I'm bouncing between a one shot and this. Not sure which will get posted first, but at least I'll put something up! Have to keep the creativity flowing!
Beyond Repair
By: Her Voice
By the time we walk through the door, my mood has been lifted exponentially. I might not be where I thought I would, but at least I'm making do.
Pushing the wheel barrel full of baking ingredients right into the kitchen, Ren has not stopped talking. He avoids any topics that might spoil the mood. Even though I want to know about our parents, about Rye and Charlotte and Dill, I don't ask. I'm not ready to think about them. I know that Ren could get into trouble for coming to see me, but our mother has learned to leave him alone. He has always been able to get away with things the rest of us couldn't.
I hobble into the kitchen, my arm tired and sore from using the crutches. It's hard not to notice the blinking red light coming from the answer machine next to the phone. Curious, I push the button, not really caring that Ren is there to hear the message, too.
"Peeta, darling. I've been calling you for days. It's rude not to answer your phone, dear. If you are hearing me, pick up the phone. You know what one is, right? It's the plastic thing next to the box that's talking right now. I'll give you a moment." I laugh in the moments of silence, picturing the pink haired Effie on the other end. "You must be out with Katniss, which is understandable. If you get a moment, give me a call. We need to discuss your talent. I can send you list, if you'd like. But you'll need to figure out something sooner or later. You'll have to pick something before the Tour. Ta ta, dear!" Her voice was saccharine, artificially sweet but well-meaning.
Damn it if I don't miss her.
Ren's eyebrows are raised, and I can't exactly say that I'm not curious too. There has never been a victor in Twelve but Haymitch, and unless alcoholism is an acceptable talent, I have nothing to go on. I try to think back on the previous footage from other Victory Tours, but we have always been so busy at the bakery that it is something that's on in the background. It's never the focal point of any day in the Mellark house.
I shrug him off, knowing that I can call Effie back later. Right now, putting away all the groceries is far more important.
It takes us the rest of the afternoon to get things settled into their place. I have a stack of mail piled up in the kitchen. I'm frustrated that I don't remember bringing it in, days lost to depression and anger. I'm happy to be sitting down, to be off my crutches. My underarms feel raw. Between my stump and that, I wouldn't be surprised if I'm one giant blister by the morning.
Working in a kitchen with Ren since childhood means that he already knows how I'll use the space. The shelves quickly fill up without direction, exactly how I would have set it up. The large bags are stacked in the pantry, spices filling up the cupboard by the stove— each item has a place.
Standing in the kitchen with a clear head, I can finally see the problems with the flow. The stove is small and electric, meaning it's not as efficient as gas or wood. It is hard to have any sort of consistency with electric burners. And I'm no where near used to cooking with it. I'm already wondering how long it would take to order a new one when Ren mentions that the stove in Rye's kitchen has been broken for weeks.
Even if it isn't, I can still give this to my brother. My brother will accept it, and my mother won't say anything about it because he is no longer under her roof.
I finally get a chance to look through the large sack of mail we picked up at the train station. A thick, black envelope catches my eye, and I recognize the curly gold script belonging to Portia. I tear it open without much though, surprised to see dozens of catalogs for kitchen appliances and utensils.
Peeta,
If your house is anything like the other Victor homes, I know that it's missing a few things you need. Part of the perks of winning the endless amounts of money you now have access to. If you ever need someone to try out a recipe on, you have my address.
Portia.
P.S. Effie has been calling me about your talent. She's worried you won't have anything ready in time for the tour. I've included a list for you to look at so that you're ready to call her back. Let me know if I can help.
Flipping the note over reveals her list. Ren is already looking through the catalogs, more interested in the newest items only available in the Capitol. I'm more fascinated in the list, in the explanation of why I need a talent.
Going to school, Portia explains, is no longer allowed. And since I have to have a way to occupy my time, the Capitol requires that I better myself. She's crossed out something about it be archaic and asinine, but only enough to leave it legible. I laugh a little, glad for her comfort, even if its in an odd way.
The list is long, filled with silly things like the violin (which I have no idea as to what that is) and writing. She's even thought enough to break it into groups. Musical talents, artistic ones, hands on— everything acceptable seems to be absolutely pointless in the real world.
I'm about to look into it further when Ren pulls me into the catalogs, my focus lost for the day. \
The next morning, I rise early. It is the weekend, meaning that the village is even fuller than it was yesterday. It takes me a while to fit the silicone sleeve back onto my leg, and even longer to talk myself into putting it on. The powder given to me by the Capitol will help keep it dry throughout the day, as long as I don't over apply it. It's easier to slip on my pants first, to pull up the leg and then slip on my prosthetic. Trying to stand on one leg, with so little use, would throw me to the floor.
Taking a day off helped, and now I can stand up normally without any pain, just some discomfort. I'd be willing to bet that the powder has something to do with that as well. I know that won't be the case for long, but for now, it's a nice change.
I'm in the kitchen when there is a knock on the door. The music is loud, so I'm surprised that I've even heard it over the noise. I wipe my hands on the front of the new apron, turning the small radio down to answer the front door.
I'm not used to visitors. Customers are one thing. People coming to see me with no expectation of spending money is another. I forget about the fame and open the door without a care.
Seeing Prim on the other side is shocking. The only person who would have been less expected would have been Katniss herself.
She looks completely different, in the way that Katniss was hoping she would always look. No longer is she wearing tattered old clothing, but something befitting a Victor. Her blonde hair is braided and clean, smelling of the unnatural scents that can only come from the Capitol. Fall has made the thick plum sweater she's in necessary. White leggings with light brown boots complete her look. She doesn't appear to be a child of the Seam, not with the way her cheeks a filled out in the past few months.
Her bright eyes beam, and I'm glad that I've cleaned up the house. She's genuinely happy to see me, and for the first time in weeks, I'm glad that Katniss volunteered. Prim is everything that is innocent. I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if she hadn't come home. And we wouldn't have been able to play the star crossed angle that got us both back to Twelve. It would have been one or the other. And I would have died to protect Prim, for Katniss.
She's bouncing on the balls of her feet, as if she's ready to take flight.
Like Rue.
Luckily, she breaks my train of though before I go down a path hard to come back from.
"Peeta!" In her perfect way, she throws herself into my arms before I can say a word. She doesn't even give me a chance to try and pull away, laughing and burying her nose in my shoulder. "You always smell like fresh cookies." My arms wrap around her, unable to deny how welcome her embrace is. As much as I've isolated myself, the simple gesture means more than she will know.
She steps back, her eyes drifting around to the newly cleaned house. "The place looks great! And smells amazing. What are you cooking?" I step back, allowing her to follow me back into the kitchen, where the counters are covered with freshly made sugar cookies. The kitchen looks messy, but it's the perfect picture of the life of a baker.
I don't know if Prim has ever seen this side of a bakery, if she has ever pictured anything like it. She's in awe, giggling as she stops in front of the stove, where a timer is going off. I step in front of her, slipping on an oven mitt to pull the last batch of cookies out. The youngest Everdeen isn't far behind, watching as I set them on the top of the oven. "Oh, wow, those smell incredible! Better than the ones from the bakery!" They're the same recipe, but the ingredients are a much finer quality. Even I can lie about the smell— they're far more fragrant then the ones my family makes.
I don't want to turn away the company, so it's easy to invite her to stay and help decorate them.
She is hesitant at first, unwilling to intrude on the process. But she is easy to convince. The music is turned up once more, and the two of us fall into an easy routine.
Baking is an art, and it's easy enough for her to pick up on the specificity of it. Each measurement has to be exact. Where there is room for play, we play. We try adding almond extract instead of vanilla. We try different cookie cutters, different thickness. Prim adds a few drops of red food coloring to make the dough pink.
I have not laughed like this in a long time.
The conversation is simple, bouncing between instructions and anecdotes. She is young but witty and incredibly observant. I don't know what has brought her over, but I'm glad for it.
It's three hours later, and every last cookie is made. She and I are sitting together, her hands covered in white icing. As it dries, I show her how to paint on the cookies. They are simple, silly little flowers, primroses and lilies just for her. "These look real, Peeta."
Her voice catches me off guard, as involved as I was in the work, I don't notice how much time I've spent on them. My cheeks flush, but I just grin. "It's just some food coloring and water. Not like paint or anything."
"Don't you need a talent?" She asked, almost reading what had been on my mind all morning. The list was pinned to the refrigerator, so I would remember to really look it over when I was less occupied. "Katniss has a list, too. But I don't know if she has a clue what to choose." She's offering information I'm not asking for. And I don't stop her. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm craving news of my fellow Victor. I don't know how she's doing or coping.
Not that I've made much of an effort on that front.
"But you could paint, Peeta." Her words center me a bit, as if I should have seen it all along. "Your cakes have always been amazing. Just think of what you could do with real paints and brushes."
"You think so?"
She nods, enthusiastic about the idea. I don't know if I would have ever considered it. I've been taught to sit in the background, to take no credit for the work I have done. My mother has never considered what I've done to be anything special. And while my father has always been incredibly supportive, he isn't vocal against my mother's words.
Somehow, in the few short hours we've spent cooking, I trust her enough to show her my old sketch books. They are mostly drawn on the backside of graded homework assignments. And I'm very careful about keeping the dozens of sketches of her sister out of the stack. She's quiet as she looks through them, and I'm almost certain she is going to say that they aren't good. If I could tap my foot, I would.
I'm nervous for her opinion.
I'm able to resist tapping my foot, but when she finally looks up at me, I see something I wasn't expecting.
She looked at me in awe. "Peeta, these are incredible." Heat rushes to my cheeks. She is the first person I've ever shown these too. It was a huge step for me to say anything about them, and even bigger to show them to her. Now that's she's seen them, I feel a little relief. She thinks they are good— they must be. "Really, you're amazing. You have to paint or draw or something for your talent."
I give her a smile, taking back the pictures and pushing them off to the side. "Maybe."
The subject is dropped. As hard as she tries to push me into talking, to opening up, I just can't bring myself to do it. I don't want to burden her with my troubles. She has to worry about Katniss.
I know that Katniss is having a hard time with the whole thing. As well as she might cope during the day, I can hear her screams at night. They mimic my own silent ones. And I know the cause of hers. They are like mine— the Games.
But we can't share in this.
Whatever we had is long gone. Whatever connection, even if it was forced on us, is broken. And I'm afraid it's beyond any repair.
I help package up a large plate of cookies for Prim to take home, trusting her to hand out the rest that we've placed into small packages to people in the District. I want to ask her about why she came, to find out what brought her over here. But, if anything about me is reliable, it's the fact that I can't find the courage to do so.
I do, however, tell her that she can come over at any time to bake with me. Prim is eager to take me up on the offer, and somehow I find myself with a standing date for cooking lessons on Saturdays. She has an added bounce in her step as she crosses the short distance in between our houses. As much as I want to stay outside, to catch a glimpse of Katniss, I don't. Instead, I quickly close the door behind me to ponder the idea of painting as a talent.
It seems too person, something that I've always done in the quite and silence of my own room. My father was the one to give me a real sketch pad a few years prior, but I've made sure to save the pages of that for more than just mindless doodles. I've only used a few dozen pages, and each one has been a gift for one person or another.
But wasn't winning the Games about enjoying the new found money? The new found freedom that comes with it? If I had to pick something else to do in my free time, it would be sketching. Or painting. That is something that I've always been interested in. Why shouldn't I do it?
But the whole idea makes me nervous, too. Because what I paint will be shown to the world. The talents need to be something you can show off, something that can be appreciated. What if my paintings aren't good enough? Or what if they are just too much for people to see? The fear of reject has always held me back, because I'm afraid to lose what was never mine.
That thought rips a hole in my gut.
Katniss is the perfect example. I was never able to approach her after the bread. Hell, I wasn't able to before it, either. I watched her deteriorate after her father died and did nothing, because my own feelings stopped me. I knew she was suffering, that she had so little to eat, but I was helpless. And young. And I've always been afraid to say the wrong thing, or have something taken the wrong way. So I threw the bread that day instead of giving it to her.
Like she was the pig my mother always claimed her to be.
I should have given it to her.
This is my chance to really put everything on the line. And it's not about Katniss. And it's not about the Capitol. It's about me. It's about finding a way to deal with everything that's happened. An outlet for everything that I've been numbed against with the medication. Maybe this is the first step to really heal.
The kind of paints that I want and need aren't available in the District. The paint we do have is cheap, thinned down to go farther. And it's exterior paint, which doesn't build or mix well. It doesn't take me long to call Portia, to run the idea by her before she's promised to take care of it.
It's easy to settle into one of the chairs by the fireplace with my old sketch book in hand. Because I'm almost desperate to put something on paper, to see if its worth the time. The music is still playing in the background, soft and delicate.
It has to be hours later when I finally pull myself out of the chair. I've made a dozen rough sketches, unable to really pick on one to be more detailed with. I've got so many thoughts running through my mind that it's really impossible to pick just one. The side of my dominate hand, the left one, is covered in smudged lead.
I have to stand up and stretch, my muscles aching from the slumped over position I'd spent most of the afternoon in. The clock on the mantel says it's well past seven. I settle for day old toasted bread and expensive peanut butter for dinner, my mind wandering to my plans for tomorrow. Portia said that she'd put the stuff on the next train. I'm almost anxious for what she'll think important. And I'm even more excited for the possibility that painting brings.
A distraction.