KATNISS

I've gotten used to being alone. So much so that I'm not sure how to be in the house with another person.

A whole day passes where Peeta and I exist in the same space, but we don't speak. He stays in the kitchen and I remain sequestered in the living room, on the couch that's slowly forming to the shape of my body. If it were any other day, I'd sleep through most of it and wake up only to roll over. But, because he's here, I don't feel comfortable enough to do that.

So, I stay awake. Instead of lying down, I sit up and stare into space while wearing a frown. I don't do much thinking because the racket that Peeta makes doesnt make it possible.

I hear the clanging of pots and pans being moved around, the stove being turned on, the sink running. There's more noise coming from my kitchen than there's ever been in the past, and it's irritating.

Sleep is my only escape, and now I can't even do that. All I can do is sit in one place and seethe over how Sae essentially sent me a babysitter. I don't need to be looked after. I was doing just fine with her stopping by every few days to bring me food. Clearly, I haven't been the picture of mental health, but does anyone expect that from me after what I was forced to do?

I close my eyes and listen to Peeta thunk around the kitchen. There's something strange about his gait, something imbalanced and unequal. I can't put my finger on it, but listening to the way he walks tells me that something about his feet - or maybe just one of them - has been altered.

I'm curious about it, but I won't ask. It's not my business. And I shouldn't care, anyway.

As the day fades into evening, I get up from the couch without telling my legs to do so. Suddenly, I'm just moving, headed towards the sound in the kitchen that restarted just a bit ago.

I stand at the edge of the room, hovering close to the wall. I stare at Peeta without blinking, watching as he places a frozen hunk of soup into a big pot on the stove to thaw it. It lands with a heavy sound that makes me jump, which is when he notices me.

We make eye contact and I expect him to greet me, but he doesn't. He doesn't nod or smile, either, he just turns the temperature up on the stove and turns around to set the empty container in the sink.

I let my eyes roam over the muscles of his back, his bulky shoulders, and the perfect curls in his hair. He's 17, like me, but his hair looks so innocent and boyish. It's golden, like cornsilk, and my fingers itch with the need to touch it.

I physically recoil at that thought. What is wrong with me? I must be delirious. I should eat whatever Peeta's warming up, because the thoughts inside my head are not my own. Food will help. I've learned that over the past couple weeks. Food always helps.

I take one step into the kitchen, one tiny step. He doesn't acknowledge me, which I appreciate, because it lets me move as slowly as I need on the way to the counter. I don't want to sit. If I stand, it provides an easier route for escape. Sitting is too comfortable, too relaxed. And, right now, I feel nothing close to relaxed.

Peeta continues to work, pulling out two bowls that will hold the soup, I assume, and two cups for water. If I were of any use, I'd fill them myself and set the table, but I don't move. It's like I'm rooted in place, only capable of observing as he takes over my kitchen and makes it his own.

I don't think he plans on speaking at all - that is, until he grabs a dish and pulls a cloth cover off of it, revealing a perfectly-formed lump of dough that had been set out to rise. That must be what he was doing all day.

He coats his work area with a fine dusting of flour, then does the same to his palms and fingers. As he does, I can't take my eyes off of his hands. They're quick and graceful, but not lithe like mine. His fingers are long, but they're not thin - instead they're thick, and his palms are wide. His hands look strong. As he rolls the dough out, it's clear that they are strong.

I don't know why I'm so fascinated. With the way I'm staring, it's like I've never seen a pair of working hands before.

"The key is to press it down evenly," he says.

I hadn't expected to hear his voice, so it makes me jump. My eyes leap from his hands up to his face, and my cheeks bloom red like I was caught doing something wrong. I blink and take a tiny step back, but all Peeta does is concentrate on his strategy.

"A rolling pin would help," he says. "But this way, the old-fashioned way, there's nothing wrong with that."

I move my right foot back to meet my left, inching away from him. My hands find each other and I wring my fingers, then nerves pile up in my gut. I hadn't planned on him speaking. I don't know how to react now that he's veering from the script in my head.

"Lots of people make the mistake of starting at the end," he murmurs, keeping his head low. "They don't know that you should start in the middle."

He lifts his eyes, his hands still working, and meets mine with an intensity that I have no idea how to handle. So, I do what's easiest. I turn my back, hunch my shoulders, and leave the room.

I'd much rather be alone on the couch.

…

That night, Peeta gets comfortable in the armchair when it's an acceptable time to go to sleep. I'm still on the couch - I ate dinner here, and he ate in the kitchen - and the pillows and blankets are warm from my body. I'm on my side, blinking slowly and watching his every move.

He's changing his socks because he stepped in water while cleaning up the kitchen. I listened as he admonished himself for it. I watch as he takes off one wet, gray sock to replace it with a dry one, but I'm taken aback when he moves to the other foot.

When he pulls the sock off there, there isn't skin underneath. Instead, it's something artificial, something I've never seen before. He adjusts his pant leg and I'm able to see that it's not just his foot, it's half of his leg, all the way up to right below the knee, it seems.

It's rude to study him like this, I know. But the room is dark and I don't think he can see me.

I watch as he gets comfortable on the chair and leans his head back, his arms resting at his sides. I don't close my eyes when he does; instead, I keep them open and make sure that he's the first to fall asleep. Even though he's supposed to be my guard, who's to say I can trust him?

I don't remember falling asleep, but it must happen because I'm transported violently back into the arena as soon as it does. With a pounding heart, I'm staring Gale in the face with my bow poised, the arrow drawn back, ready to shoot. But instead of how it actually happened, he's begging - pleading for me not to do it.

I don't want to kill him. I don't want to kill anyone , especially not Gale. But when I give my hands the mental command to lower the bow, they won't. They don't budge. Instead, my right hand pulls the arrow back tighter and I feel a sick sense of satisfaction rise in my gut, a sensation that cannot possibly belong to me.

The version of me in the dream, this version, she wants to kill. She's bloodthirsty and this was her plan all along. When that arrow flies, she'll absorb every second of what Gale looks like as he dies. She'll relish the feeling of his blood on her hands, she'll smear it all over her body and bathe in it. Not her first kill, but her very best.

I wake up before the arrow flies and get sick all over the floor. My whole body is shaking and I'm covered in a freezing sheen of sweat; I've never felt like this in my life.

I scramble up from the couch and wrap my arms around myself, stumbling to the kitchen to wash my mouth out. I spit into the sink until the foul taste is gone, then sink to the floor with my knees to my chest and curl myself into a tight ball.

I rock back and forth, tuck my head, and cry. The feeling of sick desire in the nightmare was so real - I truly wanted to kill him. And that's what everyone thinks, don't they? People in the Seam, those who valued Gale for helping them survive, they think that I'm a traitor because of what I did. In their eyes, eliminating him was one step closer to the finish line. They think I wanted to win.

But I never wanted to win. I wanted to come home to keep my sister alive, that's what I wanted. I didn't want to kill Gale. I didn't. I didn't.

But I did kill him, which makes me a monster. He has little brothers and a baby sister, not to mention a mother who loves him. Loved him. And I took that away - for what? So I could rot in my house in Victors' Village with no one but Peeta Mellark to keep me company?

I should've been the one to die. If the tables were turned and Gale sunk his knife into me, everyone would have understood. Maybe even celebrated.

When I hear footsteps enter the kitchen, those disjointed, uneven footsteps, I stand up hurriedly and swipe at my eyes. Peeta is standing there, looking confused with mussed clothes and tousled hair, but I shove past him before he gets the chance to speak to me.

I need to get outside. I need fresh air. That's how I always used to clear my head, and the disgusting feeling of the nightmare won't leave unless I escape this house. But as soon as I grip the doorknob, Peeta's hand is on my shoulder.

Up until this point, he hasn't touched me at all, so I don't know what to expect. It's doubtful I would have expected this, how the place where his hand meets my skin burns and crackles, like he's sewn embers right into his palm. For that reason, I jerk my shoulder to jolt him off. "Don't touch me," I say, doing a bad job at hiding the fact that I'm still crying.

"You can't go out there," he says.

"Yes, I can," I say, shoving my feet into a pair of boots by the door. As soon as they're on, I realize that they're not mine - they're his. They're much too big for me and I'm sure they look ridiculous, but I don't care.

"Katniss, it's not safe," he says. His voice has the same pleading quality that Gale's face had just moments ago in my nightmare. That fact alone makes me whip the door open and push him away forcefully, more forcefully than I intended. He stumbles backwards and I'm not sure if he falls or not, because I don't look back as I head out the door, down the porch steps, and into the night.

I look back only when I'm a good distance away. He's not following me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, sinking down to the earth to wrap my arms around my shins. I press my forehead to my knees and knock it against the bone, trying to find a way to bring myself back to reality. It doesn't work, not really.

What makes me pick up my head is the sound of Peeta approaching. With a wet, tear-stained face, I glance over my shoulder expecting to see him coming my way, looking forlorn and maybe even bruised. I was too rough.

But no one is there.

No one is there, but I hear movement all the same. Human movement, coming from the brush. Twigs cracking, leaves rustling, and if I listen especially closely, the sound of quick and shallow breathing.

I stand up to my full height, adrenaline pumping through my system. The old me would've yelled something, would've rampaged into the darkness to fight whatever is stalking me. But the new me, the one who lies on the couch all day and cries over dreams, bolts home.

Peeta is descending the front steps when I get there, and he seems surprised that I came back on my own. "Are you o-" he begins, but I sprint by him too quickly to hear the rest.

I storm inside and collapse on the couch, not bothering to take off Peeta's boots as I pull the blanket over my head and try to stop shaking. I don't sleep for the rest of the night. I'm not sure I'll ever sleep again.

…

For the next week, I take to dozing in short bursts during the day instead of at night. Peeta has noticed my strange sleeping pattern and tries to keep me awake during daylight hours, but it doesn't often work. I don't close my eyes for long, anyway. I just close them frequently.

Today, he's trying to keep me up after lunch with a story about Prim. I can't keep the details straight because I keep fading in and out, but I'm trying.

"She hugged me after I gave it to her," he says. I can't be sure what 'it' is. I must have dozed off for that part, and I don't want to ask him to repeat himself. "It surprised me so much. I can't remember the last time someone hugged me."

That strikes me. Living with my sister, who is especially affectionate, I was hugged quite often. To imagine Peeta not being hugged makes my chest twist with something sharp. Why wouldn't anyone hug him?

Once again, though, I keep quiet. That isn't my business.

"And she liked the drawing, so I was happy about that," he continues. "I didn't get a chance to paint it, but she didn't seem to mind the charcoal."

A drawing. That's what he gave her. I scratch my head and remember how Prim used to admire the cakes and pastries in the bakery window - apparently, she has an eye for art.

"You draw?" I ask. My eyes feel gritty when I blink them. I want to sleep so badly. "And paint?"

I keep my gaze on Peeta, but he stares down at his thighs. "I do, yeah," he says quietly.

"What did you draw for her?" I say. I hear how badly my voice slurs. The sentence is barely intelligible.

I don't even know if Peeta answers me. I fall asleep before I hear him say a word in response.

…

Two nights later, I'm fighting to stay awake on the couch while Peeta dozes on the armchair. He noticed I wasn't sleeping and tried to stay up with me - he is supposed to be my guard, after all - but he drifted off about an hour ago.

He's a fitful sleeper, I've noticed. His good foot twitches almost constantly, and his fingers are never still. So far, I've seen him throw his head back and forth quite a few times, and he's been murmuring words under his breath that I can't make out. Whatever he's saying doesn't sound pleasant, though.

Whenever he makes a sound, I lift my head and watch him for a long moment, only lying down when he quiets again. After I relax against the cushions this time, I fold my hands over my ribcage and blink slowly at the ceiling, wondering if it would be such a bad thing if I fell asleep.

Maybe the nightmare wouldn't come back.

As soon as I think that, I don't believe it. I know it will. I can still taste the bitter flavor of it on my tongue from the last time, and I don't want the feeling back that it gave me. I don't want to hear Gale pleading for his life or see his gray eyes fill with tears as I take pleasure in harming him.

I widen my eyes and force myself into alertness, feeling more like a guard than Peeta at the moment. I lie there for a while, thinking about everything and nothing at all, when a loud bang startles me.

The sound wakes Peeta instantly - he obviously hadn't been deeply asleep. He flies to his feet and hurries to the door, but before he can open it, another loud bang cracks through the inky darkness.

"What is that?" I ask. I don't move from the couch. I know I should, this is my home and I should defend it, but I'm frozen in place.

I guess I am a coward, after all, just like everyone thinks.

Another bang. Then two in succession - bang, bang ! I jump and shrink into myself - something is hitting the side of the house. So hard, it sounds like the wood could splinter.

"Peeta, what is that?" I call, but I don't think he hears me.

He's already out the door, having not bothered with shoes. I get up now, fighting the urge to hide because it doesn't feel right to let him handle whatever's out there all alone.

"Get away from there!" I hear him shout. It's so dark that I can only see the faded ivory of his shirt and his flaxen hair in the moonlight. "Go on! Get the hell out of here!"

I glance to my right and see huge circles of dark liquid dripping down the sides of the house. I touch it with one tentative finger and, when I bring it close to my face, I realize that it's mud. They were throwing balls of mud at my house.

Now, giant rings of filth join the blood-red graffiti. If this house was ever pristine, it's the furthest thing from it now - which, I suppose, was the goal.

As Peeta continues to shout into the darkness, I hear laughter paired with his voice. It's not coming from him, but it does belong to males - I can tell that much. It's not kind laughter, either. Hearing the sardonic, almost sadistic, tone of it makes my insides boil with rage - and not because I'm angry that they're laughing at me.

I don't care if people laugh at me, but I have a feeling I'm not the one they're taunting.

"You're a real big threat, Goldilocks," someone says. The voice isn't close, but not all that far away either. "What are you gonna do? Beat us with your peg leg?"

My face flames red, but Peeta goes completely still. I don't have any idea what's going on in his head, but all that's in mine is blind rage.

"Show yourselves," I say, and every muscle in my body is engaged. I'm ready to fight now.

I guess this instinct isn't something that just goes away.

"No, Katniss," Peeta says, taking my wrist. "Don't. They're not worth it."

As his fingers close around me, my skin lights up like it had when he touched my shoulder. The feeling, this electric feeling, makes my breath hitch in my throat, but I don't pull away this time.

"Goldilocks," a different voice says. "The little baker boy with his mangy slut of a girlfriend protecting him."

"Thought you were the bodyguard, Goldilocks," the first voice says. "You're just as useless here as you are back home, I guess."

"Come on," Peeta says. Instead of gripping my wrist, he instead takes my hand - and not loosely. He entwines his fingers with mine and holds tight, squeezing my palm like it's the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

I squeeze back. I've never seen him like this. Not like I've spent all that much time with him, but I didn't know he was capable of such icy anger. Anger is my territory. Peeta is complacent, steady, the unanxious presence in the room.

But right now, he's breathing so heavily that I can hear his forceful inhales and exhales once we make it into the house. The vandals did what they came to do; I have no doubt that they're already on their way back to town, or to the Seam, or wherever they came from. We don't have to worry about them before, if we ever did.

They came to scare us, that's all. But now that they're gone, Peeta's fury lingers - over what, I'm not sure. Over the fact that they were here at all? Over what they said? I washed the words right out of my mind as soon as I heard them. They meant nothing and they weren't true. But Peeta is still so clearly ruminating on them; I can see anguish written all over his face.

He drops my hand and my skin feels cold when he does. I grip the fabric of my shirt and bunch it up in my fist, hoping to mirror the feeling of his fingers woven through mine, but it doesn't work. I let the fabric fall and look to see if he caught me doing that, but he's already on his way up the stairs.

"Peeta," I say, lifting one foot to rest it on the bottom step. "Peeta?"

He doesn't answer, he continues to climb until he reaches the top, then he turns the corner sharply and disappears from view. I go after him slowly, unsure if he wants to be followed, then hear the door to the main bathroom slam shut.

I can't resist trailing him. I don't know why I'm so curious, so invested in what he's feeling, but going back downstairs and leaving him alone would feel wrong.

I press my ear to the door and hear a strange sound, a repetitive sluicing, slipping sound that I can't place. After that comes an odd, mechanical buzzing that I've never heard in my life.

Who cares what he's doing? I shouldn't care. Not at all.

Yet, here I stand. I can't move away from the door.

When the buzzing finally stops, an eerie silence washes over the house. It's so quiet that I can hear my heart beating, and when the door comes open, it catches me off guard and I jump back.

Before I can get a good look at him, Peeta pushes past me and hurries down the steps. I peer into the bathroom with no idea what to expect, and I frown at the detritus lying all over the floor. I can't be sure what it is until I turn the light on, then I see.

Peeta's curls are littering the floor, cut haphazardly, lying there like they were killed.

"Oh," I say. It's not a voluntary sound.

I kneel down and pick up a perfect ringlet, running it between my thumb and first finger. It's so soft - as soft as I imagined it would be. It's like babies' hair.

And he sheared it off, all of it. There's so much lying here, so many curls.

I do my best to gather them with my hands, then set them on the counter. It doesn't feel right to throw them away, so I don't. I leave them there, wash my hands, then follow the path that Peeta took downstairs.

I find him in the armchair, his usual spot. His spine is ramrod straight, and his hands are capped over the ends of the armrests. He's so still that I'm not even sure he's breathing.

I walk to the couch quietly, without making a single sound. The floor doesn't even creak. I sit down without trying to hide that I'm staring at him and his new, shaven look.

It makes him harder, more angular. His jaw is defined, his cheekbones pronounced. There's nothing gentle about him anymore, the removal of his hair removed his soft looks, too. Without his floppy curls falling over his forehead, those cornsilk curls, I see the ghosts in his eyes for the first time.

And I hate it.