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The restraints are still there. They weren't initially but, if you listen to the way they tell it, I brought this on myself. But the lights are on now, which is an improvement over the place I've left. People come and go a lot. There's not the chance to be left with myself, with my own confusion, to lead myself into the circles to which I had almost grown accustomed. I don't know any of the doctors; they're all from District Thirteen. But they're being honest. They tell me I'm not allowed to see anyone I know because I can't be trusted.
Here I can tell the passage of time. Everything seems to happen on a schedule. There is a strict lights out policy, and they are out for a solid eight hours before flickering on again all together. The patterns of routine are a relief. They are something solid and stable.
The more I embrace the routines, the more I begin to realise that they are the only stable thing about me. My mind wanders. There are moments when I think I am having nightmares, but I find I am wide awake.
"The trackerjacker venom was administered in an abnormally high dose. It's going to take a long time to flush it through your system."
They tell me about herbs they're giving me to boost my kidneys and liver, the ways they are trying to make my body more effective at mending itself. They do not often mention the thing that seems to almost scare them.
When I first arrived here, I tried to kill Katniss. I didn't manage it. But I'm pretty sure I'll get another opportunity to finish her off.
Mutt. Stinking, lying, vicious mutt.
Within a few days, my body is healed. I am gaining strength. They say my mind is still unstable, but I manage to keep the thread of reality better than any time I can remember. So they start to tell me things that are harder to understand. That the Capitol abducted me and have been torturing me; that they have altered the way my mind works; that they have changed my memories. This is where it all gets very confusing.
These people have been utterly honest, to the point of bluntness. I have no reason to disbelieve them (Except for their insistence that Katniss is anything other than a murdering, backstabbing, venomous mutt) so I believe what they are telling me. In a purely rational light, it makes sense.
The problem is that in my head … it is almost like there are two people. There is the one that the doctors like, who nods and understands everything they're saying. They have given me tests, logic tests, to make sure that particular functions are still working. I can pass every one of them. Spatial awareness, logic, colour coding, all mutts are animals but not all animals are mutts. That kind of thing. And I can do it, I make them very happy when I can do all this and I can repeat back everything that has happened since my arrival here.
But then there is the other part of me. It is the part that imagines, remembers, creates. Sometimes they ask me to remember something that happened before the Capitol abducted me, and it is so fuzzy there is almost nothing there. In other cases, the memories are cruelly visceral. The doctors ask me to tell them about the reaping. I tell them quickly how Katniss chose me from the crowd, so she would have the pleasure of killing me herself. There was a lot of frowning that day. Some memories are more complicated. There will be two images, one laid over the other, so I don't know which is real and I just start getting very angry – at myself, at the Capitol, but usually at Katniss for the all-consuming reason that everything is her fault.
Every day we complete an exercise. They tell me to think about Katniss, any memory at all. I'm not to tell them what I'm remembering. Instead, they want to know how I physically feel.
At first when we play this game, it makes me so wretchedly furious that I cannot even form words. I scream and rave, flashes of her blood-soaked fangs rushing through my head, her clawed hands ripping at my body, her almost-human eyes glinting in the dark as she watches me sleeping, controlling my nightmares. Slowly, though. Slowly, I am able to grunt an adjective, or a body part. I can tell them my heart is racing. I can tell them I want to be sick. I can tell them there is a tight ball in my throat, like when I want to cry but can't. And one day, when I am able to say all these things and many more, the doctor who is taking the exercise says, "And what do all these reactions mean, Peeta? When do you feel like this? When have you felt like this, without Katniss?"
Because Katniss' name has been mentioned, and I am already remembering her trying to kill me one night on the Victory Tour, it takes me some time to straighten out their question in my head. I think back over what I am experiencing: shortness of breath, pounding heart, sweating, nausea, adrenaline rush, need to cry, compunction to scream. What do these feelings mean?
There is a flash of memory from when I was very young. My brothers were laughing, they were carrying me easily despite my struggles, carrying me towards the roaring furnace of the oven. I wanted to scream and run, but I couldn't because I was too-
"I'm frightened," I gasp out, as though this realisation has taken a great deal of effort. The pathetic thing is, it really has. But now I've said it, it seems so obvious.
"And do you remember being taught about trackerjackers? You must have been told about them. Before the Hunger Games? Or perhaps in school?"
I nod slowly.
"What did you learn about trackerjackers?" It pains me that the doctor is speaking as though to a small boy. I wonder how pathetic I look in my hyper-frightened state.
"They make you hallucinate. Like a nightmare. But it's always about the things you fear."
"Very good, Peeta. Very good. So do you know why you are afraid?"
It takes almost all of my self-control not to scream that it is because Katniss is here, probably just outside the room, and at any moment she could come back and begin a fresh slow torture. But with a mental agility that used to come easily, I choose to take the rational train of thought. The words come slowly, but they do come. "Because the trackerjacker venom that was in my blood stream. They used it to make me afraid. All of the time."
The doctor frowns slightly. "But you aren't afraid all of the time. When we talk about when you arrived here, or the history of Panem, or about your treatments. You're fine then, aren't you? What is it that we do in these sessions, that makes you feel so afraid?"
I know the answer they want me to give. There is something very strong holding onto that word, refusing to admit that my imagination and memory could be in the wrong. It is only a strong desire to ever be allowed out of this room again that gives me the courage to grind out her name, "Katniss." Dirty mutt, I add in my head, as consolation to myself.
That's definitely a look of triumph. Doctor is smiling. I have been a good patient today.
As I am served my dinner, the continuing treatment is explained to me. They're quite open about it, which is a pleasant surprise. It doesn't occur to me until later that this in itself is probably a test, to see whether my mind can take the idea of getting better.
"The important thing is to set goals," they tell me. "We have goals, which are probably different to yours. We would like for you to not be unnecessarily afraid any more. We would like for you to be in a stable enough state that we don't need to restrain you, to be able to continue the things you used to enjoy. And eventually see some of the people you used to know."
They don't say it, but I know they're thinking about Katniss. That's never going to happen. I will never, ever sit calmly in a room with her. I will try to kill her, every chance I get, because it is one of my few certainties that she would do exactly the same to me.
"Peeta? Do you have any goals?"
"I'd like to paint again," I say before even realising it. But the moment the words are released into the room, I realise it's true. I would like to paint again.
Doctors smile. "That's good. That's definitely an achievable goal. So we'll work on that."
After twelve more days (they give me a calendar once they realise how much I like to be able to track the time passing) I'm allowed to spend supervised time without my restraints. This means that as long as there are two doctors present I can exercise or draw with crayons or play cards. I take up the offer to draw sometimes, but the crayons aren't as intuitive as my paints. I can't get the colours to blend right, and end up getting frustrated. But after being tied down in one place for so long, it's refreshing just to be able to stand to talk to the doctors; to be able to walk around the room and look at things, ask questions about my surroundings. It is a new kind of mental freedom, one that I had not properly realised was lost.
With my crayons, I write my goals, and what I must do to achieve them:
To paint again, with proper paints – must demonstrate enough restraint to be safe with appliances that could be used as weapons (On target for trial in four days)
To bake – Need to be able to go into public spaces like the kitchen without risk of causing myself of anyone else harm (Not close to ready yet, re-assess next week)
To leave the compound, maybe start training – Prove through social interaction that I am reliable in an open space without constant surveillance (Long-term goal)
To sort through my family's things – Need to be secure enough in my memories that I am not likely to be triggered by things I see that might remind me of K and might make me lash out (Long-term goal).
This list is peppered with my new vocabulary. Trigger. Social interaction. They are words that have developed new meanings as I come to understand – or to try to understand – what has happened to my mind.
Three days after this, I am back in the restraints. The doctors want to try something, and they don't know how I'll react. They don't have to force me into the familiar straps. My rational mind understands that they are necessary in case I am 'triggered' – I see something that brings up one of the memories or thoughts that frightens me, and my fear reaction causes me to become dangerous to myself or those around me. It helps, sometimes, if I repeat things in my head the way the doctors say them. It makes them more concrete and more reliable, if I know that the words are not necessarily being created by my unstable brain.
"Delly is going to come and see you. From District Twelve. Do you remember her?"
Flashes of a bright, sunny girl. Always thinks the best of everyone. Smiling and laughing. I prod around the memories gently, but nothing jumps out to bite me. So I nod slowly. "Yes, I remember. That would be nice." They look relieved.
Their relief doesn't last long. There are approximately three minutes in which I am trying my best to be Normal Peeta. I don't even properly remember how Normal Peeta behaves, but I do my best. After these three minutes, I devolve back into a screaming wreck, straining at the restraints, while Delly flees from the room.
I know all this, because I am shown a tape of it. And I know I am getting better when I feel ashamed of how I must have made that poor girl feel.
"Do you know what went wrong, Peeta?" I am asked.
"Katniss," I snarl. Obviously it's her fault.
"Delly didn't mention Katniss. She was specifically instructed not to. You pushed her in Katniss' direction. Can you see that you did that?"
They are asking the logic questions, the ones to make sure that the rational part of me is in charge and I'm capable of following a sequence of events without my imagination taking over. I grind my teeth, fighting down irritation. They're trying to help me. I have to let them. "Yes," I say, without snarling.
"Why do you think you did that, Peeta?"
I can't answer this question. It's too difficult. Answering it would mean thinking about Katniss, and I do not want to give the thoughts that terrify me an opportunity to surface.
But I'm not allowed to escape the question. They ask me every day, until I am so fed up of it I have a stab at an answer. "She's really important in my head!" I blurt out.
The doctors look stunned for a moment, possibly because I've actually given an answer after days of trying fruitlessly to wring one from me. "Go on," on says softly. The others are poised with pens over pads.
"In my head, everything always comes back to her. It's like a loop. Whatever I try to think of, she's always there at the end of it. If my train of thought as a really long corridor with lots of doors, she's behind every single one. I can't get away from her. She's stuck in there!"
When they play this video back, I sound miserable and petulant. None of them say it to me directly, but there are mutters and whispers. They say it is because I loved her. And it's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.