It's weird, being confined to separate quarters than Peeta. You would think that we would be given a shared room, what with us being married at all. But apparently not. Perhaps the higher ups that are aware that the marriage between Peeta and I is simply a ruse think we deserve our space. I silently curse them for making me roam the halls to find him, though I suppose I do need the exercise.

When Peeta doesn't show up for breakfast, I decide to find him. Haymitch, with his ever helpful suggestions, tells me I ought to give the boy space if he wants it. I tell Haymitch he can mind his own business and worry about his own affairs. Wandering the halls, looking for Peeta, I'm reminded of the other times we've been in the training center. I'm surprised, actually, that Paylor even authorized the use of the training center to house guests of the Capitol. I had rather hoped the whole building would have been burned to the ground by now.

But alas, here we are. Or here I am. I still haven't found him. He isn't in the room they gave him while we trained for our Games. I find him further down the hallway, about as far from my own room as possible. And when I open the door and find him, I wish I hadn't.

I should have known something was off when he didn't show up for breakfast. Actually, my first clue should have been the fact that I'd gone to sleep pulled protectively against his chest but had woken up alone. My first thought this morning should have been to go looking for him when he wasn't in bed next to me. When he didn't show up for breakfast, I should have switched to full panic mode. But as annoyed as I was with Haymitch's comments, I'd taken them to heart.

Now I wish desperately I hadn't. Peeta's sitting in the corner of the room hunched over. His white shirt blends into the stark white walls, and his beige pants fuses into the brownish shag carpet. His head is bent over in his slouch. I can't tell what he's doing but I know it's nothing good.

For a split second, I think about leaving before he realizes I'm here. I know he doesn't want me to see him like this; he wouldn't want anyone seeing him curled up in a ball in the corner of the room. But my breath catches as I see him. Something tells me it's even worse than it looks. I can't help but approach.

"Peeta?" I ask, unsure, as I move slowly across the room towards him. He's partly obscured by the furniture that stands between him and myself, but I can tell he doesn't look up. He doesn't even move, except to rock back and forth.

As I get closer, I hear the muttering. I can't make out what he's saying, and I can't tell if it's even coherent. As soon as the jumbled words hit my ears, I'm crossing the rest of the room as fast as I can. Reaching his side, I drop to my knees. "Peeta," I say again, trying and failing to mask the concern in my voice. It trembles as I stutter on the two syllables.

When I look down, my heart plummets. Somehow he managed to find a piece of coarse rope somewhere in the building. It's wrapped around his wrists in a figure eight in a crude set of makeshift cuffs. The sight alone is enough to make me want to vomit, but he's also turning his wrists and pulling them apart slightly, putting tension in the rope which in turns rubs against his wrists.

His wrists. Stars above, his wrists. They are so raw, so chaffed, all I can see is red. Blood trickles from one of them, slightly staining the rope. He doesn't even notice.

"My name is Peeta Mellark," he mumbles, his forehead bent to rest on his knuckles. His whole body continues to sway back and forth, unable to sit still. "I'm a tribute from District Twelve."

I know what he's doing. Of course I know what he's doing. I can hardly forget the nights he spent cuffed to a pipe, afraid of what he might do while we slept. I can't forget the way he begged for me to leave the cuffs on because the metal digging into his skin helped his mind stay present in the moment.

But I thought we'd gotten past the worst of it. I never expected for us to be back here again. My hands tremble violently as I reach out to him, my heart shattering in a million pieces at the sight. I croak, "Peeta."

His head lifts from his hands. His eyes are unfocused. Even as I settle my hands over his, stilling their movements to prevent any further damage, they won't stop shaking. "Peeta." I can't think of anything else to say to break him from the spell. My voice quivers as it is over just his name.

"My name is Peeta Mellark," he repeats.

I nod in agreement, my fingers moving to try to untangle the rope and release his hands. It takes forever, my fingers unable to cooperate well with the tremors. "Yes," I tell him, though even I am slightly unsure. "Peeta. Peeta Mellark. You are a baker. You are a painter. You are my best friend. Your favorite color is orange, like the sunset."

His eyes focus a little as I rattle off random things about him. Finally the rope slides from his wrists. He makes no effort to move, and I have to work it around his clenched fists. I know the gashes need to be cleaned so they don't get infected, but I'm too terrified to leave him here alone. Unsupervised, I'm afraid he'll snatch the rope up and pick up right where he left off.

"Come back to me," I ask. It works, usually, but I haven't seen him this far gone in ages. I really, truly thought we'd gotten past this part. Then I remember where we are, and I curse myself. He's surrounded by the place from where most of our nightmares originate. He's back in the Capitol, where he was tortured with the tracker jacker venom. Of course he's going to be worse here. Everything is amplified and made worse by his surroundings. I figured, after he did so well in the rehabilitation center, that it was going to be smooth sailing. But the rehab center didn't hold triggers, for either of us. This place is familiar. It haunts us both.

I think of how I reacted to the roses and choke on a sob. Selfish. I always come back to this adjective because it's what I am. No matter how hard I try, I can't escape it. I never once stopped to think about the memories Peeta was going to have to endure.

His hands slowly pull apart. I lock my thumb around his, my fingers curling around his hand. Slowly, his fingers do the same. He's starting to react to his surroundings again. "Ask me something," I suggest, though it's more like a plea.

"We've been in this building before," he says slowly, the words dragging off his tongue like syrup. "Real or not real?"

"Real," I tell him, glad he's picking up the game. It shows progress just that he's willing to try, that he's come far enough out of the daze to know what to do.

"We've slept in the room you're in together before this trip. Real or not real?"

"Real."

He looks at me. Truly looks at me, his eyes seeing me and not just glazed over as he stares into the darkness within him.

"I hate being here."

It feels like there are many levels to what he says. I can relate with more than one. Squeezing his hand tighter, I nod. "I know. But we'll get through this. As a team, you and I."

He nods back.

"Are you okay?" With my free hand, I reach up to swipe his loose blond locks from his face. His forehead is warm to my touch. I know he's not okay. It's obvious he's not okay. But I need to hear the lie before I can leave long enough to get a healing sap to put on his wrists.

His face tilts into my hand as he lets out a breath. Our joined hands are trembling slightly. I can't tell if it's him or me. "I'll be alright. I know you need to go get ready for today. I'm sure we're already behind in Effie's schedule."

I laugh aloud at the mere thought. "The last thing on my mind right now is the stupid festivities. Effie's going to have to drag me down there kicking and screaming as it is. But you're alright? For the moment?"

Another nod in response.

Slowly, I unravel my hand from his. I try not to look at his wrists as I dash out of the room, catching the first attendant I can find and making my request. She gives me a funny look, but doesn't say a word. Sometimes, I wonder if people see the real me, through the facade that the people with power still like to spin. Does this girl look at me and see the half crazed, half wild person that I am? Or will I forever be just the Mockingjay?

I follow her down the hallway, practically grabbing the supplies out of her hands as she pulls them from the cabinet. With a hurried thank you, I return to Peeta's room. Terrified that he'll be crumbled up in a fetal ball again, I'm surprised and grateful to find he's moved to sit in the armchair.

I know he's expecting a lecture of some kind, but he won't get one from me. I don't say a word as I pull up a chair next to him, placing the bottles she handed me on the end table nearby. His eyes study me as I work, doing the best I can to clean and cover the scrapes. I think of my mother, and it leads to thoughts of Prim. I push them all away. I have to be the one to hold it together this time around. I can't lean on Peeta when Peeta can't stand himself.

Tightening my jaw, I focus all my energy on the task at hand. I don't have their touch or their skill. Yet what I lack there I'll make up for with determination. I will stay by Peeta's side while we're in this insufferable place. I won't let him slip again. I'm keep him rooted here in the present where he belongs.

I refuse to let Snow and the Capitol keep on hurting him. He's suffered more than enough. I promise myself these things, and more, as I slowly massage the healing sap into his battered skin.