"When he's ready, he'll come to you." That's what my wife said.
It's like I've been torn in half. The dominant part of me, the slightly anxious and "wait for trouble to come to you" side agrees with her words. Wholeheartedly. If I were in that position, my inevitable death announced to the country, the ominous few months sure to be my last, I'd definitely prefer to be alone. Worse, it's not only him who's suffering. Katniss, the girl he's loved for so long, who he would do anything for, has been marked with a target, too. In an arena of Capitol favourites and seasoned fighters, only one victor can come out. I wouldn't want anyone to try and "understand" how that would feel.
But there's another voice, the fatherly, parental one that hasn't really been doing it's job, that tells me she's wrong. If he only has a few months to live, why live them in darkness? Shouldn't he be spending as much time as possible with family, with Katniss? After all, someone wise once said we should live each day like it's our last. Thus, a constant, internal battle rages inside my brain making the days fold together into one long, unmeaningful debate.
It's almost miraculously that the sun continues to rise in the mornings and set in the evenings - sometimes I wonder whether the earth won't just leave us all in darkness, swallow us up like the insignificant beings we are. One day passes. Then two. Then five. Peeta doesn't come to the bakery, nor does he show up for dinner. It's like he's disappeared of the face of the planet.
Whenever I bring up the possibility that he needs me, my wife is adamant that I leave him alone. "The boy needs time to let it all set in!" she keeps telling me. "Just the sight of you may be enough to make him do something crazy. You'll make it worse."
But I'm a father. It's my job to take care of my son. Comfort, support - isn't that my responsibility? Instead, I'm far away, removed, while my son suffers through the death sentence alone. No, it's not happening anymore. I can't wait any longer for him to come around. For all we know, he could have died of shock when the Quell was announced. There's a difference between space and abandonment.
One afternoon, when I'm sure my wife will be in the market for at least a few hours, I temporarily close the bakery and start down the path towards the Victor's Village. I may regret this, but I can't stand it anymore. I can't go another day pretending everything is fine.
The place is oddly quiet, but I knock on Peeta's door anyway. As I suspected, there's no answer. I stand there on the steps for a while, my feet shifting, unsure whether to leave or to wait. The internal voices become vocal again, each expressing their opinions, but never coming up with a solution. Fed up with my brains lack of authority, my fingers reach out and twist the doorknob. It gives a little groan, then turns in my hand. It's unlocked.
A horrible feeling of guilt begins to form and my face feels hot as I creep into the house. I just need to make sure he's okay.
"Peeta?" I force myself to call out. No response. "Peeta?"
Just to be sure, I check all the rooms until I'm forced to accept that my son's not home. But if he's not here in the house, then where else could he be? I've been watching for him in town for the past week, but he's never made an appearance. It's like a childhood game of hide and seek. I was a much better hider than seeker.
Frustrated, I hang my coat on the hook and sit down in a chair. If Peeta doesn't come home in ten minutes, I'll leave. The bakery can't be closed for much longer anyway. But ten minutes pass too quickly and I'm still sitting in the eery quiet. If I'm honest, it's a whole twenty minutes before my son comes home. Peeta's face is red and he's sweating profusely. His shirt is in his hand, which he seems to be using to as a towel.
"Wh- how -" he splutters when he sees me.
At the sight of his face, I realize just how much I've been shoving down. Anguish and despair come bubbling up the surface. It's worse this time around. Much worse. I know full well what he's stepping into. He knows what he's stepping into. A horrible feeling of misery crawls out and threatens to smother me. "I'm sorry, Peeta" I blurt out, my voice coming out more tormented than I'd meant it to. "I'm so, so sorry that -"
"Dad, it's fine," he says gently, cutting me off, pushing back his sweaty curls.
"Where - where've you been?" I ask. What I really want to ask is how he's been, but something advises me against it.
"Training," he mutters, busying himself with a cup with water, filling it and taking a long drink. Probably so he doesn't have to talk.
"Training for what?"
Peeta sets the cup down on the counter with a bit of a bang. "We're going to be like Careers," he says. Only the keenest of ears could detect the bitter grief hidden within the words. "We train every morning and watch old tapes of the Games at night. Two of us are coming home from the Capitol."
"A mentor… and a victor?" I know the answer as soon as the question forms.
"I don't want to talk about it," my son says quietly.
"Haymitch and Katniss. That's who you want -"
"Dad?" his voice constricts, becoming choked with emotion. "I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now. I'm going to be fine, but I - I need to figure out what I need to do. Please? Just let me do that?"
A deep emptiness. That's what I feel. I shouldn't have come. I made things worse, just like my wife warned. I stand and move towards the doorway, cursing myself for listening to the other voice. What good has it ever done me? Why does it always take me until right after to look back and see how stupid I was?
Peeta doesn't move from his spot by the counter. He's still clutching his shirt in his hand, knuckles white. I can see him shaking a little, his bare chest reflecting the afternoon sunlight. "She's going to come back," he whispers. His voice is void of anger now. There's just a hollow emptiness that comes with betrayal and heartache.
Pausing in the doorframe, I dare to inch a little closer. Peeta is staring at nothing, just fixated on a point in space.
"She's going to come home or we're both going to die because I'm not coming back here without her. I can't live in this house and look across the street every day, knowing that she used to be there. I can't. I just -" he breaks off, swallowing hard.
In that moment, I feel so hopeless. There's nothing that I can do or say to stop this pain. Nothing to lessen the hurt or to make everything go away. It just has to run its excruciating course. My presence seems to have dissolved the barrier Peeta's put up because he's crumbling before my eyes. He sinks into the chair I previously occupied and puts his head in his hands. Should I comfort him? Does he just want me to stand here?
"Do you want me to leave?" I ask. My son doesn't answer, but I think his shoulders shrug a little. Not really the answer I was looking for. I'll do anything he needs me to do. Go. Stay. Listen. But since he's specified no preference, I choose the safest one. "Alright, then I'll just… go."
"Dad?" His voice is muffled by his hands.
"Yeah?"
"I don't want you to think that this is like last time. I'm not coming home. I will die in that arena. You won't see me again. Yes, one victor has the chance to come out but I won't be me. I won't come home without Katniss. Just… don't go thinking there's any other possibility. I will be dead in a few months. Get that in your head now."
"No," I tell him. "I figured as much. I - I knew as soon as the Quell was announced." The same way I know that Peeta will be the tribute. Haymitch can't offer Katniss the same protection that my son is adamant about. He will enter that arena with her, holding onto his final hope, the final maniac wish that Katniss Everdeen is somehow spared.
"Good."
The whole way home, I try to picture the end. Which one of the victors will have my son's blood on their hands? Chances are I watched their Games. There's also another thought, one that I don't even want to admit to myself. I just can't shake the underlying suspicion that the Capitol won't let Katniss win these Games. No matter how insistent Peeta is on her survival, no matter how many times he puts her life over his, it may not be enough to bottle the hate the Capitol directs her way. Because Peeta wasn't the instigator. He didn't pull out the berries. I mean, sure he agreed to it, but Katniss started it. Why should he get roped into the punishment? For a dark, wild moment, I almost wish she'd died in that first arena.
And then I come to my senses, the smell of the bakery extracting those awful thoughts from my head as I walk through the door. Katniss has brought Peeta so much happiness, so much comfort. How can I sit here and blame her when I know less than half of what goes on between them? He wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for her. It's just not fair that things had to turn out this way.
.
.
As time goes on, the Quell turns from a hazy, jumbled nightmare into a reality. It's happening. In just a few month's time, our victors will be standing on the stage again at the reaping. That, perhaps, is the most terrifying resolution ever haunt the people of Twelve. To haunt me. It's worse than Capitol eyes staring at me from the corners, worse than finding out the romance from the first Games was an act.
Last time, we were the nobodies. The underdogs who rose to the top, defied the odds. We cheered our tributes on, knowing they had a chance of coming home. This time, there's no hiding the anger and shock the district feels at losing our victors who thought they had a happy ending. The low buzz of fury can be detected almost everywhere. But it'll fizzle out before long thanks to the security.
The day after the Quell announcement, another train load of Peacekeepers showed up in Twelve. I think there's a higher population of them than actual residents these days.
Peeta still doesn't come to the bakery very often, but I think it's more that he's so busy with his new regime than avoidance. I don't know, maybe it's a mixture of both. He and Katniss have both gained lots of weight and they look more muscular than I've ever seen children of Twelve. Whatever they're doing is working, at least physically. I don't know if it's possible to prepare mentally for the horrors to come. It seems that Peeta is putting all of his fight and pain into this new training plan, which is something I admire.
Much like I did when he first came home, I go to the Victors Village most days to bring him bread and small news from town. Mostly, it's just an excuse to check in on him. Peeta accepts my visits, but we don't discuss the Quell or even much of the training. There's a common divide when it comes to these Games. I don't try to bring it up and he doesn't mention it.
But one morning, I catch sight of a newspaper on the counter. Normally, I might not pick it up, but there's a headline that catches my eye.
QUARTER QUELL VICTOR OF THE VICTORS: POLLS OPEN
Upon closer inspection, this paper has a very Capitol look about it. Who else would be betting on the Quell? I scan the article
After the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games, people had begun to think there would never be another Games quite that exciting. But they were not ready for what our Gamemakers had in store for them. This Quarter Quell brings back everyone's favorite victors in a once-in-a-lifetime Games. People are frenziedly putting in their bets and the stakes have never been higher. Who will be the Victor of the Victors?
The stakes have never been higher? Are they talking about the betting or the tributes who are going to their sure death? This makes it sound like a television program, an easy entertainment with en extra long episode or something. Only in the twisted Capitol.
Beneath the words, a chart shows the favorites as far as the Capitol is concerned. Katniss is in the lead, followed by Peeta.
"I think Peeta will try to have Katniss win, especially because he's already disabled," says Lusie Belle. "His leg will definitely inhibit him. Peeta is my favorite victor - his devotion is simply heartbreaking!"
Cepheus Dollen disagrees. "I think Katniss will want Peeta to win. He's strong and it's between him and Finnick Odair, in my opinion."
On and on. Everyone seems to believe that either Katniss, Peeta, or a few assorted others will win this Quell. "Peeta?" I ask aloud, my eyes still on the paper.
My son's adding a few final strokes to a painting. This one depicts a night in the cave. There's no mistaking the dim, shadowy light and the two figures wrapped around each other.
"Where'd you get this?"
"Hm?" Peeta surfaces from the other world he goes into when he's painting. Whenever my son is particularly passionate about something, he gets this look in his eyes, blazing, fierce, and almost otherworldly now, his brush pauses in mid air as he lets the question compute. "Oh, the Mayor's daughter let Katniss and I borrow that."
I know who he's talking about, but I can't place the face. "The blonde one? Her name is…"
"Madge. I think she and Katniss are pretty close."
Madge, that's right. So she's the daughter of Maysilee's sister. It's strange to me how childhood friends can live so close and know so little about each other's lives. "You said Katniss and Madge are close?"
"Yeah, they spend a lot of time together." He turns back to his painting, sliding the brush easily along the canvas.
"I knew her mother," I say. I don't know why.
"You did?"
"Yeah. She was a Donner before she married the Mayor. Her parents owned the sweetshop. She had a twin sister, too. Maysilee."
Peeta seems to understand where I'm going with this story by my tone. "In which Games was she killed?"
"The last Quell."
"Oh. And that's supposed to help me because…"
"It's not," I shrug. "Just thought I'd be honest." Suddenly, Peeta puts down his brush and stares at the painting. Then, gently begins to smear the paint.
"What's wrong?"
"It's strange, he laughs. "I usually paint when I need help sorting out my thoughts... but I don't need to sort out anything anymore."
"What do you mean?" I'm startled by this sudden swing.
"I don't need to figure anything out. Don't you see? There's nothing I can do now but save Katniss. That's my new way of making this better."
Damn the Capitol. Damn the Quell. How can they sit there and bet? Do they not see what I do? I don't want Peeta to go. Beautiful, sweet, wonderful Peeta.
Heaven help us.