Chapter Text
Every night, I return, trapped in the same relentless nightmare.
The air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and fear, mingling with metallic blood. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows on the crumbling buildings lining the street. The distant sound of explosions reverberates through the night.
Horrified Capitol citizens push their children forward, their faces twisted with desperation, toward the gates of Snow's mansion. Among them, I see her- a young girl with bright yellow hair tied in two small ponytails, reaching out desperately for her mother's hand. Her mother- face full of frantic hope- pushes her away toward what she believes is safety.
The child's gaze finds mine when she is finally among the rest of the Capitol children, her eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and fear. I want to reach her- protect her- stop what is going to happen. But as usual, I am frozen, forced to witness this over and over.
In that moment of hesitation, the world unravels. Small silver parachutes fall from the sky, and the girl reaches eagerly toward one, a little, hopeful smile on her pale face. Her hand just touches the parachute before her face morphs into pure terror. The ground trembles beneath us as the deafening roar of explosions tears through the air, drowning out the desperate cries of the wounded children.
The children fall quickly, and the ground is covered in a rush of crimson. Piercing cries echo off the shattered remnants. Paramedics rush in, and I feel relief because Prim is not among them. But it is short-lived- I know what is coming next.
Blinking back tears, I find myself moving once again. Finnick is pulling me, desperate to get us away from the devastation. I try to find my voice, but again I am trapped in my own body. We need to get Peeta! Peeta will try to help the children!
Finally, my voice allows me to turn to Finnick and say “Peeta?”
Finnick turns around, spots something, and then his sea-green eyes are frantic.
“Peeta, run!” he shouts. But his voice is drowned out in the panic around us.
I realized at that moment that Finnick knew something I did not. Days later, I learned he heard about Gale’s cruel contraption. He was horrified but was assured it would not be used. Not on civilians. He was lied to.
I turn around, just in time to see Peeta tending to the little girl, whose hair is no longer yellow, but a bright red. He is carrying her away from the crowd, trying to save her from the danger.
“PEETA!” I shriek pleadingly.
He turns to me, love swimming in his beautiful blue eyes, and for a fleeting moment, time stands still. I rush toward him, propelled by a primal instinct to protect, to save him, but I know it is too late.
He recognizes my urgency and rushes toward me, and away from the crowd, the girl still safely enveloped in his strong arms.
The second explosion tears through the air, and I am paralyzed, forced to again witness the sickening crack of Peeta’s skull as he slams into the concrete ground.
As metal and debris rain down around me, I am filled with an unusual numbness. My feet continue to carry me forward, toward where I last saw Peeta. Finnick rushes by my side.
We finally reach the spot and see the little girl covered with blood on Peeta’s chest. She was shielded from the second blast by Peeta’s solid frame. He saved her life. Trembling with fear, she crawls onto the ground next to him and bursts into heart wrenching sobs.
Peeta’s body is limp and motionless, his limbs splayed at awkward angles as if broken by the force of the blast. Blood seeps from multiple wounds, pooling beneath him into a frighteningly large puddle. His golden hair is matted with the blood, which gushes rapidly from a jagged wound on his forehead. His skin is split and I think I can see his white skull beyond. His face is drained of color, and his eyes are shut tightly.
“Peeta!” I gasp and fall to the floor, tears streaming down my face. I start to hyperventilate. I hope desperately he is still alive.
Finnick sits beside me and holds a shaky hand to Peeta’s neck.
“He’s alive,” he sighs in relief, “but his pulse is very weak.”
With tears forming in his eyes, he quickly scans the scene before us to determine what to do, and I follow his gaze.
Blood, dead bodies, and shrill screams consume my world.
Now my nightmare strays from my memory. The corpses turn to me and blame me for their suffering. My fault for leading the rebellion. My fault for not warning them. My fault. My fault. My fault.
My chest tightens with guilt as their accusations echo in my mind, each a dagger plunged into my already wounded heart.
Sobs wrack my body, and I find myself tangled in bedsheets, cocooned in a suffocating embrace of despair. The world blurs around me, and I struggle to catch my breath. I then feel myself being shaken urgently.
“Peeta?” I manage as I take a heaving breath.
I open my puffy eyes to see shiny blue eyes, but they are not Peeta’s blue. It’s Prim, her face etched with concern as she reaches out to me, a beacon of comfort in the darkness that threatens to consume me.
I clutch Prim tightly to my chest, seeking refuge in her comforting embrace. Her soft reassurances wash over me, but even as she tries to ease my pain, I cannot stop thinking that I am hurting her too.
With trembling hands, I wipe away my tears, but the stain of guilt remains. I apologize to Prim, my voice choked with remorse, for burdening her.
“Katniss, it’s okay,” she murmurs.
But she is wrong. Nothing is okay. The events of that day were real. The sight of Peeta's broken body, the shock of the doctors' disbelief at his survival, the knowledge that it was a rebel bomb that had torn our lives apart—all of it weighs heavily on my conscience, a burden I cannot bear.
There was a glimmer of consolation- a flicker of justice in the form of President Coin's death. After learning how similar she was to Snow- she had even wanted another “symbolic” Hunger Games- I ended the cycle with a single arrow.
My punishment? Confinement to District 12 until the day I die. It would not be much of a punishment at all if it were not for Peeta. Peeta, lying wounded and alone in a hospital bed in the Capitol, his fate uncertain, his future hanging in the balance. I want to be with him so much it hurts. I want to see him, comfort him, and know how he is.
It has been a whole month since the Capitol bombing. And in that whole time, all I have heard about him is that he is ‘conscious but unresponsive.’ He has not spoken or reacted to anyone at all. Haymitch told me that the doctors said he damaged critical regions in his brain. They are not even sure of the effects yet. ‘Is he choosing not to speak or can he truly not? What does his lack of emotion mean? Is he unaware of what is happening around him or simply uninterested?’
They say he damaged his frontal lobe… badly. Badly enough that he had a greater chance of dying than living. Prim gently explained to me that the frontal lobe controls memory, personality, speech, movement and more. Any of those functions could have been damaged.
It sounds so technical to me, as if we were speaking about an object… not a person. Not Peeta.
Could he really change that much?
After all he went through in the Capitol- after the torture and his resistance to their trying to turn him against me, their failed hijacking- could he really be damaged to that extent? Could kind, caring, reliable Peeta be gone?
All I know is he needs me, as much as I need him. They tried to keep me away in District 13, saying he could try to hurt, even kill me, but I fought until I was next to him. Together, we got better. We both healed physically and mentally. He helped me with my trauma and fear; I answered his questions as he resisted ‘shiny’ memories the Capitol had tried to brainwash him with. We need each other. But I have been forced to abandon him. Again. Just like our final night together in the Quarter Quell. Maybe he really should hate me.
I feel my thoughts spiraling to despair once again at my powerlessness and force myself to stop. I would not hurt Prim any more than I already have. I would not be like my mother- dysfunctional and abandoning my family when in grief.
I force myself out of the bed and toward the mirror. The girl who looks back at me is haunting. She has scrapes and burns all over her face and arms, and deep eye bangs. Her eyes have a resigned look to them as if my fire has burned itself out. It is fitting. It has.
I run my fingers through my singed hair, the strands brittle and lifeless beneath my touch. With trembling hands, I splash cool water onto my face, washing away the traces of tears on my skin. I brush my teeth mechanically.
For Prim, I repeat in my head. For sweet Prim.
The truth is, Prim no longer needs me in the same way she once did. She no longer requires my protection or my guidance. In some ways, it is I who now depends on her, clinging to her strength and resilience like a drowning soul grasping for a lifeline. I am like a broken mirror, shattered into a thousand pieces, and she is the one who tirelessly tries to piece me back together, her gentle hands bleeding from my sharp shards.
Prim is the one who now makes breakfast every morning, runs errands, and tends to the needs of our makeshift family. She is the one who visits Haymitch, not out of obligation but out of genuine care and concern for a man who has become such an important part of our lives. She is the one who comforts me- day and night.
Prim has grown up.
Despite her independence, Prim remains as soft and caring as ever. I know she loves me fiercely. And though she may no longer need me to protect her, she needs me in a different way. She needs me to be strong, to be brave, to be the sister she once looked up to with awe and admiration. I am no longer that Katniss Everdeen. But for Prim’s sake, I try to at least pretend.
I force myself to leave the confines of my room and descend the stairs toward the kitchen, where I expect to find my sister preparing breakfast with her usual efficiency. But instead, I am met with the sight of a weary-looking Haymitch. Clearly I am not the only one struggling.
I watch him silently, then repeat the only string of words I’ve said to him in the past month.
“I need to see him,” I whisper.
“I know, sweetheart,” he mumbles, “I’ve done some research… and there’s a way for Peeta to come get treatment in District 12’s hospital. But you won’t like it.”
“I’ll do anything! What is it?” I reply quickly, my voice hoarse from disuse.
“Do you remember… when Peeta lied during the Quarter Quell and said that you both got married in secret?”
Yes. He had so desperately wanted to stop our return to the arena. He so desperately wanted to save me. Unfortunately, a secret marriage and pregnancy was not enough.
I nod.
“You’d need to make that marriage official.”