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As the card was taken out of that insignificant wooden box, was read off. And was broadcasted across the entirety of Panem. I had my death predetermined for me, while I’m still alive. Still in district twelve, still in my house in the victor’s village. My mother and Prim beginning to grieve themselves, and eventually me.
They’re sobbing, and I can’t handle it. The sadness they display is all but too much, and this is about the time where I usually flee to the woods. But now I can’t. With the woods now truly monitored, and president Snow acutely aware of me and my every action. I’m truly trapped.
I yearn for comfort even if I know there’s no one here to truly give it to me, Prim is far too young to be entangled in my problems. Yet she was still old enough to the capitol for her to be reaped for games she could never dream of winning. Gale? Well, he could comfort me, yet his embrace is hollow in a way I can’t explain.
Our relationship has been purely transactional for so many years, so him doing something for me that doesn’t elicit payment on my part feels wrong. Like he should gain something from the interaction, and if he doesn’t, I owe him a reward somewhere down the line.
It doesn’t fill me with the warmth that Peeta’s had, like the action benefits Peeta enough to forgo any payment. Like in the early nights in the capitol where he’d assure me about Prim. Promising he’d keep me safe, even when I hated him.
In our cave in the arena where he would say things solely for me, not for the cameras, and not for capitol ears. Even in our ride back as victors, where’d he’d painstakingly soothe me to sleep, twice, maybe even three times a night. Yet still somehow managed to fill me with the sheer quality of his words, every time. So easily strung together that I always assumed was for the act, for our survival.
And somewhere along the line I realized Peeta truly cared for me, even if I had nothing substantial to give. And that thought infuriated me. After the games, when I had nothing to offer him. No matters of survival, or love of my own, he continued to remain the same kindhearted person he’d been. Because it had never been an act to him.
I’ve been too vulnerable, allowed myself to love. Love I never deserved. Too many good things I could never be worthy of, and while I thought that playing into the lovers act would get sponsors, and to hopefully get my odds of getting out of the arena to increase, it truly just made me look weak. And now I’m going back into the arena again.
I’ve painted a target on my face, and in our act? Peeta’s too.
Showing my weaknesses to the capitol, to Panem. Peeta, Prim, twelve. To use against me, well. Me and my “star crossed lover” that is, And that might just be worse. I can’t imagine living with myself if I inadvertently killed Peeta because of my incompetence in the 75th games.
And Snow is brutally aware of this fact, I’m sure of it.
I’ve never really been a good actor, Peeta’s really the only reason any of this worked. He’s inevitably the star of the show, even if I do get all of the glory.
And no matter how many people could ever compliment my “strength” and “power” they’d still all be wrong. Im not the strong one either, the nightmares from the games that wrack me every night affect Peeta too. Mine consisting of me, Prim, Rue, Gale. and yes, Peeta. All getting taken away from me or horrifically mutilated until I somehow startle myself awake.
Yet I wake up uncontrollably sobbing and thrashing every night, and he simply requests to know I’m alright before he can sleep again. He claims all he needs to know is that I’m breathing because it confirms to him I’m alive.
However, on the train home when me and Peeta shared a bed? It helped substantially. With Peeta there to tell me that everyone I love is alive, Cradling my head with his gentle touch, and surprisingly calloused hands. Him Wiping the tears from my cheeks and talking me to sleep as many times as necessary.
And despite all the reassurances and questions he never asked me, not once about what I dreamt, or who was in them, or what had happened during them. Because he knows, telling someone would be just as horrible as reliving it.
And me there, I’m not totally sure why I benefitted him. But Peeta said just seeing me calms him down, even if I’m dead asleep. But some nights when I do notice him shocked awake, completely silent as tears stream down his face, frozen to the bed, I do attempt to alleviate some of his anxiety.
I’m horrifically inexperienced and bad at physical touch, when it comes to anyone other than Prim, so I’d usually just give him in awkward half hug. Laying my head on his chest, because I’m still definitely not strong enough to lug him over to me while I’m half asleep. And Peeta would just wrap his arms around me, almost too tight on some occasions. But it felt wrong to boss him around while he looked so shaken.
He was always eerily quiet on those nights, well only because it’s usually him talking between the two of us, so it’s odd when I have to do it. When I wake up from nightmares I’m normally louder than I am on most nights though. Most of it is just screams and unintelligible babble however.
And it’s like he still perfectly understands me then too. It’s weird, like sometimes he understands me better than I understand myself sometimes, without having to explain myself. Despite knowing me properly for less than a year.
He’s obviously more well versed in the “feelings” department than I am, and will likely ever be. So it helps in his case.
Peeta has done everything to protect me, saved my life even. In and out of the arena, throughout my entire life. And still doesn’t expect me to ever love him back.
And in that action, has permanently indebted me to him. I could never give him anything that would make us even again. No amount of money, or love for that matter, could ever be a fair trade for the prospect of my life.
My mother and Prim have been practically inconsolable since the announcement, and I’m practically no better. I knew I couldn’t handle their sobs, therefore I find myself in one of the many vacant homes in the victors village, writhing and screaming on the floor. My shirt balled up in my mouth so my screams are absorbed, even slightly is better than nothing. I look like a child having a tantrum. Yet, I believe this is a moment that being selfish is alright, expected even.
I hear my name being called by someone, I recognize their voice, but I’m far too out of it to differentiate between things such as that.
I mean I barely survived one game. I don’t plan for surviving a second one.
Likely the least I can do would be focusing on getting Peeta getting out, making sure he wins. With or without me, but I can assume Peeta wouldn’t agree if I proposed something like that, maybe Haymitch would.
Therefore, I scrape myself off of the cellar floor. Push back the pieces of hair that had been slicked to my face with tears, ignoring the pain that shoots through my body as I move due to my earlier actions, and manage to drag myself outside.
I’m glad I put on my boots before I rushed out of the house. It’s not quite winter anymore, but it isn’t spring either. The worst of the ice is gone, but most of the snow remains. With majority of it being melted down by the day, the slosh is practically to the heels of my boots.
I eventually look down at my hand, the main source of the discomfort, and find it covered in blood and broken remnants of a window. I had to have broken inside that house earlier.
It’s not like anyone owned it anyway.
WORK IN PROGRESS !! WORK IN PROGRESS !! THIS CHAPTER IS CURRENTLY BEING WRITTEN!! 🚨🚨🚨
*LOUD SIREN LIKE SOUNDS*