Author's Note: Hello, all, and thank you for taking the time to view this story. I know that it's far from any masterpiece, so I'll ask that you bear with me. It's been a long time since I've written fanfiction of any sort, and this is a rewrite of a piece that I fiddled with two or three years ago. I suppose that I should go ahead and warn you that I'm a pretty strong Team Gale person, and I feel that he got the raw end of the stick at the end of Mockingjay. That's not to say that I dislike Peeta, I just feel as though Gale's character deserved some closure, but I digress. Anyway, thanks again for looking this over, and I hope that you will all enjoy it.

My eyes fly open as the pounding of rain and thunder besieges the walls of my home in District Twelve. I glance outside one window and see that the sky is still dark, although whether it is due to the storm or early hours, I cannot tell. I roll over and snuggle back down under the blanket, the stocky form of my husband, Peeta Mellark, beside me. It has been a long time since he has looked this peaceful while he is sleeping.

Since President Snow has been overthrown, our lives have been relatively free from turmoil. An exception is the few years of Capitol Games that have transpired since our government changed hands. Another is the renewed onslaught of Peeta's nightmares. Since the war, his night terrors and rages, the result of the Capitol's technology years ago, have only gotten worse. There are still times where I am afraid, although I need only shake him awake before he realizes that I am not his enemy; I am his wife. It is so very rarely that I see him look so peaceful in slumber these days, his face unlined, as though all of his worries and fears are forgotten. No fiends of technological creation plague him tonight. Perhaps it is safe to leave now, without fear that he will be angry if he awakes to find me gone. It is a dangerous thing to get Peeta angry, and it happens only rarely, but it is still a constant worry of mine. But perhaps this morning, he will not be so troubled by my absence. After all, we do need the meat.

My decision made, I swing my legs out from under the covers and ease my way to my feet, careful not to shift the mattress underneath him. Still trying to remain silent, I pull on my leather-soled boots, grab my bow, and head out the door. I don't mind the drizzle, really, and once I squeeze through the remnants of a once-electrified fence and am under the treetops, I can scarcely feel it at all. I look up at the green canopy shielding me from the icy torrent, and I sigh. Rarely do I ever get to come into the woods anymore. Usually, there is no need for it, and Peeta doesn't like it. Early in our marriage, he would insist on coming out with me, but he has always been so clumsy in comparison to… no; I won't let myself think of him. It has been five years since the war, but the sting of his desertion still stings. Coming into the woods eases it some, I can almost feel as if he will appear around the next tree, waiting for me, and I can pretend like he never left. I know it is cruel and selfish of me to wish that he had stayed with us in District Twelve. I know that he felt that he saved me the choice, but the pain of losing him forever was almost worse. But of course, it does no good to dwell on that now, and I continue to pace through the woods, crouching at the fresh track of a deer's hoof in the mud.

I look ahead, squinting my eyes against the wind and scattered raindrops, searching out a pattern in the deer's walking. Spotting a scattered line in the mud, I begin to track it, pulling up the collar of my old jacket to shield my face against the wind. It will be a wonder if I actually catch anything out here, considering how dark it is, but I still go on. It is not until the sun begins to beckon through the trees that I realize what day it is.

It must seem ridiculous, but I still remain sentimental about Sundays. They're still our day, no matter how many years pass. Despite Peeta's nervousness about me going into the woods, I still try to come out every Sunday. It just feels wrong not to. I know it's silly and that he'll never be there waiting for me, but I feel like I am violating something sacred by not. A rustling of undergrowth startles me, and I swing around, half expecting to see Gale's lean form emerge from behind a tree, but it is just the wind again. A flicker of brown catches my eye, though, and I turn to see the deer I have been tracking munching on leaves. Stealthily, I grab my bow and remove an arrow from my quiver. Setting the arrow on the string, I pulled back my bow, feeling the familiar tension of the wood. I looked down the length of the arrow, following the familiar lines as I locked onto the innocent-looking target. I released the arrow, relishing the familiar feeling of it flying through my fingers and hitting the target. It wasn't that I enjoyed killing animals, but we needed to eat, and the bow made me feel like I had worth, like I had something to contribute. As the beast falls, I go to it, pulling out my arrow, and setting about figuring out how to transport it. I think again about the person who would've been here to help, but who I would never see again. Shaking my head to clear my head, I pick up its hind legs, grateful that it's small and not full-grown yet, and begin to drag it across the forest floor. A new rustling of the leaves and undergrowth has me cautious, but when I glance around, I cannot see anything but the trees. The rain is still stinging, but it is not as heavy as before, although I know that getting the doe back up to the house will be a chore. I hear another sound of rustling behind me, and this time, I drop my catch, feeling wariness creep up on me. That's one effect that is left over from my time in the arena of the Hunger Games. I'm always paranoid, always waiting for a life-snatching blow to claim my existence. The carcass flop to the ground as I string my bow and hold it up, knowing that I'm overreacting; it's probably just some squirrel or something. Still, I didn't let down my guard as the rustling drew closer and closer. I dodged around a tree to shield most of my body from whatever was coming just in case, feeling both foolish and frightened in equal measure. When it was Peeta's stocky form that emerged from the shadows, though, I lowered my bow, feeling more at ease, with only a slight sense of lingering anxiety.

"Oh, Peeta, it's only you. What are you doing out here?" I call to him, trying to contain my anxiety and color my voice with relief. I stepped out from behind the tree to see him examining the deer with something of disgust, revulsion clearly etched into his face. With growing dread, I noticed the signs of his hijacking coming out. Usually, I kept him away from the messy part of meat, because he began to see me as cruel whenever this happened. He begins to identify with the deer and see me as a ruthless murderer; I can see it in his normally kind blue eyes when he looks up at me. I repress a shudder that comes with a wave of icy dread.

"You killed this?" His voice is low and menacing. I close my eyes and tell myself not to be afraid. This is Peeta, and he hasn't had a relapse in a long time. He won't hurt me.

"We need the meat. Why don't you go back into the house, Peeta. Why did you come out here?" I ask, trying to stay as positive as possible. Over the years, I've found that ignoring the relapse keeps him from getting frustrated with himself.

"No, the better question is why you're out here being a murderer." There is no rational though in his angry blue eyes as he looks up at me now. Now, my grip on my fear begins to slip away as he steps over the corpse and towards me with outstretched hands.