Beyond Repair

By: Her Voice

There's an odd combination of cold and warm that flows through my veins. I don't know what time it is, nor am I sure where I am at first. It isn't until I fully wake up that I hear the down pour of rain. The darkness of the cave has a dampness with it. I don't know what wakes me up, but I know that I don't feel as weak as I did when I slept.

By sleeping syrup.

Katniss.

I struggle to sit up, but realize that it's not as hard as it has been earlier. The lead that was my entire body has lifted. I have a little strength left in my arms to push myself up, at least. I don't feel as warm either, the telltale shiver gone from my body.

She must have gone to the banquet at the cornucopia.

"Katniss?" My head swivels around frantically, hoping to catch a sign that she is alright.

Her body is against the far wall, the chest movement slow. Irregular. My body is weak, but I am able to crawl to her side by the sheer need to protect her. There is blood. A lot of blood. I don't know what caused it, having been asleep for the whole thing. My heart sinks, only thinking the worse. No, she can't be dead. No.

No.

I try to think back on what little medical knowledge I have. I can't tell where she is bleeding from. It's not all from the cut on her forehead. I know I have to find the bleeding, to stop it, but my arms are shaking so badly that it is all I can do to pull her to me. I might not be a healer, but I've seen death. And I know the smell. It is close. I can't save her.

I gather her into my arms, and she coughs. Brushing her hair back, I kiss her forehead. I try to stop the tears, but they are impossible to control at this point."You shouldn't have gone, Katniss."

Her smile is weak, pain written across her face. She barely says, "I know." Her grey eyes are clouded over, worse than any fever I'd seen. Even with her dark complexion, she was pale. "It was worth it." She breaks into a pathetic fit of coughing and it suddenly gets hard for her to breath. I don't know what happened, but I know that it won't be long now.

"I can't do this without you." I tell her softly, burying my face into her shoulder. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the audience. The girl I have loved for most of my life is going to die and there is nothing I can do about it.

She smiles again, "You have to." Her voice is weak. She should be saving her energy, focusing on breathing. I tell her that, and she smiles at me. Breathing becomes painful for me, too.

This time, I care about the cameras. I look up to the room of the ceiling, hoping that someone is watching. "DO SOMETHING, HAYMITCH!" I scream, knowing that it would be her last hope. He could get a sponsors. They could send a medical kit. I could make it work, could keep her alive. Couldn't I? If I just had the tools. And the training. If I had just paid attention to that station during the training…

"Shhh, shhhh." She says to me, and I can't stop the tears that fall. I know her breathing is slowing down, that this is the last moment. I can't do anything. I can't save her. That was my one goal, to bring her home. And now, she'll be in a pine box. "You saved me, Peeta. A life for a life. If I have to die, I'm glad it's for you."

I shake my head, refusing to believe that this it. "Katniss Everdeen, I've loved you my whole life. I…." I pull my head back, to search her eyes. But they've rolled back. And she's not breathing. I hold my breath, wondering if I will follow her into the beyond. I don't want to hear what's coming.

The cannon fire is deafening as it turns into screams.

I don't know what wakes me, but my sheets are soaked with sweat. I am in my room, the fall breeze through the window cooling me to the point that I am shivering. It takes me a moment to sit up in bed, muscles frozen in terror. I wish that I had put my leg closer to the bed. I want to walk this off, to think about something other than the terrifying dream.

Was it a dream?

I can't shake the image of a bloody and dead Katniss from my mind.

A scream from across the street cuts through the silence. It's one I'm painfully familiar with, hearing them nightly. It makes me uneasy, but it calms me, too. Because I know she's not dead. We've both won the Games. We are home in District Twelve. It's almost like a game I play each night, reminding myself of the truth beneath the haze of sleep. I should not be comforted by her obvious distress. It bothers me as much as it should.

I want nothing more than to pull her into my arms, to protect her like I tried to do in the cave. I wish that things were different.

But they aren't.

I'm still in love with her.

And the feelings that were shared in the Games were a lie.

At least, to her they were.

The clock next to my bed ticks softly, each second reminding me that it's too early to be awake. But my heart is still racing, and even if I tried, I know I won't be able to go back to sleep. Pulling on an old shirt, I quickly slip my leg back on and pad barefoot across the hall, into the empty bedroom-turned-studio.

Portia spared no expense when she sent me painting supplies. Several easels are spread out across the room. I've installed a special cabinet for my paints, all arranged by type of paint, and within those groups by colors. I've spent hours playing with tiny amounts of color, mixing and adding more to see how the pigments blend. It's been fascinating— food color isn't exactly the same.

The activity seems wasteful, something I'm not used to. I keep the colors I've created in small pots, ready to use them should I find a need.

I've got canvas of all sizes stacked up throughout the room, most of them are blank. I'm too nervous to really explore what I can do. I fill sketch books instead, trusting the familiar feel of the charcoal pencil in my fingers.

I could draw, but tonight I'm restless for more.

I pull out a small canvas, setting it on an easel. I don't know what to paint. The dream haunts me. The way it could have happened run endlessly through my mind. I see Clove cutting her as creatively as she can, slicing off body parts as torture. I see Thresh beating her head in. I see Cato running a sword through her abdomen. I see her dying in hundreds of different ways, the worse by my own hand.

My hands work where my brain can't.

Before I know it, I'm painting the scene as it really happened. The cave comes to life and I find myself lost in the creation of colors. I refrain from showing it as I saw it from a fevered haze. Instead, I paint it was after the fact, once it broke. It's amazing, watching as it appears on canvas. The only light source comes from the opening, shadows dancing across the floor. There is very little contrast to the painting.

I'm not sure what I'm doing. And I have no idea where this is coming from, but suddenly, the scene is there. Both in my mind and on the canvas, the nightmare is debunked. She didn't die, even thought she was injured. Katniss is very much alive. The sun is beginning to rise and it's impossible to miss the loud slamming of the door across the street. I can't stop myself from moving to the window, to watch her stalk off into the woods.

I have found my solace, and it would seem like she has hers as well.

I turn back to the canvas, surprised as to how quickly I've brought this scene to life. And for my first painting, it's not bad. It's dark, but so was the cave. Katniss is bent over me, brushing my hair back as she leans in to kiss me. It's a moment that felt incredibly real, and it's one of the few moments that makes me wonder how much of it was an act.

Because it felt like she cared.

I don't want to focus on the painting. It did what it needed to— helped calm my mind after the nightmare. But now, it's just bringing into focus everything that's been plaguing my life since returning. What was real, what wasn't. A different distraction is what I need.

I fall into this pattern. My nightmares wake me violently and I paint the truth onto canvas. Some of the scenes are ones I've only ever seen on television. I paint Rue's burial, Katniss's lips parted in song. I paint the violent fight with Cato, the edges of the canvas shiny from the tracker jacker venom. Katniss finding me by the river. The feast in the cave. The berries in our hands. Rue taking flight though trees. The view of Katniss in the trees. This is the closest I've been to her in months.

We see each other in passing. And a few cordial words are spoken. But it's very little. She avoids me at all costs. And she's gone almost as quickly as she came.

Ren says I'm being a coward, that I need to just step up and speak with her. Rye thinks that I should let her go, but that's been his opinion our whole lives. But I can't form an opinion yet. I refuse to come to terms with things. So I paint, and hope that I'll find answers in the canvas and colors.

When I can't find them there, I search for them in the kitchen. I spend more time baking. I find ways to creatively add protein supplements to the breads I make, knowing that for a lot of people this could be the only meal they get in a day. I can't go into the Seam or the Hob, so Prim has become my accomplice. I make the bread, she delivers it to those in need. She sends it home with those who come looking for healing. And it helps to keep more people alive. Between the parcels sent by the Capitol and the bread I make, fewer kids are starving.

I'm doing my part to keep it together.

Baking and painting. Sleeping and nightmares. It's a cycle that is only broken by the occasional phone call from Portia or Effie. I spend hours on the phone talking with my stylist. We talk about my painting and the upcoming tour. Portia doesn't know as much on that as Effie does, but even my escort is keeping things hush-hush.

The trip gets closer, and the nightmares are more prevalent and vivid. My paintings take a far darker turn, focusing on the last hours of the Games. I paint the mutts with their bright eyes, and Katniss facing off with Cato. I paint Katniss, pounding on the doors of the hover craft, screaming out my name. I paint the facts, the things that I have to prove right after the lies of my nightmares.

I don't paint standing up anymore— the pressure on my stump is too much. But I can last longer on the appendage than before. The use of creams and pain relievers sent from Effie help with that.

The days until the tour mean less sleep for everyone in the Victor's Village.

Katniss disappears into the woods as early as she can. She hunts all hours of the day, not at all scared of the consequences of being out. Everything she kills goes to the Hob, to the Seam where it is needed most. Haymitch drinks to the point where I'm worried he will die of poisoning, and I can't say that I blame him anymore. It numbs him, in a way I wish I could find. And I bake to no real end.

Our ways might border on psychotic, but it's all we can do.

The day the tour is supposed to start begins early for us all, except Haymitch who was up all night drinking. I'm up an hour before Katniss, finalizing the paintings I'm going to be bringing with me. There are a few that aren't quite finished, but they are ones I'm saving for her, when she's ready to be friends again. Ones painted from my perspective, from childhood to now. My personal favorite (of the ones that don't involve Katniss) is one of Prim, covered in flour, rolling out dough for cinnamon rolls. The view is so close, you can count the freckles that dust her nose with the flour that's stuck in her lashes. Her hand is in motion, ready to toss a handful of flour at the person looking back at her. Even though her eyes are blue, they've got hints of the Seam gray in them, and I've made sure that you can see where she comes from. A giggle bubbles from her lips and I'm sure that if the room is silent enough, you can hear the bells of her laughter.

Prim's youthfulness was easy to paint into the canvas, and I can't say I'm surprised with how much I love the painting. My time spent with the youngest Everdeen breaks up the monotony of the days. And I feel like I can at least pass on knowledge that will help her, keep her alive. It's not hunting, something Katniss would no doubt refuse to teach Prim (and something I'm sure she could never do). But it's just as life giving. It brings me calm, if only once a week. We make cookies and breads, rolls and pastries. And when she tells me about her own talent with drawing, I show her how to decorate. She doesn't like to show anyone her work, so I usually end up keeping the sweets she's frosted. But, like everything else, it seems her talents are endless.

I'm not looking forward to leaving and by the way Katniss has left her house, she isn't either. Because for the next few weeks, we are going to have to bring back the 'romance' that saved our lives in the Arena. It's the last thing either of us want to do, but we have no choice.

I won't be able to focus on anything complicated this morning, so I stick to a simple white bread recipe that I can make in my sleep. It's what we usually sell out of first. The bread is a staple in the District, so dozens of loaves are made each day. And if any is left over, it goes towards bread pudding or other desserts where you won't notice the different. It's a bread I rarely ate as a child. More often, we were left with the rye bread, or the dense raisin bread that few people had a taste for. Making this almost pulls me back to the day of the Reaping, which started off the very same way. But now, I have the luxury of playing with recipes. I add some honey and sugar to sweeten it, simply because I think it will taste good. It's in the process of rising on the windowsill when a loud knock on the door breaks the silence

Not thinking twice, I move to the front door. So engrossed in my cooking, I forgot for a moment that people were going to come to my house and I throw the door open without a care. The people stare at me, and I back at them. They are obviously from the Capitol, even if they are dressed far more simply than I would expect. The woman in front smiles at me, and I can't help the flush in my cheeks, embarrassed by how I must look. I wipe my hands nervously on the white apron, stepping back to invite them in. They have cameras, and I am sure they are hear to film for the Tour.

"Peeta? My name is Cressida. My crew and I are here to do some filming?" The woman looks to be in her late twenties, but I've learned that you can't trust looks with the Capitol's ability to alter bodies. Her hand shoots out to take mine, a flash of green vines peaking out from the slim blue leather jacket she wears. I can see it crawling up her neck, spiraling across her bald head. She is pretty, the lack of hair not at all off-putting. I give her a smile and invite them into the house.

I've never had company before, at least, not like this. My mother came over once, asked me if I was still in love 'with that Everdeen girl' and then left when the answer wasn't what she wanted to hear. My father stops by when my mother is out, but he never stays for long. This is the first time that it's not family. The house isn't as bad as it was before I stopped taking the medication, but it's not as nice as I would like it to look.

My face is flushed as I invite them into the kitchen.

Luckily, Cressida is friendly. She's full of questions, most having to do with how she plans on filming me. I serve them fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee, mostly listening as the chatter while I clean. I answer their questions, keeping my responses short. I'm not quite in the mood for them yet. When she suggests that I go upstairs to get ready while they set up the initial shots, I have no problem leaving these strangers in my house to do what they need to.

My prep team will be here soon, so I don't bother with shaving. A quick shower is all I need right now. She won't be filming me, just my paintings with me speaking off to the side. I'll just talk about them as we go. Effie made a few cue cards for me to use, but I know I won't need them.

I pull on a simple blue long sleeved shirt and soft tan corduroys. I had the sense to put my bread in the oven before I showered, the timer buzzing loudly focusing me back on my task at hand. The loaves, set on top of the oven, will need to cool before they can be given out.

In the short time I've been gone, they've pulled all of the painting I didn't have covered out into the light. And arranged them in chronological order, from the beginning of the Games to the end. Because those are the only ones I'm willing to share with the public— the ones they already saw. I spend the next 45 minutes initially ready from little cards Effie must have written. But Cressida pulled them out of my hands almost immediately so that I can freely talk about them.

Her questions are pointed, getting down to the root of the painting. But she respects my feelings and allows for some open ended speaking as well. As uncomfortable as I am about this, she has made it as easy as possible.

There isn't much more for me to do, and I've got to make sure that Haymitch is up and fed before the prep teams arrive. Cressida sends me on my way while she and her crew load up the paintings, filming the whole process.

Two loaves of bread wrapped in parchment paper for my mentor— might be a different loaf each time, but it's always in twos. If he's going to drink, then I can at least make sure he's got food to help soak it up.

I pull on my soft leather coat, knowing it will be enough for the brief trek across the way to his house. The door is already open and I can hear voices coming from inside. It must be Katniss— the only other person who cares about Haymitch besides me.

"— you should have asked Peeta." She says, her voice having the usual bite she saves only for Haymitch.

"Asked me what?" I approach the two, my eyes placed firmly on a very soaked Haymitch. I'm not ready to look at her, not yet. In a few hours, I'll have to be the loving man I long to be with her. And in return, she will be the adoring girl she needs to be. But not the one I want her to be. And I know I'm not the one she wants either. I steel myself for the look I know is coming. The look of hate, of anger. But this time, there is something else in her eyes, and it's something I can't say that I can place. I don't look at her for long, spotting the knife in Haymitch's hand. I put my hand out for it, which he readily gives.

"Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia."

I can't help but smile softly at him, grabbing the partial bottle of white liquor to dose the knife with. It will clean off anything that might ruin the bread. I wipe it clean and cut through the bread. It's still warm. I give the dense, crusty heel to Haymitch. And I finally look up at her, I finally meet her eyes.

"Would you like a piece?" It felt thick in my throat, having to swallow once more to really get the sensation of bitterness down.

"No, I ate at the Hob, but thank you." It's the first words she's spoken to me in weeks. I wish I could say more than the stiff 'you're welcome', but that's all that I have. There is more that I want to say. More than I should say. But I don't. I can't. I'm still angry, and my mind knows it.

Haymitch has managed to pull off the top layer of his wet outfit before he speaks again. "Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime." I take a seat at his table, my head hanging in dread. I don't say anything because I know I don't need to. He's the mentor and he's right— we can't be like this once the cameras are here.

Katniss says something, I don't hear what, and uses the open window as he exit. I can't help but laugh a little bitterly, "Any advice?" I ask him, running a hand through my hair before looking at him. Honestly, I have no clue on where to start, on what to do. On how not to take this whole thing personal.

He takes another bite of bread. "Listen kid, you can't keep blaming her for everything. It's not her fault— it's theirs." He waves aimlessly around the room, not pointing out one thing or another. I know what he means— it's the Capitol's fault. "Find a way. Do what you have to do. But loving that girl comes naturally for you, and lord only knows why. I don't think it has anything to do with her sparkling personality. Quit fighting it while the cameras are around." He grabs the half eaten loaf of bread and vanishes into his house, probably to clean up.

I cut up the remaining loaf, buttering a few pieces for Haymitch before I leave, putting it next to a cup of coffee.

He's right.

If Katniss is good at anything, it's surviving. And somehow, she knew what Haymitch wanted. And she played the Game. If things had been different, I wouldn't have even been home. There would have been no rule change. I would have died from blood poisoning and Katniss would have gone home the Victor. She saved me because….

Why did she?

I ask myself that question the moment I walk into the kitchen of my house. I barely have time to think about it before I'm bombarded by my prep team. Their talkativeness leaves the thought on the back burner. It would be rude to ignore them, so I join the conversation with vigor.

But in the back of my mind, it nags me.

Why did she?