her cheeks. This vast openness is the only thing that compares to her beauty.
Katniss's hand finds me again and she slips her fingers between mine. We stare out onto the ocean, hands tightly clasped, the world only containing the two of us. Seconds, minutes pass. The sun gets higher in the sky. The clouds cover it. It peeks out again. The clouds hide it again.
"Let's go," I say, turning to her again after some time. She squeezes my hand as we head back to the car, passing a few people along the way, each one of them with cameras to their faces, snapping pictures of the scenery.
They are experiencing life. And we are about to be surrounded by death.
Katniss points me in towards the cemetery, still not saying a word. I take the lefts and the rights she indicates until we're driving down a dusty, dirt road under a canopy of lush trees at the edge of town. When we reach the end the road, there's a small cottage of stone and white wood. I pull off the road and park on the edge before unbuckling myself.
We clamber out of the car and before we've even made it to the front door, it swings open. A large man with dirty blonde hair exits, his eyes fixed on Katniss.
"Katniss, it's both wonderful and terrible to see you again," he whispers, his voice full of barely contained melancholy. He turns his muddy brown eyes to me. "I don't believe we've ever met," he says, extending his hand.
I give it a hard shake. "I'm Peeta Mellark. Katniss's friend." I guess that's where we are. I obviously feel more than that, but friends are where we are right now. That's the only explanation.
He gives me a small nod. "I'm Plutarch Heavensbee. I'm the sexton and owner of this cemetery." He turns back to Katniss. "Everything is ready when you are, Katniss."
She leaves us momentarily, heading back to the jeep. I watch her with curious eyes as she opens the door behind the passenger's and reaches for something inside the vehicle. When she comes back out, she's holding the small box I forgot even existed. She hid it under her seat when we first loaded our bags into the jeep and I haven't seen it since. It's just cardboard, but the way that she's carrying it with such care, I now know it contains something monumentally important: her mother's ashes.
When she gets back to us, I tuck a stray hair behind her ear, letting my thumb linger on the smooth skin of her cheek. I just have to touch her. Let her know that I'm here.
She holds out the box to Plutarch and he takes it from her with his meaty, wrinkled hands. Without a word, he slowly turns and begins walking in the grass, towards the trees; Katniss and I follow obediently. The grass is lush under my black dress shoes, my feet flattening it with each step I take. I tuck my hands into my front pockets; Katniss has hers hidden, folded as her arm are crossed over her chest. I want to touch her, but she must want me to right now.
Little time has passed before we reach a clearing. Gravestones peek out from under the soil sporadically, with no real order. We create a single-file behind Plutarch as he weaves us through the history and past lives that are now residing in the ground. It's not until we reach the corner of the cemetery that we meet a small gated off area. Her family plot.
Plutarch opens the rickety black metal gate and the three of us enter. Most of the gravestones are covered in moss and vines, indicating their age. But three of them are bright, shining marble; we head towards those.
Katniss drops to the ground as soon as we get to them. She reaches out, her fingers gently caressing the stone in front of her. Primrose Everdeen, it reads in elegant script. She runs her fingertips along the letters and I watch her, unsure of what to do. Katniss's face is still blank, but her eyes aren't empty anymore; they're black and brimming with tears.
I kneel down beside her and watch as Plutarch removes a small grey urn from the box. It's decorated with drawings of white flowers and pink roses. It's simple but breathtaking—the artwork and the notion behind the small container. We live these full lives, but in the end, we can fit inside a tiny jar.
"Katniss, would you like to say something?" Plutarch asks as he places the urn delicately in the hole he must have dug a few days ago.
She shakes her head, but stands up and walks over to stand in front of her mother's headstone, leaving Prim behind again; I copy her.
"Well I will," he says. He clears his throat. "Patricia Everdeen did the best she could. She wasn't perfect but she tried hard to be a good person, and most of the time she succeeded. She loved hard and wholly; she cared for her children more than she could ever put into words; and she worked hard for the career she desired most.
"Her long battle with depression ended tragically, but we will try to remember the good times we had with her instead of the bad. We will remember the home cooked meals and the clothes she sewed for us and the kisses she gave.
"We will miss you dearly. You left behind many who cared for you. But we hope you finally find peace, Patricia Everdeen. May you be reunited with your beloved daughter and husband once again."
A tear slips from the corner of my eye before I can stop it. I don't know who I'm crying for. Katniss. Prim. Mr. Everdeen. Mrs. Everdeen. Plutarch. My father. Myself. Maybe all of the above. All I know is that my heart hurts.
Katniss buries her face in my chest and I wrap my arms around her, squeezing her small frame against mine. She's not crying, though. She's holding back. Her shoulders rise and fall dramatically and evenly, with great effort. It's like she's afraid of drowning and she's trying as best as she can to breathe through the fear.
Plutarch begins to cover up the urn with dirt, but I turn my eyes away. I can't watch the last physical evidence of Katniss's family disappear.
Katniss pulls her head away from me eventually, looking up at me with her sad, open eyes. They are begging me to make her better, but I don't know how. I just kiss her forehead as my hands travel up and down her back, trying to soothe away her pain.
We don't stay at the gravesite for long. If I can barely stand the death and the sadness, I know it has to be impossible for Katniss. As soon as we start to walk back to the car, she's stumbles, shaky on her feet, and I quickly lift her into my arms, carrying and cradling her; she winds her arms around my neck and places her head on my shoulder.
"Did you guys get situated in your place to stay tonight?" Plutarch asks when we reach the front of his house again. I turn towards him, still holding Katniss in my arms.
I shake my head. "No. I figured we'd find a hotel in town."
Plutarch raises his eyebrows. "You're not going to say at the house?"
"What house?" I ask, confusion taking over.
"Patricia's father's house. He passed away almost ten years ago, but the house is paid off and under Patricia's name. Or now Katniss's, I guess. It's where they stayed when Phil died, and then Primrose."
I look down at Katniss in my arms; she nods her head subtly.
"Okay, where is it?"
The house isn't a house. It's a mansion. With columns and marble steps. It looks like a mini version of the White House. The yard is perfectly manicured and decorated with flowers and apple trees. I have no idea who is tending this place, but it's stunning. It looks as if someone is still living here.
I carry both mine and Katniss's bags on my shoulders as we walk up the steps. Katniss reaches for the keypad on the side of the house next to the door handle and presses in a code; the door opens in response. Fancy.
I follow her as she enters the house. She walks past the metal sculpture of a cornucopia and up the glass staircase; her high heels echo with each step. The walls of the house are all painted the same drab eggshell and even though massive in size, it's not cold like you'd expect. The walls are covered with artwork and family photos, each filled with love and warmth and smiling faces.
We walk down the long upstairs hallway and I look over the edge of the railing to the living room below. There are several large couches and a huge plasma screen TV in the corner. There's also a small aquarium, but it's unlit and empty. At the end of the hall, we enter a peach-colored room. All of the furniture is painted white and matching.
Katniss heads straight to the perfectly made bed and collapses onto it, finally breaking down. I let the bags slip off my shoulders and onto the white-carpeted floor and join her. She crawls into my arms immediately and I fold her against my chest, her face buried in my neck.
I unbraid her hair and comb my fingers through it, just trying to support her and soothe her tears. Her chest jumps with each shaky breath she takes, but she's not crying as hard as she was last night. Her tears are quiet and constant, soaking my skin and button-up.
I know she doesn't need words right now, she just needs someone to hold her. So that's what I'm going to do.
When the sun starts to set, its rays fading from the large glass window, the clouds changing into orange, she finally pulls her head away. She looks down at me, her grey eyes still glassy from her tears.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, my voice soft and low.
She shakes her head.
"Thirsty?"
Again, she shakes her head.
"Well is there anything I can do for you?" I ask, brushing her hair away from her forehead.
She nods her head. But before I can open my mouth to ask what, she's crushing her lips to mine.