I roll over and try to get comfortable, try to breathe regularly and slow my heartbeat. It was a nightmare is all, just another dream. After another half-hour it's clear I'm not sleeping anymore tonight, and, if I'm honest, I'm kind of relieved. The nightmares have been increasingly intense as today drew near. The tour. The Capitol making sure no one in the districts has a chance to forget that they are not safe. The Capitol will take your children and make you watch them die for sport. Then send the only survivor on a "victory" tour and make you celebrate them. Well, for the first time ever, survivors.
I bury my face in my pillow and squinch my eyes shut, trying to evade the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not only am I to be paraded around the nation as a graphic reminder of the most horrifying time of my life, I'm to be forced back into the role of one half of a deliriously in-love couple. Holding her hand, kissing her, smiling adoringly into her eyes. And she will endure it, but only because she has to. She will press close to me, kiss me back, smile just as adoringly until the instant the cameras are off us. Then she will turn away, relieved to be rid of my attentions. Tossing restlessly, I groan into the empty darkness.
Enough. I swing my foot to the floor and reach for my prosthetic leg. Strapping it on securely below my knee is second nature now and I rise smoothly, heading for my desk. I click on the small lamp and slide my notebook over. Flipping to an empty page, I roll a pencil between my fingers, closing my eyes and trying to focus on the image nattering at the edge of my mind. My hand grows still as the picture comes clear in my head. Putting pencil to page, I begin a quick sketch. The even, sure strokes glide over the paper and her eyes fill the smooth surface. She looks out at me with her clear gaze, just as she looked at me the first time we saw each other after the arena. Her gray eyes hold such a depth of relief and joy at being reunited. As though she had really needed me as much as I need her. My hand trembles and her bottom lashes go awry.
These are the eyes that haunt my dreams. How was she able to fake it so well that it reflected in her eyes? The kisses, the handholding, the pressing close to me, I can understand those. But she would look at me as though no one else mattered. As though we were linked in the universe. How desperate was I that she feel something for me that I convinced myself I could see it in her eyes?
As usual, the drawing doesn't make the pain go away, but it does make it substantial in a way that I can deal with it. I can get hold of it to lock it into the vault I've created in my mind and get on with my day. I don't want to think about how full that vault may be getting, or what may happen when it reaches capacity. For now, locked away is good enough.
I stretch and click off the lamp. The windows glow with that peculiar light that hints at snow in the darkness and I need to get to the bakery. Since returning home I've moved into the large and imposing house in the Victors' Village, across the green from my old mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, and three doors down from my co-victor, Katniss Everdeen, the owner of the lying eyes. There is more than enough room for my parents and two brothers to join me, but they said they preferred to stay over our family bakery, needing to be close. My eldest brother, Jasper, is engaged and it doesn't make sense for him to move, then move again when he marries in the summer. My mother said they didn't want to impose, to be a burden. Turns out she figured she could get her hands on more of my prize money by having me renovate the house over the bakery to her standards, then asking for a "small allowance," to pay for little things like dresses imported from District 8, electronic gadgets from 3 and special, gossip laden television channels streaming from the Capitol. But, not living in my house, she doesn't feel any obligations to me.
I don't mind. There's plenty of money, and it makes her happy. I live simply, keeping mostly to myself and working in the bakery, staying in the back with the ovens where I don't have to interact with as many of the public. Always asking about Katniss, or wanting to discuss the Games. Spreading out my money through the district has become my mission. I've come to know the Hob, a black market where I used to be terrified to go. Turns out most of the people there are more desperate than frightening, just trying to get by on the very little they have. I purchase white liquor for Haymitch from Ripper, stew of questionable ingredients from Greasy Sae, and whatever else I can exchange coin for.
I've come to like the comfortable closeness of the place. Everyone there seems to understand it's okay to be damaged, you can still be who you are. In town, and especially with my mother, it's exhausting to constantly pretend that either the Games never happened, or that I emerged unchanged. People in town want to talk to me about it as though I'd been on vacation and will have a photo album to share with them. More often than I'd ever have imagined, people ask me what it was like to have to kill someone. In the Hob I'm just another district citizen struggling to deal with my lot in life. But one with a jingling pocket. I don't pretend that hasn't helped me be accepted there.
Downstairs I make some tea and a quick breakfast, still feeling a little decadent to have fresh, soft bread anytime I want. Wandering into the living room with my warm mug cupped in my hands, I peer out across the green to Haymitch's house. The windows are dark and no smoke rises from the chimney. No doubt he's finally passed out and wouldn't appreciate me bringing him any breakfast. I sip from the steaming tea and watch the snow drift silently down. The camera crews will be here at noon, bringing all the noise and motion of the Capitol to my quiet corner of the world. It will be nice to see Portia, though. She's the one I've been able to talk to since coming home, I look forward to her phone calls. It was Portia I started calling when the nightmares were so bad when I first got back. Now we talk at least once a week, often more, and she's the only one I talk to completely openly. Well, not completely, since the phone line is undoubtedly tapped, but we've worked out a type of codespeak. She'll be here with my devoted prep team, and I even smile at the thought of seeing Effie Trinket again.
By the time I'm ready to head to town, the snow has stopped and the light dusting on the path is undisturbed. I bury my chin in the collar of my coat and shiver against the cold. It's about a half-mile walk to the bakery and I hurry for the warmth of the ovens my father will no doubt have stoked for the day. Stomping my feet on the back porch knocks most of the snow off my boots, and lets my family know I'm coming in, something I've found to be helpful when approaching places my mother might be talking. I pull open the door and sure enough, she stands with my father in suspicious silence, a bright smile looking pinned to her face.
"Good morning, Peeta dear," she coos at me. "Did you sleep well last night? It's a big day, you'll want to ask your prep team to do something about your hair." I run a self-conscious hand through my blond curls and wonder if I'll ever get used to her addressing me so cloyingly.
"I did, thanks," I lie smoothly. "Morning, dad. How about you guys?" I ask as I hang my coat on the hook by the door.
"Oh, you know," she wrinkles up her nose. "The new bed is soft enough, but…" she trails off, shaking her head regretfully. "Well, you know how I get cold, right dear? But I don't let that bother me. I was seeing on the television that in the Capitol they have such beautiful down comforters with heat sensors now. I don't mean you have to get me one, dear, I just curl up tightly in my old blanket and think how much more I'd be shivering if I were in that nasty damp cave like you were or something like that," she tells me, able somehow to look me straight in the eye.
"Oh, that's so funny," I reply, as expected. "I was just planning on getting you one of those, I worry about you being cold at night. Why don't you pick one you like and have it delivered?"
"Oh, Peeta, darling, you don't have to do that. I'll just go see what color will go best with the new wallpaper…" her voice fades as she heads upstairs into her new bedroom.
My father meets my eyes and frowns. Sheepishly, I duck my head and move to the sink to wash my hands before starting to work. Today will be bread, one of my favorite days. Punching and kneading, the smooth, elastic loaves rising on the brick counter, the warm, yeasty scent wafting through the whole kitchen. I inhale deeply and close my eyes for a moment, enjoying the smell of home. Thankfully, my father decides to get to work instead of lecturing and we spend the morning side by side, a natural rhythm between us as we move quietly through the comfortable routines.
A little before eleven o'clock, I hang my apron by the oven and wash the dusting of flour off my hands and arms. "I have to get going," I tell my father, shrugging into my heavy coat. "I'll be on the train by one."
He finishes sliding a tray into the oven and turns to face me. Never one for talk, he hasn't asked me anything about the tour all morning, for which I'm grateful. Keeping my mind occupied with menial tasks is the only way I'm holding it together right now. Now, though, I can see in his eyes all the pain of understanding, and it almost undoes me.
"Enjoy the food," is all he says before wrapping me in a giant hug. I cling to his solid warmth as long as I can before stepping back.
"Absolutely," I say. "Tell everyone I'll miss them," I add, trying not to let my voice crack. Jasper is working in his fiancée's family's shop today, but he came by the house for dinner last night to see me a last time before I'm gone for weeks. Uri and my mother haven't even bothered to say good-bye. My mother is busy shopping and Uri can barely suppress his jealousy now that I'm a national hero and avoids me all he can. My father nods and for a minute I feel like I can't leave him. Like I'm abandoning him here with no one to be himself with. I hug him again and murmur, "I love you," into his shoulder before grabbing a warm loaf and heading out the door.
The biting wind swirls dry, light flakes of snow in the air and I tuck the bread under my coat to keep it warm as I trudge back to the Village. As I pass Katniss' house, I glance curiously at the long, low car parked a house away. It's much fancier than I would expect of Cinna or the prep team, but I'm distracted from it when one of Haymitch's windows squeals open and Katniss' long leg thrusts out. The familiar twist of my stomach whenever I'm going to be around her is softened a little by my smiling recognition that she must be trying to wake Haymitch for the show. My suspicion is confirmed as I enter through the front door and hear her growl at him,
"You should have asked Peeta."
"Asked me what?" I ask as casually as I can, crossing to the table and setting the loaf down. I hold out my hand, knowing Haymitch will be clutching the knife he habitually sleeps with.
He hands it over while grumbling, "Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia," as he shrugs out of his soaked shirt. I smile when I see the empty basin next to Katniss' feet and grab a bottle of liquor from the floor, pouring it over the knife. I use my shirt to clean the blade and slice the heel, Haymitch's favorite, handing it to him. I steel myself against the hollowness I always feel when we're together and look Katniss in the eyes for the first time since I came in. She is dressed for the weather, bundled in a woolen jacket and hair in a braid. Her cheeks glow and her eyes are bright as she perches half out the window, strong and lithe. My arms tremble with how much I want to hold her.
"Would you like a piece?" I offer politely.
"No, I ate at the Hob," she replies, just as formally. "But thank you." She always addresses me in the same tone. Stiff and reluctant, as though she's encountered an acquaintance from years ago and is trying to make small talk until it's acceptable to leave.
"You're welcome," I say, trying to keep the pain from my voice.
"Brrr," Haymitch fakes a shiver as he hucks his shirt over his shoulder. "You two have a lot of warming up to do before show time."
I avoid Katniss' eyes again, trying my best to ignore how soon I'll have to hold her hand again, kiss her lips again, know she is only acting again.
"Take a bath Haymitch," she snorts, and drops through the window, out of sight.