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Run run run run run. Don’t look back; just run. I tear through the trees with my knife in hand, desperately trying to find safety. Behind me, I hear the mutts charging through the forest, eyes locked on their next victim—me.
The mutts—large, dog-like creatures—chase me deeper and deeper into the arena, and I know I will reach the edge soon. I spot a sizable tree up ahead and realize my only hope of survival is climbing this tree. It’s a long-shot since I weigh close to 160 pounds, but I have to try.
As I start climbing, I see the mutts about 45 yards away. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, but it’s not enough to get me up the tree. Every time I grab a branch, it just breaks and falls to the ground. They are only 20 yards away now, and I’ve climbed less than 15 feet. Within seconds the mutts are at the base of the tree, jumping and nipping at my feet.
One of them grabs my foot and yanks me out of the tree, and I hit the ground with a loud thud that knocks the air right out of my lungs. The mutts start swarming me and biting me, covering me with my own blood. I try to fight back, but my small hunting knife is useless against these beasts. Again and again the monstrous creatures tear flesh from my body, and after what seems like years of agony, a mutt with black fur and grey eyes takes the death bite.
I come to, paralyzed with fear. I tell myself that it’s not real, that it was just a nightmare, and after a few minutes my heart rate goes back to normal. Rolling over to see what time it is, I discover that it is only 2:30AM. I lay back down, hoping to get some sleep, but I am certain that tonight will be another restless night. Ever since I survived the Hunger Games, my dreams have been full of mutts and dead tributes, and I rarely get a full night of sleep.
I hope that the nightmares will grow less awful with time, but they probably won’t. Haymitch’s haven’t. He still sleeps with the lights on and a knife clutched in his fist.
No wonder Haymitch drinks so much. Being sedated by alcohol is the only way he is able to sleep through the night. I imagine that his nightmares are extra horrible since his Games was the second Quarter Quell, which had twice the normal amount of tributes and took place in an exceptionally lethal arena. But then again, I don’t think that it really matters that his was a Quarter Quell. Every victor’s dreams are horrific no matter what Games they were in.
My mind wanders to Katniss and I wonder if her nightmares are as bad as mine. I wouldn’t know though because we haven’t spoken since we returned to District 12. She wanted to forget. All the kisses and all the nights in the cave weren’t real. It was all an act on her part. But for me it wasn’t an act, and I was stupid to think even for a second that she loved me. And even after all the pain that she has caused me, I still miss her. I miss her kisses and her hand softly caressing my cheek. I miss feeling her curled up against me, her head on my chest. Losing her has always been my worst nightmare, and now that we never do so much as glance in the others direction, it seems that I living my worst nightmare.
For a while, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling and thinking about anything and everything. It’s probably 3:30 when I hear my front door open and close with a soft click. I freeze, not even daring to let out a breath in fear that whoever is in my house will hear me. It’s like I’m back in the arena.
I start to panic, heading to the worst case scenario. Someone is in my house and they are here to kill me, I think. President Snow has sent someone to kill me because he didn’t like our stunt with the berries. Desperately, I search for something to defend myself with but find nothing.
I have all but given up when my bedroom door slowly opens. I am prepared to fight, but when the intruder steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight streaming in from the window, I find that it is not an assassin from the Capitol. It is Katniss. Silently I curse myself for panicking, but I blame it on my time in the arena.
She stands with her arms crossed, wearing her pajamas. Her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are stained with tears. Immediately I understand why she was crying. “Bad dream?” I ask.
She nods her head and lets out a weak, “Yeah.” For her to come here in the middle of the night it must have been a really bad one. Seeing her like this makes my heart break into a million pieces.
“I get them too,” I say, trying to let her know that she is not alone. “Do you want to talk about it?” She just shakes her head. I understand why she wouldn’t want to tell me about it, though. Some things are just too horrible to say out loud.
Katniss lingers for a moment then asks, “Peeta, can I stay?”
This is what I was dreading and hoping for at the same time. I want to hold her in my arms and tell her that everything is okay. But I also know that letting her into my bed will only cause me pain. In the morning she will just leave and act as if this never happened and go right back to ignoring me. I let her stay though.
She nestles into my side and lays her head on my chest. I throw my arm around her and softly stroke her back with my thumb. Having her in my arms again feels so impossibly good, but I have to keep reminding myself that this means nothing to Katniss. After her breathing evens, I plant a kiss on top of her head and drift to sleep.
The next morning, I wake before Katniss, but I don’t dare move. I want her to sleep as long as she pleases since she had a rough night. As I watch her sleep, I begin to think about how I acted on the train that brought us home. I was heartbroken and mad, so I distanced myself from Katniss to lessen the pain. I acted like a baby. I shouldn't have held her to anything she said in the Games. She was just trying to save us and I owe her an apology. Maybe we can even be friends. I decide to tell her all this when she wakes up.
After a while she begins to stir. Her eyes flutter open. The corners of her lips turn up into a faint smile, but it quickly fades as she seems to realize where she is.
“I should go,” she says. And with that she gets up and heads out of the room and down the stairs. I don’t bother going after her. Just as the front door closes, I walk over to my bedroom window and watch her walk back across the Victor’s Village to her home, leaving me with a thousand words left unspoken.