Work Text:
Winter
The house reeks of roses. That evil odor of wretched flowers I have had too much off, in snow covered lawns, a glass shed dusted with ice, an artificial bloom of engineered perfection that pleased the white snake. I can envision the malicious turn of a poisoned mouth.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, needing to veer my train of thought. Nothing else seems to have changed; with the rosewood furniture, marbled floor and golden chandeliers elegant as ever. A victor's residence seemed more elitist and capitolite than it had ever been. The absence of entropy, built a vacuum, crushing and unbearable.
The kitchen used to be in constant commotion; worried questions, assuaging replies, hurried footsteps, kind voices, gentle laughs. Perplexing sentiments amalgamating, and two people at the forefront.
One of them, gone.
I remember when she sat right next to me, with two braids tied with pink ribbons.
"Pay attention!" She chides, "Katniss, if you don't even listen to the instructor then how will you get better?"
"Hmm….Sorry little duck. Your bird looks really pretty and so do you." I say with a wide smile.
I wasn't sure how she made that, the paper folding techniques taught couldn't foster this sort of artistry, she grabbed all of the basics like a pro in just the 20 minutes she sat with us and already started making figures of animated objects and now she's trying to teach me how it's done. Alas! Her efforts are fruitless, in spite of her constant encouragement I've been sitting here confused, unsure and utterly incompetent.
I think about how I am unable to create, how I’ve only ever destroyed. I crumble my paper in frustration, the instructor (notably not a good one) flinches visibly, he's been clumsy and nervous all along, what's with him? I knit my eyebrows.
Prim starts assuring him about my temper. Temper!?
"Hey! I don't have a temper."
Prim flaps her hand with a sheepish grin, "Let it go Katniss, the pots we gave to bake just dried do you want to see?"
Not really but Prim said they'd look better after they're heated. I just hope they turn out decent and this talent hunt ends. After all pottery could be a valid hidden talent, I like vases, cups and plates. Breaking them is more fun.
GLOOM.
Pottery done by my hand is poop. It's just poop. Even Prim is not trying to add conciliatory words. This mission has been doomed from the start. Doesn't matter, when have I cared anyway.
My sister's pottery on the other hand is very nice, elegant even. Simple cups and bowls fashioned out of clay with tenderness, Peeta could paint these and then they'd be selling for at least 5 squirrels at the hob.
I beam with pride thinking about how talented my sister is - embroidery, pottery, flower arrangement, other skills ending with -tion, too complicated for me to even catch the name. Still, she's so amazing my duck. ^^
Anyway I have to show a talent and do not want to participate in this superficial exhibit. I'll call Cinna.
"Katniss!?", a voice chills my bones, stirring me, it becomes louder in my head, I can't do anything.
I could not.
I can not.
I don't even who the voice belonged.
I jerk my head around in an attempt to find the source of the sound. On the ceiling, behind the curtains, outside the window, under the center table; she's nowhere. My eyes return to the couch.The smell of burning flesh fills the room, something like forgetting squirrel on the stove. A swelly smoke of blood and splatter of organ and bone, a head with globes of eyes ruptured, a dazzling azure blue now crimson, an abhorrent mass of charred skin and rotten muscle wrapped around a skull, grimy braided hair short black.
I avert my eyes, stop breathing, bidding my lungs to quit taking in air, even so, I fail, like an animal breathing its last breath. I am unable to express the agony, unable to make a sound.
Silence.
Deadly, malevolent, malicious, ends with a venomous laugh.
Bursting through the stiff air in the room.
"A shame Miss. Everdeen, truly what a waste," gleeful.
Waste? What waste? My sister's life that brought light to so many others, wasted. No he's not talking about her, it's me. My life's wasteful, I am incompetent ugly destructive trash, I-I volunteered, I volunteered for Prim, for PRIMROSE. My tumultuous existence is a waste.
There is no fight left in me. An unyielding mountain of regret and sorrow crushes my chest. The enemy, the one person I obsessed over killing, lives in my memory cackling. Extricating pleasure in the suffering he orchestrated.
idn't killing you mean I could live and breathe properly? Didn't that serve as the drive to the sacrifice of so many, so many!
Why won't you DIE!?
—-----------
Spring
Burning it, that's it, the only way of exorcising the wretched ghost out of the house, I'll wash myself and clean this house.
The sight of delicately planted primrose bushes makes me long for the woods.
—------
I see him in passing, we greet each other like strangers. I want to spend more time with him, he appears gentle like before but distant. The book proceeds at its own pace, washing us with waves of losses, silence is all there is then. However, he cracks a smile and sometimes it has a funny effect on my stomach.
—----------
Autumn
I haven't slept well in ages, with Peeta back every time he walks in the door I want to wrap myself in his embrace and sleep. It hasn't worked out.
On this starlit night I march towards his house with clear intent, the cool autumn breeze, and the noise of crisp leaves under my feet soothe me. Three houses, about 45 yards, that's how far he is.
Soft light emanates from an open window, I am giddy and nervous.
After a few moments of contemplation at the front door let myself in, we exchanged keys ages ago, Prim did.
"What's going on?"
Prim and Peeta start, Prim looks up at me with wide eyes. The jittery movement of her hands, colludes an attempt to conceal papers.
"Hey you! Weren't you going to the woods, how come you're back this early." Prim chimes awkwardly.
Weird. What the hell?
"Katniss hi!" Peeta smiles "Prim wanted to learn how to draw, so I am tutoring her. Hope you don't mind."
Why would I? Oh yeah, because we haven't talked in months and I miss you. Okay.
He proceeds to lazily run his pencil over a blank sheet of paper. Sitting leisurely with his chin propped up on his palm. Giving me only a sideways glance.
Anyone looking in this space would think that this is Peeta's house, with an attitude this indignant, I feel like throwing him out.
I look over at Prim, but seemingly, she wants me out.
"Okay," I said shortly.
A few days after that meeting, Prim gifted me a cupcake with a gorgeous arrowhead flower, and a strange savory bread, an enigmatic amalgamation of cheese and wheat. Absolutely delicious. That's what they used to do back then, exchanging: keys, cookies, cheese, and cheese buns.
Loud uneven footsteps rumble upstairs, my heartbeat quickens, I look around, finding a hiding spot within a flash, I hold my breath as Peeta moves around drowsily. What an idiot, I can't just barge in like this in the middle of the fucking night! When only goodwill earned by me, has been not sprinting when I see him.
My ears focus on the erratic sound of his steps.
This pace, it's unusual for him, it seems like he's drunk or drugged? Peeta's remediation might be sleeping pills. After all, he overworks himself, always has.
I hold my breath, the kitchen light turns on with a thud, shelves shift open then close, water runs briskly, the footsteps recede upstairs.
Peeta forgot to turn off the light. Meh.
I stand up with irritated by the numbness in my legs. Waiting for my blood flow to normalize and for the ants to stop crawling. That's when my eyes land on something I should not have seen.
I can not unsee.
My legs stumble into a room. A room dripping with crimson rain, canvases drenched with horrendous bloodlust and harrowing gore, communicating indelible agony, inexpressible torment, spine-chilling scenes multiple times worse than my nightmares.
At the center of it all a scrawny sinister figure looming eerily. A small creature, with grey eyes.
I fall down with a thud, unable to control my trembling body, muffling my mouth to contain a hysterical scream.
I run with a shivering body, as fast as I could far from this room, this house, and its owner, who sees me as such.
Somehow I reach a similar house and trip onto the floor. The trembling intensifies, my heart erupts with pain. Tears wet my face, and sound finally escapes.
He used to have nightmares about losing me. My presence would calm down the worries, and would bring sanity back then.
And now?
I am the nightmare.
Sobs turned into heaves which became unhinged bawling.
After a while a disgusting laugh echoes in the hallway."Dear Miss. Everdeen you have lost Peeta too it seems."
"YOU RAT FUCK! SHUT THE FUCK UP, I KILLED YOU, STAY DEAD. DIE! GO BACK TO HELL! FUCK OFF! BURN IN HELL! GO TO HELL! YOU CAPITOL TRASH!"
I pick up a vase within my reach and hurl it at him.
"??" Snow
"YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT. HOW THE FUCK WOULD A TEENAGE ROMANCE CONTAIN A REBELLION? INCOMPETENT ASSHOLE! FUCK OFF!"
I move towards the kitchen and grab knives, and throw, and when knives run out I find plates, cups, forks, spoons, anything; shouting out the worst profanities I am capable of till my throat aches coarse and painful, till all the energy in me is drained, as I collapse with a thud.
—----------------
A forgotten sense of tranquility welcomes me to a new day. One that I associate with a peaceful night of sleep. The sweet scent of cinnamon and dill flavor the air, embracing me in its warmth.
A sharp sting from my palm breaks me out of the enigma, bandages wrapped delicately around my hand confuse me. So does the drooling blondie asleep on the floor.
"??"
Still what astonishes me more is Peeta's even though he's sleeping heavily and somewhat clumsily, on the floor. He looks so pristine and lovely. The soft glow of the rising sun kisses his pale skin sharing its radiance.
My heart starts beating faster.
The hell he has a stream of saliva slipping from the corner of his mouth. Trickling just around his lips. My mouth puckers out of instinct.
"Peeta," I coe while wiping drool with the sleeve of my shirt.
"Peeta," the name rolls out from my tongue with such ease, it surprises me as to how little I use it.
Peeta's flutter open eyes and looks at me in a daze for a few seconds. His deep blue irises shimmering.
"Katniss," he says as he jolts up, and grabs my wrist, the motion hasty yet gentle.
"How is your hand?" His voice is hoarse from sleep, blinking out the drowsiness from his eyes.
"What happened to my hand?"
Peeta stares at me for a bit, then my palm.
Calloused fingers glide down my arm to my wrist, my palm where they're met with gauze, he cups my hand as his thumb slides over the edges of the bandage.
He's so cautious as if I am porcelain, fragile.
“I’ll be fine, I’ve handled worse.” I say tersely, flipping my hand, my eyes focus on the mosaic of burnt skin, its implications.
“You haven't answered my second question.”I grumble.
Peeta blinks at me with disbelief, "Last night, You shattered a hell lot of objects, my whole kitchen apparently."
Last night? I feel a bit embarrassed but then memories rush like a storm and-
Ouch, but you shattered my heart! Nopes I mean "So-" why the hell do you have those paintings of me? "-rry?”
"That's the shittiest apology I've ever received," Peeta snickers. I look at him for a bit then, a silly boy sitting on his bedroom floor looking up at me, I feel taller, it's strange, I wanna bolt now, I’ll try to forget yesterday, an apology is all I can offer after all.
I walk past him, all of my strength sucked in by black and red cavases, I can't face him, I’ll leave and he won't stop me. I know, he hates me, there's nothing to resolve, he's here for…
I pause at the doorway, unable to turn my head.
I inhale "What do you think of me?"
Peeta huffs. "What do you want me to think of you?" He says indignant but cautious.
"The girl in the paintings?"
"You."
Something snaps inside me, I'll run, that's all there is now.
"Katniss, wait! Let me talk." he says with a shaking voice, reaching for me
I want to look him in the eyes and ask him if I could ever make him like me again but fear engulfs me entirely. This, us, it was never meant to happen anyway.
His index finger lifts my head gently "That painting isn't about you. It's about an identity that had been ceaselessly drilled into my head, one that tangled illusion and reality. I needed that person to be real,
to erase the monster they made in my memory."
"The monster they made of me."
Painting has always been a therapy for him, to paint nightmares is natural to him ever since the arena.
I don't look back, just nod to convey understanding and leave.
__
Winter
I push the surreptitiously carved cranky wooden door open. Treading lightly over the softly carpeted floors until the delicious scent of freshly baked bread tickles my nose. I close my eyes to savor the scent better and smile. This feels good.
My gaze wanders in search of the skillful boy who bakes, and they land on a concerning sight. The sink had a bowl filled with batter thrashed into it, thick gooey batter splattered all around. A total. What a mess!
Clearly he was angry. Did he have a flashback? Was he lying when he said he was okay?
My search becomes frantic, my body automatically moving forward then back, opening one door then another.
"Peeta! Peeta," I shout, unable to mask the sense of panic increasing with each passing moment.
I pause, inhaling sharply to gather my thoughts.
First of all he didn't hurt himself, secondly calm down, thirdly it's just a stupid bowl of batter, maybe it was bitter, he might have just been dissatisfied with it. But why'd he throw it like that, it's so unlike him. Wasting food material.
I'm broken out of this reverie when I catch sight of Peeta's frame settled stiffly on the backyard's porsche.
I open the back door gently, stepping forward as if to charge, to reprimand him, but stop perplexed. Maybe I should ask him what was what first and calmly explain myself instead.
Even so as I begin to ask the first of my array of questions, Peeta sniffles.
"I'm sorry Katniss,"
Sorry?
Wait, is he breaking up with me?
Wait, we didn't even start our first date!
Wait, it was a first date only in my head how could he have known.
"I tried to make cheese buns, they just never taste right!" He shakes his head in frustration and then lowers it into his palm.
"You were right, I-I am not the same as before, I-I can never be. I'm too broken," his voice trembles now, and my heart lurches. Peeta has always suffered silently. Torn, burnt, tortured. How can he expect to remain the same after all that? Isn't it impossible to remain oneself in the twisted whirlwind of pain and agony he was pushed into. To lose oneself and -CHANGE.
"I don't want them to change me"
"How will they change you?"
These words pierce through the maelstrom of perplexities and ponderance. I fall to my knees, wrap my scrawny arms around his slim waist and crush his back into my chest with haste.
"I don't care, Peeta. What matters is you not–" I gesture towards the kitchen, towards his scars, even his leg.
I wanna tell him he doesn't have to be perfect, unbroken or his best self for me, he just has to be there, and I want to be there too, to wipe his tears, brush his hair, he doesn't have to be not broken, he just has to let me care.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand as a small sob escapes through his throat.
I grab his hands desperately, but then decide to delicately align our palms in a fluid motion. Intertwining our fingers is natural, as easy as necessary as breathing.
I stare at our hands with my chin resting on the curve of Peeta’s neck.
The hands that flowered me with infinite love, and the hands that sought to strangle me to death, they're both his. The person who remains so good, so kind, so gentle, could be cruel, could be cold, could be a weapon. There was never a moment when I was not horrified by the thought of him seeing me as the person I truly a
Winter
The house reeks of roses. That evil odor of wretched flowers I have had too much off, in snow covered lawns, a glass shed dusted with ice, an artificial bloom of engineered perfection that pleased the white snake. I can envision the malicious turn of a poisoned mouth.
I close my eyes and inhale deeply, needing to veer my train of thought. Nothing else seems to have changed; with the rosewood furniture, marbled floor and golden chandeliers elegant as ever. A victor's residence seemed more elitist and capitolite than it had ever been. The absence of entropy, built a vacuum, absence unbearable. The kitchen used to be in constant commotion; worried questions, assuaging replies, hurried footsteps, kind voices, gentle laughs. Perplexing sentiments amalgamating, and two people at the forefront.
One of them, gone.
I remember when she sat right next to me, with two braids tied with pink ribbons.
"Pay attention!" She chides, "Katniss, if you don't even listen to the instructor then how will you get better?"
"Hmm….Sorry little duck. Your bird looks really pretty and so do you." I say with a wide smile.
I wasn't sure how she made that, the paper folding techniques taught couldn't foster this sort of artistry, she grabbed all of the basics like a pro in just the 20 minutes she sat with us and already started making figures of animated objects and now she's trying to teach me how it's done. Alas! Her efforts are fruitless, in spite of her constant encouragement I've been sitting here confused, unsure and utterly incompetent. Useless, I think about how I am unable to create, how I’ve only ever destroyed.
I crumble my paper in frustration, the instructor (notably not a good one) flinches visibly, he's been clumsy and nervous all along, what's with him? I knit my eyebrows.
Prim starts assuring him about my temper. Temper!?
"Hey! I don't have a temper."
Prim flaps her hand with a sheepish grin, "Let it go Katniss, the pots we gave to bake just dried do you want to see?"
Not really but Prim said they'd look better after they're heated. I just hope they turn out decent and this talent hunt ends. After all pottery could be a valid hidden talent, I like vases, cups and plates. Breaking them is more fun.
GLOOM.
Pottery done by my hand is poop. It's just
poop. Even Prim is not trying to add conciliatory words. This mission has been doomed from the start. Doesn't matter, when have I cared anyway.
My sister's pottery on the other hand is very nice, elegant even. Simple cups and bowls fashioned out of clay with tenderness, Peeta could paint these and then they'd be selling for at least 5 squirrels at the hob.
I beam with pride thinking about how talented my sister is - embroidery, pottery, flower arrangement, other skills ending with -tion, too complicated for me to even catch the name. Still, she's so amazing my duck. ^^
However I have to show a talent and do not want to participate in this superficial exhibit. I'll call Cinna.
"Katniss!?", a voice chills my bones, stirring me, it becomes louder in my head, I can't do anything.
I could not.
I can not.
I jerk my head around in an attempt to find the source of the sound. On the ceiling, behind the curtains, outside the window, under the center table; she's nowhere. My eyes return to the couch.The smell of burning flesh fills the room, something like forgetting squirrel on the stove. A swelly smoke of blood and splatter of organ and bone, a head with globes of eyes ruptured, a dazzling azure blue now crimson, an abhorrent mass of charred skin and rotten muscle wrapped around a skull, grimy blond hair dyed black.
I avert my eyes, stop breathing, bidding my lungs to quit taking in air, even so, I fail, like an animal breathing its last breath. I am unable to express the agony, unable to make a sound.
Silence.
Deadly, malevolent, malicious, ends with a venomous laugh.
Bursting through the stiff air in the room.
"A shame Miss. Everdeen, truly what a waste," gleeful.
Waste? What waste? My sister's life that brought light to so many others, wasted. No he's not talking about her, it's me. My life's wasteful, I am incompetent ugly destructive trash, I-I volunteered, I volunteered for Prim, for PRIMROSE. My tumultuous existence is a waste.
There is no fight left in me. An unyielding mountain of regret and sorrow crushes my chest. The enemy, the one person I obsessed over killing, lives in my memory cackling. Extricating pleasure in the suffering he orchestrated.
Didn't killing you mean I could live and breathe properly? Didn't that serve as the drive to the sacrifice of so many, so many!
Why won't you DIE!?
—-----------
Spring
Burning it, that's it, the only way of exorcising the wretched ghost out of the house, I'll wash myself and clean this house.
The sight of delicately planted primrose bushes makes me long for the woods.
—------
I see him in passing, we greet each other like strangers. I want to spend more time with him, he appears gentle like before but distant. The book proceeds at its own pace, washing us with waves of losses, silence is all there is then. However, he cracks a smile and sometimes it has a funny effect on my stomach.
—----------
Autumn
I haven't slept well in ages, with Peeta back every time he walks in the door I want to wrap myself in his embrace and sleep. It hasn't worked out.
On this starlit night I march towards his house with clear intent, the cool autumn breeze, and the noise of crisp leaves under my feet soothe me. Three houses, about 45 yards, that's how far he is.
Soft light emanates from an open window, I am giddy and nervous.
After a few moments of contemplation at the front door let myself in, we exchanged keys ages ago, Prim did.
"What's going on?"
Prim and Peeta start, Prim looks up at me with wide eyes. The jittery movement of her hands, colludes an attempt to conceal papers.
"Hey you! Weren't you going to the woods, how come you're back this early." Prim chimes awkwardly.
Weird. What the hell?
"Katniss hi!" Peeta smiles "Prim wanted to learn how to draw, so I am tutoring her. Hope you don't mind."
Why would I? Oh yeah, because we haven't talked in months and I miss you. Okay.
He proceeds to lazily run his pencil over a blank sheet of paper. Sitting leisurely with his chin propped up on his palm. Giving me only a sideways glance.
Anyone looking in this space would think that this is Peeta's house, with an attitude this indignant, I feel like throwing him out.
I look over at Prim, but seemingly, she wants me out.
"Okay," I said shortly.
A few days after that meeting, Prim gifted me a cupcake with a gorgeous arrowhead flower, and a strange savory bread, an enigmatic amalgamation of cheese and wheat. Absolutely delicious. That's what they used to do back then, exchanging: keys, cookies, cheese, and cheese buns.
Loud uneven footsteps rumble upstairs, my heartbeat quickens, I look around, finding a hiding spot within a flash, I hold my breath as Peeta moves around drowsily. What an idiot, I can't just barge in like this in the middle of the fucking night! When only goodwill earned by me, has been not sprinting when I see him.
My ears focus on the erratic sound of his steps.
This pace, it's unusual for him, it seems like he's drunk or drugged? Peeta's remediation might be sleeping pills. After all, he overworks himself, always has.
I hold my breath, the kitchen light turns on with a thud, shelves shift open then close, water runs briskly, the footsteps recede upstairs.
Peeta forgot to turn off the light. Meh.
I stand up with a numb leg.Waiting for my blood flow to normalize and for the ants to stop crawling. That's when my eyes land on something I should not have seen.
I can not unsee.
My legs stumble into a room. A room dripping with crimson rain, canvases drenched with horrendous bloodlust and harrowing gore, communicating indelible agony, inexpressible torment, spine-chilling scenes multiple times worse than my nightmares.
At the center of it all a scrawny sinister figure looming eerily. A small creature, with grey eyes.
I fall down with a thud, unable to control my trembling body, muffling my mouth to contain a hysterical scream.
I ran with a shivering body, as fast as I could far from this room, this house, and its owner, who sees me as such.
Somehow I reach a similar house and trip onto the floor. The trembling intensifies, my heart erupts with pain. Tears wet my face, and sound finally escapes.
He used to have nightmares about losing me. My presence would calm down the worries, and would bring sanity back then.
And now?
I am the nightmare.
Sobs turned into heaves which became unhinged bawling.
After a while a disgusting laugh echoes in the hallway.
"Dear Miss. Everdeen you have lost Peeta too it seems."
"YOU RAT FUCK! SHUT THE FUCK UP, I KILLED YOU, STAY DEAD. DIE! GO BACK TO HELL! FUCK OFF! BURN IN HELL! GO TO HELL! YOU CAPITOL TRASH!"
I pick up a vase within my reach and hurl it at him.
"??" Snow
"YOU STUPID PIECE OF SHIT. HOW THE FUCK WOULD A TEENAGE ROMANCE CONTAIN A REBELLION? INCOMPETENT ASSHOLE! FUCK OFF!"
I move towards the kitchen and grab knives, and throw, and when knives run out I find plates, cups, forks, spoons, anything; shouting out the worst profanities I am capable of till my throat aches coarse and painful, till all the energy in me is drained, as I collapse with a thud.
—----------------
A forgotten sense of tranquility welcomes me to a new day. One that I associate with a peaceful night of sleep. The sweet scent of cinnamon and dill flavor the air, embracing me in its warmth.
A sharp sting from my palm breaks me out of the enigma, bandages wrapped delicately around my hand confuse me. So does the drooling blondie asleep on the floor.
"??"
Still what astonishes me more is Peeta's even though he's sleeping heavily and somewhat clumsily, on the floor. He looks so pristine and lovely. The soft glow of the rising sun kisses his pale skin sharing its radiance.
My heart starts beating faster.
The hell he has a stream of saliva slipping from the corner of his mouth. Trickling just around his lips. My mouth puckers out of instinct.
"Peeta," I coe while wiping drool with the sleeve of my shirt.
"Peeta," the name rolls out from my tongue with such ease, it surprises me as to how little I use it.
Peeta's flutter open eyes and looks at me in a daze for a few seconds. His deep blue irises shimmering.
"Katniss," he says as he jolts up, and grabs my wrist, the motion hasty yet gentle.
"How is your hand?" His voice is hoarse from sleep, blinking out the drowsiness from his eyes.
"What happened to my hand?"
Peeta stares at me for a bit, then my palm.
Calloused fingers glide down my arm to my wrist, my palm where they're met with gauze, he cups my hand as his thumb slides over the edges of the bandage.
He's so cautious as if I am porcelain, fragile.
“I’ll be fine, I’ve handled worse.” I say tersely, flipping my hand, my eyes focus on the mosaic of burnt skin, its implications.
“You haven't answered my second question.”I grumble.
Peeta blinks at me with disbelief, "Last night, You shattered a hell lot of objects, my whole kitchen apparently."
Last night? I feel a bit embarrassed but then memories rush like a storm and-
Ouch, but you shattered my heart! Nopes I mean "So-" why the hell do you have those paintings of me? "-rry?”
"That's the shittiest apology I've ever received," Peeta snickers. I look at him for a bit then, a silly boy sitting on his bedroom floor looking up at me, I feel taller, it's strange, I wanna bolt now, I’ll try to forget yesterday, an apology is all I can offer after all.
I walk past him, all of my strength sucked in by black and red cavasses, I can't face him, I’ll leave and he won't stop me. I know, he hates me, there's nothing to resolve, he's here for…
I pause at the doorway, unable to turn my head.
I inhale "What do you think of me?"
Peeta huffs. "What do you want me to think of you?" He says indignant but cautious.
"The girl in the paintings?"
"You."
Something snaps inside me, I'll run, that's all there is now.
"Katniss, wait! Let me talk." he says with a shaking voice, reaching for me
I want to look him in the eyes and ask him if I could ever make him like me again but fear engulfs me entirely. This, us, it was never meant to happen anyway.
His index finger lifts my head gently "That painting isn't about you. It's about an identity that had been ceaselessly drilled into my head, one that tangled illusion and reality. I needed that person to be real,
to erase the monster they made in my memory."
"The monster they made of me."
Painting has always been a therapy for him, to paint nightmares is natural to him ever since the arena.
I don't look back, just nod to convey understanding and leave.
__
Winter
I push the surreptitiously carved cranky wooden door open. Treading lightly over the softly carpeted floors until the delicious scent of freshly baked bread tickles my nose. I close my eyes to savor the scent better and smile. This feels good.
My gaze wanders in search of the skillful boy who bakes, and they land on a concerning sight. The sink had a bowl filled with batter thrashed into it, thick gooey batter splattered all around. A total. What a mess!
Clearly he was angry. Did he have a flashback? Was he lying when he said he was okay?
My search becomes frantic, my body automatically moving forward then back, opening one door then another.
"Peeta! Peeta," I shout, unable to mask the sense of panic increasing with each passing moment.
I pause, inhaling sharply to gather my thoughts.
First of all he didn't hurt himself, secondly calm down, thirdly it's just a stupid bowl of batter, maybe it was bitter, he might have just been dissatisfied with it. But why'd he throw it like that, it's so unlike him. Wasting food material.
I'm broken out of this reverie when I catch sight of Peeta's frame settled stiffly on the backyard's porsche.
I open the back door gently, stepping forward as if to charge, to reprimand him, but stop perplexed. Maybe I should ask him what was what first and calmly explain myself instead.
Even so as I begin to ask the first of my array of questions, Peeta sniffles.
"I'm sorry Katniss,"
Sorry?
Wait, is he breaking up with me?
Wait, we didn't even start our first date!
Wait, it was a first date only in my head how could he have known.
"I tried to make cheesebuns, they just never taste right!" He shakes his head in frustration and then lowers it into his palm.
"You were right, I-I am not the same as before, I-I can never be. I'm too broken," his voice trembles now, and my heart lurches. Peeta has always suffered silently. Torn, burnt, tortured. How can he expect to remain the same after all that? Isn't it impossible to remain oneself in the twisted whirlwind of pain and agony he was pushed into. To lose oneself and - CHANGE.
"I don't want them to change me"
"How will they change you?"
These words pierce through the maelstrom of perplexities and ponderance. I fall to my knees, wrap my scrawny arms around his slim waist and crush his back into my chest with haste.
"I don't care, Peeta. What matters is you not–" I gesture towards the kitchen, towards his scars, even his leg.
I wanna tell him he doesn't have to be perfect, unbroken or his best self for me, he just has to be there, and I want to be there too, to wipe his tears, brush his hair, he doesn't have to be not broken, he just has to let me care.
He wipes his face with the back of his hand as a small sob escapes through his throat.
I grab his hands desperately, but then decide to delicately align our palms in a fluid motion. Intertwining our fingers is natural, as easy as necessary as breathing.
I stare at our hands with my chin resting on the curve of Peeta’s neck.
The hands that flowered me with infinite love, and the hands that sought to strangle me to death, they're both his. The person who remains so good, so kind, so gentle, could be cruel, could be cold, could be a weapon. There was never a moment when I was not horrified by the thought of him seeing me as the person I truly a
m and being repelled, despising me, killing me. I thought the Capitol just catalyzed the process, how Peeta sees me matters but what's more important to me now?
"Peeta, anything you make is my favorite even if it's burnt." I answer. m and being repelled, despising me, killing me. I thought the Capitol just catalyzed the process, how Peeta sees me matters but what's more important to me now?
"Peeta, anything you make is my favorite even if it's burnt." I answer.