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Tag: Peeta

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 21

March 22, 2020 Published by spamifischer

Chapter 21

 

The sun has set on the rainy day and the storm outside is growing louder and more intense. My sheet of plastic seems like a pathetic attempt to keep the cave dry, and I’ve now had to supplement it with the broth pot to catch the continuous dripping. I’ve been on watch for several hours now, chilled to the bone inside the damp cave, and other than keeping up with deflecting water from creating pools in the cave, it’s been pretty uneventful. 

Katniss seems to be sleeping soundly and I don’t want to wake her, but my stomach begs for food and I don’t want to eat without her again. I ignore the rumblings for as long as I can, but eventually I shake Katniss awake.

“How long have I been asleep?” she asks drearily. 

“About five hours.”

I help her sit up slowly. “I’m hungry, how about you?”

As if this were permission, I grab for the pack and assess its contents: a couple pieces of the groosling, a small amount of dried fruit, and various roots that Katniss must’ve collected.

“Should we try and ration it?” I ask, though this spread is far from being a complete meal in itself.

“No, let’s finish it,” Katniss says. “The groosling’s getting old anyway, and the last thing we need is to get sick off spoiled food.” She goes ahead and divides the food equally, and in a matter of minutes it’s reduced to nothing. 

“Tomorrow’s a hunting day,” Katniss announces. She, like me, doesn’t seem satisfied with our meager meal.

“I won’t be much help with that. I’ve never hunted before.” Baking is my specialty, but so far I haven’t found an oven in the arena, and certainly there wasn’t a rolling pin set out just for me in the Cornucopia.

“I’ll kill and you cook,” Katniss suggests. “And you can always gather.”

“I wish there was some sort of bread bush out there,” I joke, but Katniss doesn’t smile.

“The bread they sent me from District Eleven was still warm,” she sighs reminiscently. She hands me a few mint leaves to chew on to curb our appetite until the next time we eat, whenever that is. Hopefully the rain clears quickly, otherwise there won’t be much opportunity to hunt.

“Where did Thresh go?” Katniss asks. “I mean, what’s on the far side of the circle?”

“A field,” I answer, remembering my short excursion to its outskirts with the Careers. “As far as you can see it’s full of grasses as high as my shoulders. I don’t know, maybe some of them are grain. There are patches of different colors, but there are no paths.”

“I bet some of them are grain. I bet Thresh knows which ones, too,” Katniss assumes, considering Thresh comes from the agriculture district. “Did you go in there?”

“No. Nobody really wanted to track Thresh down in that grass. It has a sinister feeling to it. Every time I look at that field, all I can think of are hidden things. Snakes, and rabid animals, and quicksand. There could be anything in there.”

“Maybe there’s a bread bush in that field, maybe that’s why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games,” Katniss speculates jokingly.

Does he really? The thought of Thresh bigger and stronger than when we started makes me uneasy, and that certainly makes one of us. I imagine I’ve lost fifteen pounds or more since the Games started… how long ago? I’ve lost track of the days, but I imagine it’s been nearly two weeks, though it feels like an eternity. On average the Games are starting to wrap up around now, though a few were over in less than a week and the First Quarter Quell lasted almost a month. Katniss seems to have lost weight too, and she didn’t have much to lose in the first place, as is the case with most people that live in the Seam. She’s used to not having much to eat, and now that I’m feeling better, I’m having a much harder time getting used to an empty stomach.

“Either that or he’s got very generous sponsors,” I suggest. “I wonder what we’ll have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread.” Even the lumpy drop biscuits from District 12 sound like a delicacy right now.

“Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out,” Katniss smirks, though I don’t find it funny at all.

“Yeah, about that,” I say, looking her right in the eyes and holding her hand sincerely. “Don’t try something like that again.”

“Or what?” she teases.

“Or… or…,” I want her to know I’m not kidding, but I’m also not one to threaten her. “Just give me a minute.”

“What’s the problem?” she grins.

“The problem is we’re both still alive,” I say finally. “Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing.”

“I did do the right thing.”

“No!” Anger is rising in me now and my grip on her hand tightens. “Just don’t, Katniss! Don’t die for me. You won’t be doing me any favors. All right?” I could’ve been the reason Katniss was killed at the feast, but just because my leg is better doesn’t make the end justify the means. Does she just want to be the hero? Because people that live like heroes are honored and looked up to until their heroism gets them killed. Then, whether noble or not, death is still death.

Katniss is taken aback by my outburst. “Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren’t the only one who… who worries about… what it would be like if…”

“If what, Katniss?” my voice is much softer now, hanging onto her every word. Is she saying what I think she’s saying?

“That’s exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of,” she says, her eyes shyly flitting away.

“Then I’ll just have to fill in the blanks myself,” I say, and I lean in to kiss her.

Her lips press back against mine. My right arm slips under her back to pull her closer, and my left hand caresses the side of her face. My body, which was chilled to the core from the freezing cave, is suddenly flooded with explosive warmth from my heart to my fingertips. My senses are acutely awakened, and I long to preserve this feeling, hold onto it before it slips away.

Katniss pulls away first and our lips part. I place a final kiss on her nose and can’t help it as a smile erupts across my face. Looking at her, I notice that that blood is soaking through the bandage I wrapped around her forehead.

“I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it’s bedtime anyway” I say, placing a pack below her head to rest it on. 

Miraculously, Katniss’s socks have finally dried and I put them back on. I begin to wrap them back in my jacket as a second layer, but Katniss notices my goosebumps and shivering arms and makes me put it back on. 

“I’ll take watch this time,” Katniss asserts. 

I try to protest, but she stands firm. “Fine,” I finally say. “But you stay in the sleeping bag with me. We need to keep warm.”

She obliges and I crawl in next to her. I extend my right arm and she rests her head on it, and as I drift off, my left arm instinctively curls around her body, holding her like I’m protecting her from being taken away. I’d be okay if she drifted off next to me; I don’t think anyone is going to come looking for us in this weather.

I sleep soundly but in a short time Katniss rouses me again, telling me she’s having a hard time keeping her eyes open. I help her lie down and tuck a pack under her head. “Tomorrow, when it’s dry, I’ll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace,” she says before she falls back asleep.

But it doesn’t get any drier. While Katniss sleeps, the rain is as heavy as ever, and the thunder seems to rattle the cave. Night turns to day but the sky doesn’t get any brighter. Katniss and I continue to take turns on watch, but my stomach is so empty that I can’t focus on sleep, and Katniss is in the same boat. We spend the day sharing the sleeping bag, taking in each other’s heat. The grumbling of our stomachs creates a painful duet, and I feebly suggest that we should try to go outside and gather, but we both know it would be useless. The last thing either of us needs is pneumonia. I wonder if the other tributes are suffering through the same thing, or if the storm is even affecting the entire arena.

We suffer in silence as the day drags on. We rarely talk, neither of us having much energy to say anything other than to clarify who’s on watch. After what seems like forever, Katniss finally speaks up, and I’m grateful to hear something other than the thunder outside.

“Peeta,” her voice is barely audible in the beginning. “You said at the interview you’d had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?”

“Oh, let’s see,” I muse teasingly. After an uneventful day, the viewers must be hanging onto our every word. “I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair… it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up.” The memory floods back to me as I tell the story. 

“Your father? Why?” she asks.

“He said, ‘See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.”

“What? You’re making that up!” She blurts.

“No, true story,” I assure her. “And I said, ‘a coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could’ve had you?’ And he said, ‘Because when he sings… even the birds stop to listen.’”

“That’s true,” she says, a smile emerging on her face as she thinks of her father. “They do. I mean, they did.” Her smile fades as quickly as it came.

I decide to continue so she doesn’t linger too much on the thought. “So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot straight up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent.” 

“Oh, please,” she says, laughing.

“No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knewーjust like your motherーI was a goner. Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you.” It feels crazy that this is the first time I’ve voiced this to her, but I never pictured it happening like this.

“Without success,” she jokes, nudging me playfully.

“Without success,” I agree. “So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck.” 

Katniss doesn’t seem to be sure what to make of all of this. It’s a lot to take in, and I can’t believe, after 11 years, I’ve finally told her how I felt. But if not now, then when? 

“You have a… wonderful memory,” she finally says.

“I remember everything about you,” I say easily. I notice a look strand of hair covering her face and tuck it behind her ear. “You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

“I am now,” she says, her gray eyes looking directly into mine, though I can’t decide if she means the words she’s saying. 

“Well, I don’t have much competition here.” I think of Gale, how if he were here right now, he and Katniss would have no trouble playing up the role of the star-crossed lovers from District 12.

Then, Katniss says the words she knows I want to hear, the words the audience is waiting for. “You don’t have much competition anywhere,” she says, and this time she leans in.

Our lips meet for only a second before there’s a loud thunk outside the cave and we both jump. I peer past Katniss and see a glint of silver through the small cave opening, and in an instant I’ve leapt out of the sleeping bag and out into the rain.

I don’t even care that the rain is beating down on me, soaking through my clothes, because a few steps ahead of me is a silver parachute tied to a large picnic basket. I scoop it up and rush back into the cave, absolutely beaming.

Katniss rips open the basket excitedly and removes its contents. Haymitch has sent us a feast! My mouth is already watering when she pulls out rolls, goat cheese, apples, and even dishes and silverware. I’m suddenly reminded of the last meal I had in District 12 before the reaping, although that roll was stale and the apple was mushy. In that moment, I had no idea what was ahead of me. Now, weeks later, I’m in an arena, still alive by some miracle, part of the final five, and sharing this meal with Katniss.

To top it all off, Katniss removes a large ceramic dish, and I can feel its heat emanating towards me. She removed the lid and the steam rises, and from the smell alone I know that the pot contains lamb stew, Katniss’ favorite, straight from the kitchens of the Capitol.

“I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve,” I say joyfully, barely able to contain my excitement.

“I guess so,” Katniss agrees, smiling at the feast before us. She looks like she’s about to pounce on it, but I think about how our stomachs will react to our first real meal in days.

“We better take it slow on that stew. Remember that first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn’t even starving then.”

“You’re right,” Katniss concedes, looking slightly disappointed. “I could just inhale the whole thing!”

We allow ourselves each one roll, a small serving of stew on wild rice, and we decide to split an apple. Although we pace ourselves, it is not enough to satisfy our empty stomachs.

“I want more,” Kantiss says simply, staring longingly at the stew remaining in the pot.

“Me too,” I agree, and I’m about to help myself to another serving before I decide to hold back. 

This brings to mind a memory from a birthday when I was a little kid, turning maybe four or five years, and my dad baked a cake especially for me. That’s the same year he started to teach me how to decorate. As kids do when given the opportunity, I ate way too much cake, ignoring my dad’s warning that it takes the body at least half an hour to register that it’s full. I spent half the night throwing up what I had taken in.

“Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we’ll get another serving,” I suggest.

Katniss agrees. “It’s going to be a long hour,” she says, still staring at the spread before us.

“Maybe not that long,” I say, figuring we should shift the subject away from food. “So, what was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me… no competition… best thing that ever happened to you…”

“I don’t remember saying that last part,” she says, her cheeks flushing red.

“Oh, that’s right. That’s what I was thinking.”

I settle in next to her in the sleeping bag to keep warm and wait out the hour ahead of us. And, who am I kidding, I like being next to her, my arms wrapped around her, protecting her as we’re sheltered in our tiny bubble of peace.

“So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?” she asks.

Several times I tried to brush my feelings for Katniss aside, because every time I saw her with Gale, it only reinforced the idea that we would never be together. There were lots of pretty girls at our school, of course, and I dated a couple over the years. But nothing seemed to stick, because even though I tried, I could never seem to let go of my feelings for Katniss. 

“No, I noticed just about every other girl,” I confess, “but none of them made a lasting impression but you.”

“I’m sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam.”

“Hardly. But I couldn’t care less.” I think of what my mom must think, maybe even as she’s watching me right now. I picture her disapproving, menacing scowl, but it doesn’t matter. All I care about is this moment. “Anyway, if we make it back, you won’t be a girl from the Seam, you’ll be a girl from the Victor’s Village.”

I picture us as neighbors, living in giant mansions that were built 74 years ago when the Hunger Games were written into being. There are twelve in total, although Haymitch is the only occupant, and the others must be collecting cobwebs.

“But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!” Katniss realizes.

“Ah, that’ll be nice,” I wrap my arms tighter and hold her closer. “You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales.”

Katniss snickers at the thought. “I told you, he hates me!”

“Only sometimes,” I assure her. “When he’s sober, I’ve never heard him say one negative thing about you.”

“He’s never sober!”

“That’s right. Who am I thinking of?” I rub my chin, feigning confusion. “Oh, I know!” I snap my fingers theatrically. “It’s Cinna who likes you. But that’s mainly because you didn’t try to run when he set you on fire. On the other hand, Haymitch… well, if I were you, I’d avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you.” I smirk at her.

“I thought you said I was his favorite,” Katniss teasess.

“He hates me more. I don’t think people in general are his sort of thing.” 

I wonder how Haymitch is reacting to our conversation. Since he fell off the stage at the reaping, he’s been a sort of punching bag, always the victim of jokes. He’s probably used to it at this point, after 24 years of being in the spotlight. The Gamemakers often pull the mentors aside for interviews during the Games, especially when they get down to the final five or there’s a lull in the action. He must be getting lots of press right now, considering how Katniss and I’s love story might be the most interesting part of the Games up until now. It has to be, if he was able to rack up enough sponsors to send us this feast.

“How do you think he did it?” Katniss asks, interrupting my pondering.

“Who? Did what?” I ask.

“Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?”

I consider her question for a moment, compiling the information that I already know. Haymitch won the 50th Hunger Games, the second Quarter Quell, where there’s some sort of special twist to celebrate the 25th anniversary. That year, there were double the tributes; Haymitch was the last one standing out of forty-eight in total. It occurs to me that I never asked him this question, and he seems reluctant to bring it up. I don’t blame him, of course. I’m sure reliving the most traumatic experience of his life isn’t on the top of his want-to-do list. Some victors, however, like to brag about their wins and constantly remind the country of their gallantry, in case they forgot. Instead, Haymitch drowns his sorrows with alcohol and tries to suppress the memories. I’d be surprised if he even remembered enough details to totally recall the full story.

Since Haymitch’s Games was before I was born, I didn’t have first-hand experience watching it, and the rest of the district doesn’t tend to talk about it, either. Sometimes they broadcast iconic moments from the old Games, but I don’t recall seeing any from his. I try to imagine Haymitch 24 years ago, at 16-years-old just like Katniss and I. This in itself is a difficult task considering how my current perception of Haymitch is that of a sullen, haggard man. I’m sure he was in much better shape then, he had to be, but I also don’t picture him as somebody able to overtake anyone he came in contact with. District 12 is hardly ever dangerous enough in terms of build and strength to stand a chance against many of the other tributes, especially the males who have trained their whole life. However, one thing that I will give Haymitch credit for is his wits. All in all he has been a good mentor and seems to know the Games well, and his perception of them is much different than any other I’ve heard. Finally I decide on the most probable answer.

“He outsmarted them,” I say.

Katniss nods in agreement, but doesn’t say much else. She seems to be lost in thought, but I don’t want to pry too much.

We only last another half an hour before we cave and decide to eat again. As Katniss begins to remove the food once more, I hear the anthem play and make my way to the cave entrance to see if the sky has anything to say tonight.

Katniss is unphased and continues to dish the stew into two bowls. “There won’t be anything to see tonight,” she says indifferently. “Nothing’s happened or we would’ve heard a canon.”

But when I peek my head out, there’s a projection in the sk. Thresh’s face is looking back at me.

Category: Original Characters
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 20

March 19, 2020 Published by spamifischer

Chapter 20

 

When I wake up I can feel Katniss beside me. Everything seems normal, peaceful, comfortable. For the first time I feel well-rested and, strangely, all the pain in my body has disappeared. I sit up tiredly and see that the swelling in my leg has reduced dramatically, and what used to be a large gash is now a clean scar. That’s when I notice the large needle laying on the ground next to me, empty of its medicine, and the throbbing in my arm where it was injected. The memories from the moments before I was knocked out suddenly flood back to me. I turn to see Katniss beside me. She is lying in a pool of blood; it’s source: a deep cut on her forehead. I fumble out of my sleeping bag and kneel next to her, nudging her softly. I whisper her name, but she shows no signs of hearing me. For a second I think she’s dead, but then I see the slow rise and fall of her chest, and I put my hand an inch away from her mouth and can feel the hot breath escaping it. 

As my heart rate quickens and my mind struggles to comprehend the situation, I run through the facts in my head. Katniss gave me sleeping syrup to knock me out. Against my will, she’d gone to the feast. She got my medicine. She was hurt in the process. She made it back. She fixed my leg. She’s passed out but still alive. I have to help her, like she helped me. 

Katniss’ clothes are soaking wet, so I gently remove her jacket, boots, and socks, and lay them out on a rock in the cave. There’s no sunlight in the cave to dry them, and when I hear a clap of thunder outside, I figure it wouldn’t be much better out there. I take the sleeping bag and carefully tuck her into it, pulling it up to her chin and laying a backpack beneath her head. The medical kit that Katniss had once used to patch me up is laying beside the sleeping bag, and I open it to find the fever medicine, the leaves she used to treat my stings, burn cream, and a small roll of gauze and bandages. Mimicking Katniss’ procedure, I shove a handful of the leaves in my mouth and begin to chew. In the meantime, I escape outside and lift our water bottles to the sky to collect the rain that is pouring down. The downpour seems unnaturally intense, and I know that no weather in the arena is inflicted on accident. The Gammemakers must be trying to torment us, or at least, someone out there who hasn’t been lucky enough to find a cave like ours. Once back inside, I clean Katniss’ wound with water and apply the glob of chewed leaves to the cut. 

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper softly, though I know she can’t hear me. “You took care of me, now it’s your turn.” I hold her hand in mine, and it’s ice cold. I massage to improve the circulation and hold it up to my mouth, blowing hot air onto it. Before I let it go, I kiss the back of her hand and tuck it back into the sleeping bag. 

Once the leaves have somewhat dried, I remove them, clean the wound again, and slowly lift her head to place it on my lap. I place a square of gauze on the wound and wrap bandages around her forehead. Sitting there, arms around her, I watch the slow rise and fall of her chest. I hope and pray that she wakes up soo; I’m longing to see those mesmerizing grey eyes bore back into mine. 

As I sit there, I notice a steady drip of water leaking in from the roof of the cave. I dig into Katniss’ pack to find something to jam the hole, but all I find is a small square of plastic. It’ll have to do. I unfold it and, like a canopy, secure the corners of it in the crevices of rock in the ceiling to catch the droplets. I make a mental note to keep an eye on it and change it out before the water weighs it down.

Even with the thunder and rain, I can just make out the sound of the Anthem. Giving Katniss a kiss on the forehead, I move to the entrance of the cave and peek my head out. I know that Katniss must’ve run into other tributes at the feastーsomeone had to have cut herー but I also know that feasts almost always result in fatalities. That’s the whole point, after all. Katniss made it back, but that leaves Cato, Clove, Foxface, and Thresh. Who faced their demise at this year’s feast?

My question is answered immediately when the death recap is projected in the sky. Clove’s face stares back at mine, that cold glare and evil grin so familiar to me. She has always been relentless, and she’s certainly not the one I would’ve expected to see die today. The fact that I knew her, whether I liked her or not, leaves a pang in my stomach. Could she have been the one to cut Katniss? My mind flashes back to her showing off her knife-throwing skills during training, immediately flagging her as a lethal opponent.

Then it occurs to me that the tribute pack I’d once spent night and day with has been whittled down to one. I wonder where Cato is now. Is he grieving the loss of his fellow tribute from District 2, especially with the new rule allowing two tributes from the same district to go home? Now, Katniss and I are the only remaining team, and with my leg miraculously healed with whatever medicine the feast offered, I feel a surge of hope rush through me. We could go home. That is, if Katniss wakes up. My flutter of hope is soon replaced by a pang of worry.

After the anthem plays again in closing, I return to Katniss’ side in the cave. I’m suddenly aware of how hungry I am. Over the past week I’ve eaten little more than a few nibbles of dried fruit and a couple bowls of stew or broth. For the first time, I’m ready for a feast like the ones we receive daily at the Capitol. My stomach rumbles at the thought of it: warm carrot soup, buttery rolls, juicy lamb chops, chocolate lava cake. I push the thoughts aside and tell myself that if, no, when, we get out of here, I will never feel a hunger like this again.

I rummage through Katniss’ pack again and find the groosling that she’d offered me so many times before that I’d rejected. Now, I could easily eat the whole bird for myself. I start with one piece, trying to conserve our food supply, but that one piece soon turns into three. My stomach, receiving solid food for the first time in ages, begs for more, but I resist. I crawl into the sleeping bag beside Katniss, allowing her heat to become mine and mine to become hers, and I will myself to sleep.

When I awake, I inspect my leg again and see that the swelling and redness has reduced even more. It’s incredible, like Cato’s sword had barely left a mark. The red lines indicating blood poisoning have retreated, and the feeling has fully returned.

I look over hopefully at Katniss but see that she is still unresponsive. I check her boots and clothes that I’d laid out and find that they’re still damp. The rain still hasn’t seized, and pours hard as ever outside. The canopy I’d created with the plastic sheet has collected water, and I tip it out and onto my hands to rinse them off. I take a chug of water and again go outside to refill the bottles, knowing that as soon as Katniss wakes up she’s going to need to drink. 

Now I know how hard it must’ve been for Katniss when I was so close to death. Looking at her, still as a stone, my heart aches for her to come back to me. I wonder if she felt the same way towards me, wondering how in the world she could ever go on if I never opened my eyes again. She must’ve felt something, otherwise she wouldn’t have risked her life at the feast. Or was she only doing that out of obligation and guilt, not out of love? 

I return to her side and brush the hair back from her forehead, stroking her cheek, my heart telling myself that she’ll wake up soon, but my mind trying to come to terms with the possibility that she might not.  

Her eyes move rapidly behind her lids and, ever so slightly, she begins to stir. My heart leaps.

“Katniss,” I whisper. “Katniss, can you hear me?”

Those eyes flutter open and for a moment Katniss’ body tenses up, and she looks like she’s forgotten where she is. Her eyes, more beautiful now than ever, meet mine, and her body relaxes. “Peeta,” she whispers.

“Hey,” I say, stroking her cheek. “Good to see your eyes again.”

“How long have I been out?” she asks, disoriented.

“Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood,” I tell her. “I think it’s stopped finally, but I wouldn’t sit up or anything.”

Knowing she must be dehydrated, I reach for the bottle of water that I’d filled and lift it to her lips. She guzzles it desperately.

When she’s finished, she takes a good look at me, noticing for the first time that I’m moving about without hindrance in my leg. “You’re better,” she observes simply. 

“Much better,” I say. “Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick. By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone.” 

“Did you eat?” she asks, still concerned about me, like she has no idea that she’s in need, too.

“I’m sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while,” I tell her, guiltily rubbing my stomach. “Don’t worry, I’m back on a strict diet.”

“No, it’s good. You need to eat,” she says. “I’ll go hunting soon.”

“Not too soon, all right? You just let me take care of you for a while,” I say, rummaging in the pack to retrieve some food for her. I remove the groosling and a handful of dry fruit, and she eats a few bites and drinks the water I offer her again. She’s shivering, and I unzip the sleeping bag and remove my jacket to cover her bare feet. I massage warmth back into them as best I can before zipping her back up. 

“Your boots and socks are still damp, and the weather’s not helping much,” I say, and a clap of thunder and flash of lightning verifies my statement. The storm has been going on for almost a full day, and it’s only getting worse.

“I wonder what brought on this storm? I mean, who’s the target?” I wonder out loud.

“Cato and Thresh,” Katniss answers immediately. “Foxface will be in her den somewhere, and Clove… she cut me and then…”

That explains the gash on her forehead, as I expected. But what happened after that? “I know Clove’s dead. I saw it in the sky last night,” I fill her in. “Did you kill her?”

“No,” she says, recalling a bad memory. “Thresh broke her skull with a rock.”

I cringe at the thought of the pain, thinking of Thresh with his giant-like strength. He’s the only other tribute that stood a chance against the Careers, and it’s clear he’s not going down without a fight. “Lucky he didn’t catch you too,” I say, wondering how in the world Katniss escaped.

“He did,” she says softly, reflectively. “But he let me go.”

“He what?” I ask, perplexed. People don’t let other tributes go in the Games. Not this late, at least. Everyone wants to get home, and no matter who you are, you’re in this to win it at this point, and nothing stands in the way of that. “Why would he do that?”

Katniss sighs, searching for the answer. “Do you remember Rue?” 

I nod, my heart suddenly dropping at the thought of her innocent spirit being gone from this world. 

“Well, she and Thresh, they’re both from Eleven,” she says. “I’m not sure how well they knew each other before all of this, but from what I saw, he treated her like his little sister. Even during training they would eat together.” I remember them sitting at the tables in the dining area, laughing together as if they were best friends on their lunch break at school. 

“Anyway,” Katniss continues, “Rue and I ran into each other in the arena. Actually, she was the one who gave me the idea to drop the tracker jacker nest.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget?” I say teasingly, recalling the excruciating strings.

“Yeah, erm, sorry about that by the way. I really thought you were on their side,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I assure. “I’m glad you did. I thought it was really clever actually. But go on,” I say, urging her to continue her story.

“After that, I suffered quite a few strings myself, and I…” she trails off. “Well, I can’t quite remember. The tracker jacker venom made it hard to know what was real and what was all going on inside my head.” She searches for the memory. “Did you… save me?”

“I told you to run,” I recall, the distorted memories flooding back to me, too. “You took the bow and arrow from Glimmer, but you weren’t moving. I knew Cato was coming back, and I couldn’t let him find you.”

“Well, evidently he found you,” she said, glancing at my leg. I wince at the memory of the pain inflicted by Cato’s wayward sword. “I’m so sorry,” she says, feebly.

“It’s okay. I’m all better now, thanks to you.” She gives me a weak smile. “Anyway, go on with your story. You were saying about Rue?”

Katniss goes on, telling me about how she and Rue became allies. How Rue took care of her while she was passed out from the tracker jacker stings and taught her about the leaves that draw out infection. I remember the two of them hitting it off at the edible plants station during training, and I close my eyes as she talks and hold her hand, trying to picture their friendship forming in the arena. 

“Rue told me about the Career’s stockpile of supplies by the lake, and we decided to take it out. She would set off a series of fires to create smoke and draw the Careers away from the lake, and I would go in. They set up a sort of booby-trap around the supplies and left the boy from District 3 to keep watch. Apparently he’d dug up the twenty-four mines from underneath the tribute pedestals and set them up to keep others out.” I nod, remembering Cato pridefully telling me about their sinister but genius plot. 

“Foxface actually figured out the pattern,” Katniss adds. “She snuck in there and stole supplies while I watched from the forest. We can’t forget about her, either. She’s still out there, too.

Anyway, long story short, I shot an arrow at a sack of apples and they spilled out, setting off one mine after another. All the supplies blew. I lost hearing in one of my ears and felt really disoriented, so I camped out in the trees overnight. Cato killed the boy from Three after he saw what happened. I saw how upset they were and I knew I did my job well, I mean, they’re probably out there right now, wishing they paid more attention at the survival skills stations during training. I bet they have no idea how to make a matchless fire, how to hunt, or how to tell the difference between a blueberry and a nightlock berry.”

I give her an impressed nod, acknowledging the cleverness of their plan and soaking in the hope that comes from knowing Cato is out there, probably in even worse condition than us for the first time since the Games began. “Do you think that’s what they needed from the feast?” I ask. “Supplies that they lost during the explosion?”

“Could be, I’m not sure. But Thresh took their bag, so maybe Cato will have to find him and fight him for it.” District 2, who must be so used to winning year after year, might be getting ready to kiss their last tribute goodbye. 

“Only if we’re lucky,” I observe.”So what happened after that?”

“The next morning I went looking for Rue. Before we parted ways we decided to signal each other through the mockingjays,” she lets out a soft four-note tune that sends chills through my body. “I heard the signal and knew that meant she was okay. But as I got closer, I heard screaming, and I started to run. When I found her she was tangled in a net, and before I could reach her, the boy from District 1 threw a spear that pierced her body.” 

She pauses for a moment, staring glassy-eyed straight ahead of her, and she lets out a sigh before continuing. “I shot an arrow at the boy and he was dead instantly. I held Rue’s hand and sang to herーthe same lullaby I sang to Prim when she was a babyーuntil she died.”

Katniss’ voice sounds weaker now than when she began her story, and I can see the wetness arising in her blank stare as she holds back tears. I grip her hand tighter, rubbing the back of it with my thumb.

“Having you there with her must’ve made all the difference,” I offer, not knowing what words to use to comfort her. I want to tell her there was nothing she could do, that it wasn’t her fault, and I want to hold her until all the pain from that moment has disappeared. But I know that nothing I say or do will take away the hurt that comes from reliving that memory.

She collects herself enough to continue. “I covered her in wildflowers and held up that three-finger salute, wanting to give honor to that little girl and to her family grieving her loss back home. That night, District 11 sent me a gift. A loaf of bread, the small crescent roll sprinkled with seeds like you showed me during training, still warm. It was like they were thanking me.

And that brings us to now. At the feast Clove and I started to fight, and she pinned me, ready to carve me with her knife. Then Thresh showed up. He overheard Clove taunting me about Rue, how they killed her, my ‘little ally,’ and now I was next. He lifted her off of me and smashed her skull with a rock. I closed my eyes and braced myself because I thought I was next. But instead of killing me, as he so easily could’ve, he asked if it was true that Rue and I were allies, like Clove said. I told him we were, that we blew up the Careers’ supplies together, that I was too late to save her, that the boy from One got to her before I could, but I killed him. I told him that I sang to Rue until she died and buried her in flowers, and I told him that District 11 sent me bread. I asked him to kill me fast, but instead, he let me go.” She searches her memory, still in disbelief. “I remember his exact words. ‘Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and me, we’re even now. No more owed.’ Then he told me to run, and I did. I got out of there as fast as I could before he changed his mind.”

I sit there, soaking in everything I’ve heard. “He let you go because he didn’t want to owe you anything?” I ask, trying to make sense of this situation, something so absurd and unheard of this late in the Games.

“Yes,” she says. “I don’t expect you to understand it. You’ve always had enough. But if you’d lived in the Seam, I wouldn’t have to explain.”

“And don’t try. Obviously I’m too dim to get it,” I say, half offended, half knowing that she’s absolutely right.

“It’s like the bread,” she continues. “How I never seem to get over owing you for that.”

“The bread? What? From when we were kids?” My mind flashes back to that rainy night so many years ago. “I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead.”

“But you didn’t know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it’s the first gift that’s always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn’t even have been here to do it if you hadn’t helped me then… why did you, anyway?”

“Why? You know why.” Haven’t I made it obvious enough? I meant what I said during my interview with Caesar. Or does she still think this is all an act to keep us alive? “Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing.”

“Haymitch?” she asks, confused. “What’s he got to do with it?”

“Nothing,” I say, brushing it off and deciding to change the subject. “So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it’s too much to hope that they’ll simultaneously destroy each other?”

Katniss seems unsettled. “I think we would like Thresh. I think he’d be our friend back in District Twelve.”

I picture myself being the reason Thresh doesn’t go home to his family, and it creates a pit at the bottom of my stomach. “Then let’s hope Cato kills him, so we don’t have to.”

Katniss doesn’t respond, but I can see tears welling up in her eyes. 

“What is it?” I ask, inching closer, holding my hand gently to her forehead. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

“I want to go home, Peeta,” she says, holding back tears. This is the first sign of weakness she’s shown me, and the hard-shelled Katniss that I’ve seen since we left on the train is suddenly wearing away.

“You will,” I say, confident that what I’m saying is true. “I promise.” I lean in and give her a gentle kiss, suddenly remembering that the world is watching and probably hanging on to every vulnerable word and romantic gesture.

“I want to go home now,” she says bleakly.

“Tell you what,” I begin. “You go back to sleep and dream of home, and you’ll be there before you know it. Okay?”

“Okay,” she whispers, nestling into her sleeping bag. “Wake me if you need me to keep watch.”

“I’m good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?”

Katniss has already closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. I listen to the storm rumble outside and sit stark upright, watching the cave entrance for any danger. All I can think is that I have to keep my promise. Katniss has to go home. And, if I’m lucky, I’ll get to go with her.

Category: Fan Fiction
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 19

January 9, 2020 Published by spamifischer

Chapter 19

 

I fall asleep immediately, warmer in my sleeping bag than I have been the past several nights. At some point in the night I can feel Katniss unzip the bag and crawl in next to me, but she tosses and turns uncomfortably. 

When I finally awake I am sweating, though my body still feels chilled. I feel a damp rag on my forehead and remove it, knowing Katniss had put it there in hopes of reducing the fever. But when I suddenly realize her absence, I bolt upright. Looking through the mouth of the cave, it looks to be just before sunrise. How long has she been gone? I unzip the sleeping bag and try to shimmy out of it, not sure what exactly I’m hoping to gain from this. My instinct says to run outside and go after her, but I soon remember that I am bedridden and every movement feels like I’ve been hit by a train. My heart rate finally slows when I see Katniss enter the cave, and I sulk back as I let out a distressed sigh. She seems confused by my struggle, maybe thinking I’d woken up from a bad dream.

“I woke up and you were gone,” I explain, still catching my breath. “I was worried about you.”

She laughs as she comes closer to me and touches my face softly with her hand, calming me down. “You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?”

I know she’s perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but of course I was worried. She has a greater price on her head than anyone else right now. “I thought Cato and Clove might have found you. They like to hunt at night,” I tell her.

“Clove? Which one is that?” She asks.

“The girl from District Two. She’s still alive, right?” I ask. I’m still not sure if I missed any faces in the sky while I was out.

“Yes,” she says. “There’s just them and us and Thresh and Foxface一that’s what I nicknamed the girl from Five.” Recalling her red hair, pointy face, and sly demeanor, I have to agree with this name assignment. I can’t, for the life of me, remember her actual name from her reaping or interview. “How do you feel?” Katniss asks.

“Better than yesterday,” I say honestly. “This is an enormous improvement over the mud. Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag… and you,” I smile up at her.

She smiles sweetly and affectionately touches my cheek again. I grab her hand with mine and press the back of it against my lips.

“No more kisses for you until you’ve eaten,” she says teasingly. 

“Aww man,” I say, throwing my hands down jokingly, like a child throwing a fit. But I willingly oblige as she feeds me a few spoonfuls of fresh berries that she’s smashed up for me. She again tries to give me the bird she offered yesterday, but I can’t quite bring myself to eat large amounts of solid foods yet, and I refuse it. 

“You didn’t sleep,” I observe after she’s finished feeding me. 

“I’m all right,” she says, but I can tell she’s lying.

“Sleep now. I’ll keep watch. I’ll wake you if anything happens,” I offer, but she seems hesitant. “Katniss, you can’t stay up forever.”

She sighs. “All right,” she agrees reluctantly. “But just for a few hours. Then you wake me.”

She lays down atop the sleeping bag and I lean against the wall, sitting beside her. She fidgets for a little while, but I think she’s just more nervous to let her guard down, rather than trying to get comfortable. “Go to sleep,” I say gently, brushing her hair away from her face. I keep my eyes fixed on the cave entrance, but I continue stroking her hair long after she finally drifts to sleep. 

It’s an uneventful few hours, but I continue to keep a steadfast watch on our hideout, only occasionally glancing down to see Katniss sleeping peacefully. I can’t imagine how exhausted she must be or what she’s been through since the Games started. We haven’t exactly had time to catch up. She’s been so concerned with taking care of me that I’m afraid she’ll work herself mad. I’m glad she accepted my invitation to take her turn to sleep. 

As the hours go by, I debate if I should wake her or not. She’s been asleep for a bit longer than I think she intended, but she’s clearly exhausted, and there’s been no sign of disturbance outside. I decide to let her sleep as long as she can. I can feel my fever returning as chills runs down my body and sweat builds up on my forehead, and, even though I’m thirsty, I know Katniss will make me drink later so I don’t bother to help myself. My body aches from yesterday’s events and my leg continues to pain me, constantly throbbing and feeling like a million tiny knives are piercing me over and over again. But I push aside the pain and tell myself that as long as Katniss is here, everything is going to be alright.

She awakes a couple hours later with a start. With one glance outside, she says “Peeta, you were supposed to wake me up after a couple of hours.”

“For what?” I ask. “Nothing’s going on here. Besides, I like watching you sleep. You don’t scowl. Improves your look a lot.” She glowers at me, and I grin in return. 

She sits up, alarmed, and tests my temperature by pressing the back of her hand to my cheek. “Peeta, have you been drinking water?” 

“Of course,” I say. That is, if you count the water she gave me yesterday. I don’t want her to lash out at me again for not taking care of myself, though I’m sure I deserve it. 

She doesn’t seem to believe me. Smart girl. She makes me drink two full bottles of water and gives me a couple more fever pills to swallow. She again removes my shirt and treats my burns and stings, and by the look of them it seems like her treatment yesterday has been effective. After ensuring that’s taken care of, she moves down to inspect my leg again. She unwraps it slowly, and it doesn’t take a medical expert to see that my wound hasn’t gotten any better. In fact, it seems to have gotten much, much worse. It’s swollen and glowing red, with bright red streaks advancing, signaling that the infection is starting to spread into the rest of my leg. Blood poisoning. My father once told me that when he was a boy, one of his friends tried to escape the district on the day of the reaping by crawling over a barbed wire fence. One of the exposed wires cut a huge gash in his thigh as he jumped to the other side. The Peacekeepers found him a few hours later, injured and not able to get far enough away, but instead of killing him on the spot, as they usually do when someone ditches the reaping, they brought him home and refused treatment to him. It didn’t take long for the infection to spread, and within a week, the blood poisoning had killed him.

I can tell Katniss had hoped for improvement, or at least hoped to prevent my injury from worsening, but the look on her face doesn’t do much to hide her hopelessness. “Well, there’s more swelling, but the pus is gone,” she says, clearly trying to make me think it’s not nearly as bad as it is, but I’m not buying it.

“I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss,” I tell her. “Even if my mother isn’t a healer.”

My understanding of the situation only seems to upset her more. “You’re just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta. They’ll cure it back at the Capitol when we win.”

Do I even have that much time left? I think to myself. And how does she expect to win when I’m getting worse, not better? But if Haymitch wanted to send us medicine, wouldn’t he have done it by now? My hope is depleting, and fast.

Katniss insists that I should eat and keep my strength up, but despite my pleas against it, she goes outside to light a fire and make soup. I try to follow after her, stop her from running the risk of disclosing our location with the smoke of the fire, but she assures me that she’ll be okay and brushes me off. I obediently go lie down on top of the sleeping bag and try to rest, but for the most part I keep one eye open. My fever is growing worse and my head and body aches, making it impossible to fall asleep. Instead, I stare straight ahead, fumbling with a pebble between my fingers, trying to distract myself from the pain.

To my relief, Katniss returns a little while later, with an air of casualness that resembles returning home after a typical day at work.

“Do you want anything?” she asks.

“No, thank you,” I say, convinced that nothing can be done to alleviate the agony I’m in. At this point, I just need a distraction. Something to take my mind off of the despair. “Wait, yes,” I say, changing my mind. “Tell me a story.”

“A story?” she asks, surprised by my request. “What about?”

“Something happy,” I say. “Tell me about the happiest day you can remember.”

I wait expectantly as she stews over this prompt in her head. “Did I ever tell you about how I got Prim’s goat?” she finally asks, and I shake my head, curious. 

She pauses for a moment before beginning, considering her words carefully. She tells me how her mother had once owned an antique silver locket. It had been in her father’s family for several generations, and he’d given it to her shortly after they’d started going out. After her father died, however, her mother had hidden the locket in grief; just the thought of it could set off an endless stream of sobs. Figuring she had no use for it, and having decided its sentimental value couldn’t compare to the tangible goods that could be bought with it, Katniss recovered the locket and decided to take it to the market and see how much she could sell it for. She talks about how she’d found a buyer and all of a sudden had more money than she’d ever held in her hands before. At this point I start to doubt the validity of her story. Fine goods and jewelry aren’t of much value in District 12. Only a fool would waste their money on that, rather than spending the little they have on something practical like food. I also know that Katniss rarely goes to the market to trade and sell. The illegal black market, nicknamed the Hob, which is located on the poorer end of town, the Seam, is Katniss’ typical stomping grounds after a hunt in the woods with Gale. I know this because my dad often trades them bread for squirrels, an under-the-table exchange that probably wouldn’t make the Capitol too happy. I commend Katniss’ cleverness in avoiding any scrutiny from the Capitol officials watching us right now.

Nonetheless, Katniss goes on, and I hang onto her every word. Now that she had more money than she knew what to do with, she and Gale went to the square to purchase something special for her little sister Prim’s tenth birthday. She tells me that as she was shopping for material to make her sister a new dress, a herd of goats owned by a guy she calls Goat Man caught her eye. One of them, a small one with white and black spots, was lying in a cart, clearly sustaining some sort of injury that’d been inflicted by a dog or other wild animal. The goat had a growing infection and couldn’t even stand on its own to be milked. However, Katniss figured that her sister Prim, who is an animal-lover and spends a lot of time with her mother the healer, may be able to nurse it back to health. 

She and Gale went in to take a closer look at the goat, but Goat Man informed them that she was headed to the butcher, and that, because she was sick, her milk was losing its value and she wasn’t worth keeping around. Later on, the butcher, a woman named Rooba that I actually knew quite well back in District 12, shows up and revokes her offer, claiming that only so much could be salvaged for meat since the goat’s shoulder was mauled and infected. In reality, as Katniss tells me, she thinks that Rooba let her have it. Katniss and Goat Man bartered back and forth for a prize; she argued that if the goat died, the man would have gotten more than his money’s worth, but he argued that if somehow the goat lived, Katniss would be practically winning the lottery. Goats are great animals to have around. Their milk can be sold for a good price, they make nice companions, and, when they’ve reached their old age, they can be sold for meat. A crowd even gathered around the scene to watch the trade, each one of them taking their own side. Eventually, Katniss and Goat Man finally met somewhere in the middle and agreed on a reasonable price.

Katniss tells me that Prim was overjoyed, to say the least, when they brought the goat home, which Katniss had adorned in a bright pink bow to make the gift extra-special. Prim, unable to contain her excitement, went right to work on fixing up the new little goat. She decided to name it Lady. She and her mother whipped up some herbal concoctions to treat the infection, and together they brewed medicine and helped Lady slowly drink it down.

“They sound like you,” I interject. I am the goat, and I can only hope that the outcome of my treatment is as successful as Lady’s.

“On, no, Peeta,” she says humbly. “They work magic. That thing couldn’t have died if it tried.” There’s an award pause as Katniss senses she’s said something wrong.

“Don’t worry. I’m not trying,” I joke. “Finish the story.”

“Well, that’s it,” she says. “Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady on a blanket next to the fire. And just before they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giving her a good night kiss or something. It was already mad about her.” 

Wow, this goat really does remind me of me, I amuse myself in my head. “Was it still wearing the pink ribbon?” I ask.

“I think so, why?” she asks.

“Just trying to get the picture,” I say as I nestle contentedly against her. “I can see why that day made you happy.” Her story definitely did not disappoint. I loved having a conversation about home, rather than having every interaction between us be about how I should be drinking more water or trying to gloss over how bad my injury is. I realize there is so much about Katniss that I don’t know, and I hope that I have an opportunity to hear more.

“Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine,” she says nostalgically.

“Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping,” I joke sarcastically.

“The goat has paid for itself. Several times over,” she says, as if trying to prove herself. 

“Well, it wouldn’t dare do anything else after you saved its life,” I say. “I intend to do the same thing.”

“Really?” she says, testing me. “What did you cost me again?”

“A lot of trouble. Don’t worry. You’ll get it all back,” I assure her, hoping that this is a promise I can keep. 

“You’re not making sense,” she says, probably thinking that my fever has made me woozy. In my head, however, I’m making total sense. “You’re a little cooler though” she reports after taking my temperature. 

Suddenly I hear the sound of the trumpet. Katniss jumps to her feet and breaks towards the cave opening, determined to hear the incoming announcement. I don’t bother moving from my spot. Still, I can hear the booming sound of Claudius Templesmith’s voice.

“Attention, tributes,” he begins again. “It is my pleasure to invite each of you to a feast tomorrow morning,” he pauses for a moment, like he’s allowing for a reaction. “Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately.”

At these words, Katniss looks back at me, clearly thinking the same thing. My medicine. I shake my head. It’s a trap, and they’re trying to lure us in. 

“Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance,” he concludes, and the arena falls silent again. His message seemed very pointed, and I find it hard to believe that any other tribute needs anything as desperately as I do.

Katniss starts to move but I grip her shoulder to stop her. “No,” I say. “You’re not risking your life for me.”

“Who said I was?” she argues.

“So, you’re not going?” I ask.

“Of course, I’m not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I’m running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don’t be stupid,” she says, laying me back down and tucking me back into the sleeping bag. “I’ll let them fight it out, we’ll see who’s in the sky tomorrow night, and work out a plan from there.”

I don’t believe her for a second. “You’re such a bad liar, Katniss. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long. ‘I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You’re a  little cooler though. Of course, I’m not going,’” I imitate. “Never gamble at cards. You’ll lose your last coin.”

Katniss looks like she’s been caught red-handed. “All right, I am going,” she confesses. “And you can’t stop me.”

“I can follow you. At least partway. I may not be able to make it to the Cornucopia, but if I’m yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I’ll be dead for sure.”

“You won’t get a hundred yards from here on that leg,” she argues. 

“Then I’ll drag myself,” I say, not giving in. “You go and I’m going, too.”

She’s absolutely appalled by my resistance. “What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?”

“I won’t die, I promise,” I say, now with even more determination.“If you promise not to go.”

She seems beat. “Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!” she calls me out, anger rising up in her.

I nod innocently. “Agreed. Is it ready?” I ask. Actually, soup doesn’t sound too bad right now. 

“Wait here,” she says, and exits the cave. I think to follow her partway out, just to make sure she’s not trying to escape, but my lack of trust in her will probably only anger her more. 

She returns with a pot of steaming soup, and I eat all that she gives me. “Wow, Katniss, this is incredible,” I say. “You know, my dad doesn’t just bake, he’s actually a pretty decent cook too. He makes stew with those squirrels he buys from you. I don’t know how he does it. A little of this, a little of that, and boom, icky dead squirrel turns to yummy soup. Gives the Capitol’s plumb and lamb stew a run for its money!” 

She grins and shakes her head like I’m talking like a crazy person. Maybe I am. My fever is rising and it seems like I’ve lost any filter I’ve had on my speech as I continue to talk about back home, and my words start to slur together. Her amusement turns to concern.

She lays my head down and tells me she’s going to step out for a minute to wash up. I try and protest, but again I stop myself, knowing that if I don’t trust her, how can we be allies?

I’m overcome with exhaustion and tell myself to close my eyes for a moment and slip in a bit of sleep, but I’m shivering so much that I can’t manage. The cave is a bit cold, but I know that it’s my worsening fever and blood poisoning progressing up through my body that make me feel as sickly as I am.

Katniss, to my relief, returns a short time later. “I’ve brought you a treat,” she says pleasantly. “I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream.” She carries a small bowl filled with a dark berry-colored mush. 

After eating my fill of her soup, my appetite has only gone up. I open my mouth willingly, ready for a sweet conclusion to my first full meal in days. 

As soon as the mush enters my mouth, my face contorts at the unexpected sweetness, far exceeding that of any berries I’ve tasted before. 

“They’re very sweet,” I tell her.

“Yes, they’re sugar berries,” she responds nonchalantly. “My mother makes jam from them. Haven’t you ever had them before?” She feeds me another spoonful.

“No,” I tell her. I do recognize the taste, but it’s not like any jam I’ve ever tasted. “But they do taste familiar. Sugar berries?” We make plenty of spreads at the bakery, from blackberry jam to orange marmalade, but I’ve never heard of sugar berries.

“Well, you can’t get them in the market much, they only grow wild,” she says as she feeds me another spoonful. We only use fruit from the market, but then why is this unique taste so familiar? The memory associated with it is slowly coming back to me, but I just can’t put my finger on it…

“They’re sweet as syrup,” I think out loud. She scrapes out the pot and feeds me the last spoonful, which I let sit on my tongue a little longer, trying to concentrate. “Syrup.” I repeat, and then it dawns on me. The familiar taste isn’t that of berries at all. 

My mind flashes to my first memory of this sweet taste. I think I was eight years old. I’d just started working with my father at the bakery. Right after I got home from school, I’d drop my bag off in my room, wash up, and go straight downstairs to help him take stock and clean up. On this particular day, while my father ran to the market to make a last-minute purchase, I was in charge of putting away ingredients. I stood upon a three-legged stool to put a large jar of sugar on a tall shelf. I had to stand on my tip-toes to reach, and just as the jar was teetering on the edge of the shelf, I lost my balance. All at once, the stool tipped over and I and the jar came crashing to the ground. I banged my head on the wood floor, and a shower of glass and sugar crystals exploded around me. Before I could register what had happened, I heard my mother screaming. 

“What’s going on down there?” she snarled, her voice echoing from upstairs. Angry footsteps followed as she rushed down the stairs. 

She stood before me, face red with anger, fists clenched. I didn’t make eye contact with her as I pushed myself up from the ground and dusted myself off. I’d barely been standing for three seconds when she rushed towards me and shoved me back to the ground.

“Clean it up!” she screamed, storming out of the room. I waited for the slam of the door before I burst into tears. 

I sat there in the mess I’d made, blood seeping out of my palms and tears flowing freely from my eyes. When my father finally arrived home, I still hadn’t moved.

Unlike my mother, he approached me with care and concern. He scooped me up from the mess and sat me down on the counter. He wiped the tears from my eyes, picked the shards of glass from my hands, rinsed me off, and wrapped me up in bandages. 

“I’m so sorryー” I began, but again started to cry.

“Shhhh,” he cooed, ruffling my hair and touching my face gently. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll clean it up. You should go off to bed.”

“I don’t want to go upstairs,” I said. “She’s mad at me.”

He nodded his head understandingly, putting the pieces together. “You can sleep down here. I’ll make you a little nest on the couch.”

He lined his favorite chair with a blanket and pillow and laid me down gently. He gave me a kiss on the forehead, pulled the blanket over my shoulders, and then went to retrieve a broom and dustpan.

But I couldn’t fall asleep. The tears came back and I sniffled and heaved my shoulders as I sobbed my heart out. Every time I closed my eyes I just saw her, with her eyebrows furrowed and steam coming out of her ears. When my father returned an hour later to check on me, he saw I was still awake.

“Can’t sleep, buddy?” he asked.

I couldn’t speak, so I shook my head in response.

“I’ll tell you what, I have a secret recipe for little boys who can’t sleep. It’ll make all the pain go away,” he promised. “Come to the kitchen and I’ll show you.”

I watched him as he heated water in the kettle on the stove and brewed me a cup of mint tea. He then removed a small purple bottle from the medicine cabinet and added a splash of the thick liquid to the cup, giving it a stir. 

With a gentle smile, he handed me the mug. I took a sip, and there is was: that sweet, syrupy, irresistible taste. My tastebuds craved more of it, and I downed the cup quickly. In an instant my body became heavy, my eyelids drooped, and I was mentally drained to the point where I’d forgotten all about the day’s events. My dad scooped me up into his arms the moment he saw me start to wobble. The next thing I remember was the following morning, waking up in my bed, with no recollection of how I got there.

Katniss is drugging me. She’s knocking me out so I can’t stop her from going to the feast. My eyes widen and Katniss notices my sudden realization. I try and spit what’s left of the mixture out, but I’m too late. Katniss has already pressed her hand against my mouth and plugged my nose; unable to breathe, I’m forced to swallow. I pound on my stomach to try and force it back up, but I quickly lose the strength in my arms, and my vision begins to fade. I feel weak, powerless, and so, so sleepy, and then everything goes black. 

Category: Original Characters
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 18

January 5, 2020 Published by spamifischer

Chapter 18

 

The new day seems strangely hopeful. Though the night was cold, the morning sun is very quick do its work, and I feel the heat radiate through my body. I wonder if Katniss is looking for me. 

It is not long after I wake that my question is answered. I hear the sloshing of water closer to the stream, and my name spoken in a hushed but desperate voice. I am laying at enough of an incline that I don’t have to muster the strength to lift my head in order to see the source of the noise. With my eyes cracked, I can just barely make out the dark-haired tribute wading in the water. Katniss. She’s too far away to call out to, but then she begins to move closer.

She’s looking down at the rocks, observing them closely for any signs that I was here. She rubs its surface and brings her fingers up for a closer look, observing the blood. My blood. I must’ve left a trail when I fled from Cato. Good thing she’s the one finding it rather than someone else.

When she’s close enough to hear me, I finally speak out. “You here to finish me off, sweetheart?” My voice sounds like a stranger’s, raspy as if I’d been smoking, but loud and clear enough to startle her. I smirk at my use of Haymitch’s nickname that irked her so much, though it should be a dead giveaway that it’s me and not some other incapacitated tribute who decorates cakes and is excellent at camouflage. 

She jumps and spins around, searching for the source of the voice. Her bow and arrow is in hand, ready to defend, but the look on her face is confused, inquisitive, maybe even excited. “Peeta?” she says, “Where are you?” She moves closer, still searching, until she’s just above me.

“Well, don’t step on me.” My voice is a bit stronger now, starting to sound more like my own as I’m overcome with joy at the sight of her. 

She jumps again, more so this time than the last. I open my eyes wide and smile, and a laugh escapes me as I observe her acting so startled and confused, like she’s heard a ghost. Finally her eyes meet mine, and a smile spreads across her face, causing mine to widen even more. 

“Close your eyes again,” she commands, and I obey. I feel her kneel next to me and rest her hand on my chest. “I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off,” she jokes.

I smile back. “Yes, frosting,” I chuckle, “The final defense of they dying.”

“You’re not going to die,” she says, her joking tone gone. 

“Says who?” I counter, allowing my jokes to subside as well.

“Says me,” she says matter-of-factly. “We’re on the same team now, you know.”

“So I’ve heard. Nice of you to find what’s left of me,” I say, looking up into her bright grey eyes with my blue, tired ones.

She doesn’t respond to this, but instead reaches into her pack and pulls out a bottle of water, offering it to me. I take a swig, feeling the cool clean water rush down my esophagus like a flood in the desert. 

“Did Cato cut you?” she asks. So she does remember.

I give her the slightest nod. “Left leg, up high.”

“Let’s get you in the stream,” she says. “Wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you’ve got.”

“Lean down a minute first,” I say, an idea hatching in my brain. She’s come to find me, so she at least has some sense of what she’s signed up for and what Haymitch expects of her. Now is the time for the story of the star-crossed lovers to continue. “Remember, we’re madly in love,” I whisper to her as she leans down, “so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”

I’m not sure if the audience heard this, but it doesn’t matter. Katniss bursts into laughter and that’s enough to make me fall, for real, all over again. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind,” she says, a wide smile still etched on her face. She digs her right arm underneath my shoulders and uses her left arm to support my head as she heaves me out of the mud, but her touch is comforting and gentle. This is the most that my body has moved in days, and it takes everything not to let out a gasp of pain.

But that is just the beginning. She uncovers the rest of my body and tries to urge me to pull myself over to the stream, but I am so weak that I can’t lift so much as a finger. If she weren’t holding it up, my head would fall immediately back to the ground. She has to drag me herself, and with one large tug she frees me from my resting spot that I’ve spent the last several days molding into, but as she does so, though I bite my lip and grit my teeth, I can’t help by cry out in pain. 

She looks absolutely distressed now that she’s realized just how badly I’m injured. And the tears rolling down my cheeks, the blood flowing from the lip I’ve been biting, and the sounds of anguish that escape only begin to illustrate the excruciating pain I’m in. “Look, Peeta,” she says, “I’m going to roll you into the stream. It’s very shallow here, okay?”

“Excellent,” I say, as if she’s just told she’s planned a lovely walk in the park. She kneels down on the side of me that’s opposite of the river. It’s only a couple feet away, but rolling like a log across a rocky surface when I feel just about as fragile as paper mâché makes me a bit nervous. But this plan is as good as any.

“One, two, three!” she says as she pushes me forward. But when I cry out in agony, the loudest and most pierced sound I’ve made yet, she reaches out her hand to barricade me from rolling further. I’m still not in the water, but after that experience, I hope I don’t have to get any closer.

“Okay, change of plans,” she says with a shortness of breath. “I’m not going to put you all the way in.”

“No more rolling?” I ask, sounding relieved.

She shakes her head, “That’s all done. Let’s get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?” she asks as she removes two water bottles from her pack and begins filling them in the stream. 

“Roger that,” I say, but my voice is so cracked and quiet that I don’t think she hears me. I can barely even see the woods from here, but I keep my eyes and ears alert as ever. 

She begins dumping the contents of one bottle over my body as the others continue filling and rubs away the mud and grime that encases me. It takes several rounds to clean me up enough to see my clothes and skin. When she is able to access my jacket, she unzips it and slowly unbuttons my shirt, biting her lips. Gently she removes them, again having to use one arm to lift my upper body and the other to shimmy them off. My undershirt poses a bit of a problem because the mud, blood, and tracker jacker puss has made it stick to my body. With a bit more water she works it loose and cuts it away carefully with her knife. I lay there shirtless, unmoving, as she assesses the damage. I try to keep my eyes on the woods rather than watching her inspect my body, but I can feel her soft touch moving across my chest as she feels my long burn and the various stings that are still swollen. 

She positions her elbows under my armpits and lifts my upward so my back rests against a large rock rather than the mud puddle I laid in previously. I commend her strength but, taking a good look at my body for the first time since the Games began, I can see that several pounds have been shred. What used to be muscle in my arms and shoulders has diminished rapidly. My skin, once healthy and glowing, is dry, cracking, and sunburnt. The skin on torso, now exposed, is clinging to my ribs. Katniss gently fills more bottles with water and cleans the dried mud from my hair, face, and upper body. She gingerly inspects my four tracker jacker stings, which I neglected to remove, and not-so-gingerly plucks them out. My face is contorted in pain as I try not to make a noise. But then she reaches into her bag, pulls out a handful of large green leaves and, one at a time, places them in her mouth. I think to question this odd behavior, but the intentionality that accompanies her actions prevents me from doubting her tactics. After a moment, she removes a sloppy, dark green wad from her mouth and pushes it onto one of my stings. The relief is immediate. She hold it there as I sulk into the rock, eyes closed gratefully, letting out ooooos and ahhhhs. She puts another leaf in her mouth, chews it, and places it against another sting. I thank my lucky stars that Katniss paid attention during the plant identification station, or maybe this is knowledge she picked up from her mother, who is a healer back in District 12. I wonder if there’s some sort of miraculous herbal treatment for my leg, too, but I don’t think I’d be that lucky.

After she’s covered all my burns in leaves and spit, she steals away to the river to wash out my shirt and jacket and lays them out to dry on the rocks. I fantasize about how it will feel to wear clean clothes. She then retrieves a tiny jar of cream from her pack and begins spreading the cooling lotion across the large burn on my chest, again providing immediate relief. I wonder where she got such medicine, but again, I am too weak and too indifferent to ask. Diligent in her work, like a nurse working in an intensive care unit, she places the back of her hand to my forehead, and it feels so cold on my skin. She shakes her head, troubled, and digs through her pack to retrieve a bottle of pills.

“Swallow these,” she instructs, and again I oblige without question. She takes one last look up and down my upper half, double checking that she’s treated all the injuries she can. “You must be hungry,” she says next.

“Not really,” I reply, realizing that I haven’t eaten in forever. “It’s funny, I haven’t been hungry for days.” Testing my theory, Katniss removes what looks like a piece of roasted bird she must’ve caught, and holds it out for me to take. My stomach lurches and I turn away for the food; the thought of stomaching anything at this point seems impossible.

“Peeta, we need to get some food in you,” she says sternly, holding it closer still.

“It’ll just come right back up,” I say. But Katniss refuses to move on without making me eat something. She removes a pack of dried apples and, one tiny piece at a time, holds them out to me. Out of obligation rather than hunger, I reluctantly accept her offer. After about four tiny bits, I can’t bring myself to accept anymore, and I shake my head in refusal. This clearly upsets her, and I know she’s right. If I have any chance of getting better I need to eat, but now just does not feel like the time. I try to cheer her up by saying “Thanks. I’m much better, really,” even though I’m feeling more depleted now than ever. Since she found me, though I am so grateful for her care and treatment, all the movement and sun exposure has been painful and exhausting. “Can I sleep now, Katniss?” I ask, trying not to sound too desperate or helpless, though I definitely do.

“Soon,” she assures me. “I need to look at your leg first.”

Uh oh. Here it goes. Even I haven’t seen the full extent of the damage that Cato’s sword has done to me, and I don’t think I’m ready to. As gently as she can, though it still hurts, Katniss removes my boots and socks. Then, she holds her breath as she unbuttons my pants and slowly wiggles them off of me, stripping me down to my undershorts. I close my eyes, not wanting to see the reality of my injury that causes Katniss to gasp.

I open my eyes. Looking at the exposed, oozing gash in my leg causes me to experience the pain all over again. It’s gotten much worse, raw and swollen, and now that it’s uncovered, I can smell the rotting flesh. Flies buzz around it as if that part of me was an animal carcass. 

Katniss’ face says it all. If she were any more animated, she’s practically be turning green with eyes the size of lemons. Despite her appalled initial reaction, I watch her take a deep breath through her mouth and try to compose herself.

“Pretty bad, huh?” I break the silence.

“So-so,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, but I know she’s covering up how she really feels: there’s no way I can fix this. However, she forces herself to have an optimistic composure, not wanting to add fire to my claim that I am, indeed, dying. “You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines,” she says. I try and picture victims of mine explosions, covered in third-degree burns or maybe even missing fingers or limbs. Has she really had experience with that kind of thing before? After another deep breath, Katniss further inspects my wound. “First thing is to clean it well,” she says. She seems unsure, but it’s a good start.

She gets to work, filling and dumping more bottles of water over the entirety of my lower body. In the same way she treated my other injuries, she tends to the minor scrapes, burns, and one additional tracker jacker sting that I hadn’t even noticed on my legs. After handling what she can, she pauses again at the gash running up my left thigh. Yes, it’s a bit cleaner than before, but now what?

“Why don’t we give it some air and then…” she trails off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

“And then you’ll patch it up?” I suggest hesitantly. I’m equally as clueless as she is; the worst injury I’ve ever treated was burns from the oven or occasionally icing a lump inflicted by my mother’s rolling pin. Deep, debilitating leg lacerations are far out of my realm of expertise.  

“That’s right,” she agrees, but still seems unsure of how exactly to do that. “In the meantime, you eat these,” she says, lifting my hand and placing a few dried pears in my cupped palm. She goes back to the stream to wash off my pants and sets it to dry on a rock alongside my shirt and jacket. As I watch her, I honor her request and eat the pears. It takes all my strength to lift my hand to my mouth and hold the pear pieces up for me to nibble on, little by little. I see her unload her first aid kit, deciding what, if anything, can help with my situation.

She returns to my side with the kit and sets it down. “We’re going to have to experiment some,” she says. Sounds good to me; at this point, something is aways better than nothing. I hope that the experimentation doesn’t involve amputating my leg; I’m not sure if I’m ready to part with it just yet.

She plops another handful of leaves in her mouth and begins to chew them, like she did for the tracker jacker stings. Once they’ve turned to mush, she presses them into the wound and I try my best not to wince from the pressure. As a result, a large amount of yellow pus escapes the wound, and it makes it so hard to keep down the pears that I struggled to swallow in the first place.

“Katniss?” I say, steering her head away from the sight. I think what she might need right now is some comic relief. This situation is, clearly, much worse than she had expected. “How about that kiss?” I mouth to her, giving her an exaggerated wink.

She explodes in laughter, momentarily enjoying the irony of the most non-romantic situation two people could ever be in. I will say, this is not how I’d hoped a first date with Katniss would go. However, she did get me to strip down, so I must’ve done something right.

“Something wrong?” I ask, trying to maintain my innocent yet dead-serious tone. 

Her laughter dissipates, quickly turning to distress. “I… I’m no good at this,” she says. “I’m not my mother. I’ve no idea what I’m doing, and I hate pus!” She lets out a few groans of disgust as she forces herself to remove the leaves, rinse the pus, and then places newly chewed leaves in the wound again to remove even more.

She must be used to gore, to some extent. Maybe she’s never seen anything quite like this, but like she said, sick people are brought into her house often, and I’m sure she has to clean and gut the animals she kills as well. “How do you hunt?” I ask her, emphasizing the last word.

“Trust me,” she says. “Killing things is much easier than this. Although for all I know, I am killing you.”

This makes me chuckle. “Can you speed it up a bit?”

“No,” she says sternly. “Shut up and eat your pears.” I guess she doesn’t appreciate my light-hearted jokes about death.

A little while later she’s completed three rounds of pus draining. It was painful and absolutely revolting, but on the bright side, the swelling and redness have gone down.

“What’s next, Dr. Everdeen?” I ask, feeling a little bit better now that I’ve eaten my pears and gotten used to the rancid smell.

“Maybe I’ll put some burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?” she says, the last word was said as a question rather than a statement. She wipes down the wound again, applies some of the burn cream, and retrieves gauze and an elastic bandage roll from her first aid kit. She wraps the injury gently, covering my entire leg from my calf up until my upper thigh, just beneath my undershorts. 

She seems troubled for a moment. “Here, cover yourself up with this一” she hands me a small backpack, “一and I’ll wash your shorts.”
This almost makes me laugh. “Oh, I don’t care if you see me,” I assure her. I’m half dead, and she’s already seen the mutilated inside of my leg, now why is she worried about seeing me naked?
“You’re just like the rest of my family. I care, all right?” she says angrily. She turns to allow for some privacy as I remove my shorts. Slowly and painfully, I shimmy them over my wound, and when they’re off I toss them into the stream so Katniss doesn’t have to turn around to retrieve them. 

“You know, you’re kind of squeamish for sch a lethal person,” I say to her as she washes my shorts in the river. Oddly, this reminds me of the first night in the train, where she was appalled by the thought of washing Haymitch after he’d taken a dip in his own vomit. “I wish I’d let you give Haymitch a shower after all.” Indeed, it would’ve been good practice.

My mention of Haymitch allows her to change the subject. “What’s he sent you so far?”

“Not a thing,” I say. I wonder if Katniss expected that’d I’d receive anything. She probably has no idea how desirable she is to sponsors in comparison to me. “Why, did you get something?”

“Burn medicine,” she responds shyly, sounding ashamed that she’s received special treatment. “Oh, and some bread.”

Wow, bread? Now I’m a little jealous. Surely a crummy drop biscuit wouldn’t have set any sponsors back that much. Some of my appetite has returned, and I would love a little taste of home. “I always knew you were his favorite,” I tease.

“Please, he can’t stand being in the same room as me,” she says.

“Because you’re just alike,” I say under my breath. It’s true. Both Haymitch and Katniss are hard-headed, determined people. She has much more in common with Haymitch than I do. The only difference is I made an effort to have pleasant interactions with him, rather than purposefully hostile ones. She ignores my comment, or perhaps she doesn’t hear it.

“Your clothes are still drying,” she points out, “maybe you should get some rest while we wait. You’ll need your strength.”

“Good idea, sweetheart,” I say teasingly. I lay my head down on the rock and close my eyes. Today, though I’ve only moved a few feet, has been absolutely draining. I pull the backpack over me to cover myself out of courtesy, and I drift to sleep in moments.

 

I awake some time later to Katniss gently shaking my shoulder. “Peeta, we’ve got to go now,” she says.

“Go?” I ask. The thought of relocating sounds painfully impossible, considering I can’t walk, let alone crawl. “Go where?”
“Away from here,” she says. “Downstream maybe. Somewhere we can hide until you’re stronger.” I wonder when, and more importantly, if, I will ever be stronger. But she’s right, we’ll be sitting ducks if we stay here much longer. 

She helps me redress, and it feels good to finally be wearing clean clothes. I finally realize just so happy I am that she is here. Talking to another person, getting helped out of the mud, and being treated to the best of her abilities, has made me feel immensely better.

Though it’s excruciatingly painful, I cooperate with what she does next. She places my arm over her shoulder and heaves me to a standing position. All the blood drains from my face, and at one point I accidentally put weight on my bad leg and I scream; feeling like any moment I’m going to crumple and pass out. 

“Come on. You can do this,” Katniss encourages me. I muster all my strength to not resist, and help as much as I can, as we make our way downstream, meandering through the shallow water rather than the rocky river bank.

She does most of the heavy lifting, but I do my best to limp along, bearing weight with my right leg but keeping my left leg elevated. We haven’t even made it that far, but my breathing is growing heavier with every step, my heart is racing, and my vision is becoming blurry. She sets me down on the edge of the stream and helps me sit up, pushing my head between my knees so I can close my eyes and take deeps breaths. I guess we’ve made it over a hundred feet from our original spot, but I wonder just how far we have to keep going, because I don’t think I can take it anymore. Tears welling in my eyes, I want to beg Katniss to stop, but I must do what she says. I can hear the words Haymitch said to us as we entered the Remake Center. Don’t resist. No matter how painful, no matter how hopeless it all feels, no matter how much you’d rather just lay down and give up, don’t resist. And, of course, I remember his signature mantra, stay alive. Surely I cannot do that if I don’t let Katniss do what she thinks is best.

She lifts me again and, in the same way, we hobble further downstream. She’s practically carrying me at this point. We make it about half the distance we did on our first attempt, but my heart is racing harder now, my breaths are heavier, my vision blurs, and in my anxiety and sickness, I am shivering. 

Unsure of where exactly we’ve stopped, I allow Katniss to set me down, and I resume the head-between-knees position, catching my breath. She leaves my side for a moment to inspect our new location. I lift my head to see her collecting needles and entering a small cave formed by boulders only a few feet away from me. She emerges from the cave a minute later after unloading her packs, and comes back to help me again. She drags my towards the opening in the rock, and I grit my teeth and again try to help as much as I can by pushing off the rock with my good leg. 

Once inside the cave, Katniss helps me wiggle into a sleeping bag she’s set up and props me up on a rock. I am so numb and exhausted that I hardly register where I am or what’s going on around me. I stare blankly ahead of me as Katniss bustles about and forces more water and pills into me. She tries to give me more dried fruit, but I seal my mouth shut, refusing it. After that journey we made downstream, my stomach is churning, and I know for sure that anything I take in will certainly come back up. She puts the food away, frustrated, and busies herself with making a cover for the cave, but seems to grow more frustrated still.

I feel so bad for her. She expected to find an ally, and what she got was a helpless wreck that will hold her back far more than help her. It makes me feel selfish for the gratitude that I have now that she’s here with me. If she hadn’t shown up, I honestly do wonder how long it would’ve taken me to die under that rock. “Katniss,” I say feebly, beckoning her toward me. She kneels at my side and pushes the blonde locks away from my forehead dripping in cold sweat. “Thanks for finding me,” I say, offering her a weak smile, which she returns.

“You would’ve found me if you could,” she says. I suppose she’s right. If I were able-bodied and thought I could help protect her, thought that we had a fighting chance of going home as a winning team, I would’ve sought her out the moment the announcement faded out. But instead, she’s stuck with more dead weight that she doesn’t need. Despite the treatment she’s given me, I’m not too optimistic of getting better without the help of miraculous new medicine. Chances are, I’ll still die here in this arena, and then any hope I have of a relationship with Katniss outside of the Games will die along with me. 

“Yes,” I agree. “Look, if I don’t make it back一”

She cuts me off. “I didn’t drain all that pus for nothing.”

“I know,” I say. “But just in case I don’t一”

She cuts me off again. “No, Peeta, I don’t even want to discuss it,” she says, placing her fingers over my mouth to prevent me from argument further.

“But I一”

She finishes my thought for me, but not in the way I expect. Before I realize what’s happening, she’s leaning forward and kissing me. I close my eyes, and I kiss her back. The feel of her lips on mine sends a rush of heat through my cold and feverish body, resurrecting me in a way that sloppy leaf globs and burn medicine could not.

She breaks away from the kiss and pulls my sleeping bag up a bit more, like she’s tucking me in. She places her hand under my chin, forcing me to look into her eyes.

“You’re not going to die,” she says. “I forbid it. All right?”

“All right,” I whisper in agreement. 

She leaves the cave and I allow myself to close my eyes and drift off. I am so fatigued that I’m asleep in seconds. In my dreams I hear a distant voice calling my name, and no more than a moment later I’m roused from my sleep; I open my eyes to seeing Katniss’ face in front of mine, kissing me awake. Instinctively I jump, this being the last thing I expected. While I’m surprised by this method of getting my attention, I certainly don’t have a problem with it. Gleefully I gaze up at her, wondering if she’s doing this because she wants to or because she feels like she needs to, for the audience. 

“Peeta,” she says, holding up a small golden pot covered with a lid. “Look what Haymitch has sent you.”

My heart leaps at the assumption that the pot contains my medicine. But when she lifts the lid, steam rises from it, revealing that the pot isn’t filled with medicine, but with warm broth. She inches it towards my lips, but they remain sealed shut. I’m still afraid I won’t be able to stomach anything. 

Katniss is taken aback by my resistance. When I was little, soup was always the ultimate cure for any sickness. So why does it now seem so repulsive? 

“C’mon, Peeta, it will make you feel better,” she says. “You need liquids.” I still crinkle my nose as she holds it closer.

“Okay, fine,” she says. “How about this: one kiss for one sip?”

I consider this for a moment. Surely one sip at a time can’t be too bad. “Sounds like a pretty good deal to me,” I say, smirking at her. 

True to my deal, I take my first sip of broth. The warm liquid runs down my throat and I can almost feel it splashing into my empty stomach. With each sip I feel better, but I still nurse the pot, knowing that more sips means more kisses. Why take it all in one big gulp when you can drag it out a bit longer? When I’ve drained the pot, Katniss leans in for another kiss, and I, not wanting it to end, lift my hand to cradle her head and pull her a little bit closer. We both lay there entangled with one another, my heart fluttering, her lips locked to mine. In that moment, for the first time in days, all of my pain fades away.

Category: Original Characters
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 17

January 4, 2020 (updated January 4, 2020) Published by spamifischer

Chapter 17

 

Somehow during the night, I manage to drift off because when I awake again the sun has already made its way above the forest for me to see. It must be late in the morning, and in the stillness, I can hear the birds singing a four-note tune and the gentle flow of the stream beside me. The sound of the water reminds me that I haven’t had more than a sip of water in days, though I’ve been so consumed by pain and overcome with bleakness that I haven’t felt hungry or thirsty at all. Even the thought of the Capitol feasts that I indulged in during the days before the Games make me sick. 

A little while later I hear the burst of another cannon. I try and imagine who it could’ve been, and a twang of fear grips my body at the possibility that the cannon was for Katniss. No, it couldn’t be. The song of birds slowly replaces the echo left by the cannon, though it’s not the same four-note tune they’d sung earlier. No, this one is much more complex. Its soothing lullaby gives me a false sense of peace until another cannon fire cuts off the birdsong. The feeling of unease quickly returns, now with increasing uncertainty of whose death this fire signified.

I hate being trapped here with no idea what is happening in the rest of the arena. At least when I was with the Careers, I was in the thick of the action, for better or for worse. Now, I have to wait until nightfall to discover who joined the lost today. I awake from my fatigued rest when I hear the anthem playing, and I anticipate seeing two faces in the sky tonight, one for each cannon. The first comes as a surprise when I see Marvel’s headshot, captioned with “District 1.” I wonder if his cannon was the first or the second, and what was the cause of it. Though I never liked Marvel, through spending time with him and the other Careers, I did have a chance to see him as a human, another victim of the Games rather than an enemy tribute. Now, the only Careers remaining are Clove and Cato from District 2. Maybe, for the first time in years, and outlying district finally stands a chance. The next face in the sky breaks my heart. Rue, the 12-year old girl from District 11. She has made it further than anyone probably would have predicted, and her young age and sweet demeanor did not prevent her from fighting a noble fight, I’m sure. I wonder where Thresh is in the arena right now, looking up into the same sky. Is he, too, heartbroken at the loss of his fellow District 11 tribute? Even Thresh, with his monstrous and stoic stature, must be shedding a tear with the rest of Panem tonight. 

The dried clay around my face and the fact that I haven’t had a drop to drink in days makes it impossible for me to cry. However, if it had been Katniss’ face in the sky tonight, I’m sure I would’ve found a way. 

I sleep through the majority of the next day. At nightfall, after the anthem plays, there are no new deaths to feature. However, to my surprise, it is followed by trumpets, the tune played before an important announcement. I remember this happening occasionally in past Games, usually when the number of remaining tributes is dwindling, and they need a way to spark us back into action. This is usually a call to a “feast,” where they use some sort of bait一like food or other essential supplies一 to bring us all together and initiate another bloodbath.

The announcer, Claudius Templesmith, who has been a Hunger Games celebrity almost as long as Caesar Flickerman, has a very distinct voice that booms across the arena, so each one of us can hear. 

“Attention Tributes. There has been a slight一” he searches for the right word, “一rule change.” Rule change? This type of announcement has never been made before. The rules of the Game have been the same for 74 years, and really, there aren’t many of them. Fight to the death until there’s one left alive; that’s it. He pauses his announcement for a moment, and I’m sure every tribute and viewer alike are hanging onto his words. “The original rule stating that only one victor may be crowned has been… amended. Rather,” he continues, “two tributes may be crowned if they both originate from the same district. I repeat, two victors may be crowned under the condition that they come from the same district. This will be the only announcement,” and all of a sudden, his voice is gone, and the arena returns to its same dark stillness. But now, noting this sudden news, everything changes.

Two winners. There can be two winners. Katniss and I could win. We can go home. We can be… together. 

I repeat the message over and over in my head. My mind is racing, unable to comprehend this sudden turn of events. What will I do now? Despite the amendment to the rules, my situation hardly changes. I am still stuck here; I have no strength to get up and seek out Katniss, and even if I did I would be dead meat the moment another tribute hears my clomping from a mile away. There’s nothing to do on my part, though I so badly wish that I was able-bodied and can seek her out, protect her, and strengthen her. On the contrary, if she comes looking for me一 which I sense she will一 I fear I will only bring her down and diminish her chances. Her heart is too good to knowingly leave me for dead when she knows I’m still out here, though I’m wasting away. Will she be able to find me? And if she does, then what?

Suddenly I remember the conversation I had with Haymitch during interview training. I replay is over again in my mind. “A tragic romance, two star-crossed lovers fighting for their love even if it costs their lives… they’ll love it” he’d said. Is that what this is all about? Has the audience still been hanging on so tightly to our love story that the Gamemakers saw the need to change the rules? Again I remember Haymitch’s comment “More attention means more sponsors means more money means more life-saving gifts in the middle of all the action. And ultimately, better chances of staying alive. For both of you.” If this isn’t the result of all the attention being on Katniss and me, I don’t know what is.

I’m worried that I’m far beyond repair and I’ll be nothing but a burden, but if Katniss and I are a package item, so are our sponsors. Haymitch’s attention no longer has to be divided. I could get the medicine I need. But if I don’t… an awful vision comes into my head.

Katniss has found me, and she’s treating my wounds. My eyes are half open, but I see him approaching. Cato is behind her, sword raised above his head. I try to reach out my hand to shield her, but it won’t move. I try to scream out to warn her, but I can’t make a sound. But then, it’s too late. Boom. Katniss’ cannon.

I snap myself out of my vision. No, I tell myself. She’s smarter than that. But I can’t shake this feeling that I will be the reason she dies because she’s trying to save me. That is, if she ever finds me. I consider removing the camouflage and crawling out into the open in case she came looking for me, but I figure if she doesn’t find me, someone else will, and I’m in no condition to put up a fight. I decide to stay here. Maybe she will come my way again like she did today. But I will only make myself heard if she’s looking for me. If she’s not, she’ll be better able to finish out these Games on her own, unhindered.

However, the audience must be waiting for my response to this news. They must think that I should be overjoyed. Not only do I now have a better chance of living, but  the guy-gets-the-girl story is no longer impossible. I need to let them know that I’ve heard them, that my hope has been refreshed. But all I can manage is to breathe out the word “Katniss…” and break my hand free from the mud like I’m reaching for her. Of course, she is still so far away, and I’m not entirely convinced she’ll come looking for me, or if I even want her to. 

I consider every possible scenario, making a list in my head of reasons why she would come looking for me and reasons why she wouldn’t. She must know I’m injured; she saw me moments before my encounter with Cato. However, in that same moment, she must’ve known I was trying to protect her. Now, as a way to pay me back, does she feel obligated to protect me? Or she might actually think teaming up with me will benefit her. Perhaps she’s also realized that whatever injury I have may be curable with a sponsor’s gift to both of us. If that’s the case, though I am not nearly as skilled with weapons or distinguishing edible plants, two is always stronger than one. I imagine being able to stand on two legs, back to back with a knife in my hand and a bow and arrow in hers, fending off enemies left and right as they approach us from both sides. When the last enemy falls the trumpets sound, and she turns to wrap her arms around my neck and… kisses me. 

But I can’t allow myself to think that far ahead. I’m sure romance is the last thing on her mind right now. Her goal is, and always has been, to get out of here alive so she can get back to Prim and her mother. That’s what I want for her as well, so at least we have that in common. For the first time, I think about what it may be like for me to go home, too. What will my mother say? Somehow I still have a hard time picturing her embracing me with tears in her eyes and saying “well done, my son.” I wonder how life will be different. I’ll have a house in Victor’s Village, more money than my family and I will ever need. Maybe I’d live across the street from Katniss and her family and I could bring homemade bread to their house every week and they’d invite me in for dinner and drinks. We’d chat and I’d get to know her in a context outside of the Games, where survival isn’t the only thing that matters. Then, maybe things could be different.

I’m getting too ahead of myself. I nestle deeper into my hiding place after taking a sip of water from a pool beside me, and I drift off to sleep, my mind swimming.

Category: Original Characters
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 16

January 3, 2020 Published by spamifischer

Chapter 16

 

Pitch darkness turns to vivid imagery. 

I’m back at the bakery. Ryean and Rottee are asleep beside me. Suddenly the roof collapses and a hive of tracker jackers falls to the ground, exploding with an angry swarm. Oddly, they don’t charge at me; instead, they surround my brothers until you can’t see an inch of them, buzz around their bodies for a few seconds, and then fly away, their jobs done, and Rotee and Ryean collapse to the ground, looking more like a skeleton-shaped pile of blisters than the healthy, human bodies they were moments before. Like Glimmer, the red welts pulsing over their skin cover any hint of life that there once was, and in the distance I hear a cannon. Or was it a cannon?

I open the door to run downstairs but a burst of fire from the hallway sends me flying backwards. The room floods with flames and there’s another cannon一no, it’s an explosion, and it sends another wave of fire through the door. I can’t get out that way. I make a break for the window and leap out, taking one last look at my brother’s mutilated bodies, tears finally forming from a mixture of grief and the effect of the smoke. 

I jump out of the window and land in a pile of skulls. I pick one up, holding it in the palm of my hands and staring into its sullen eyes, when all of a sudden the bone turns to flesh and the lips curl into a familiar smile. I am holding the head of my best friend, Delly Cartwright. In an instant her face melts away and again reveals the cracked gray, anonymous skull, and I drop it to the ground, where it joins the pile of thousandsー lost people, forever indistinguishable from one another. All of District 12 is desolate, and before I have time to regain my feet, I hear a loud crash and see a bomb strike the cobblestone street in the middle of the square. Again I’m blown backwards, and I crawl to take shelter behind the bakery.

My Father is there, ducking under the windowsill which has just been blasted through.
“Peeta, thank God you’re alive,” he takes me under his arm as if to shield me. “Where are your brothers?”

I can’t speak, but I answer his question with a sob as I bury my face deeper into his chest. 

 

Suddenly I’m a kid again. Eleven years old. My face is still buried into my father’s shirt, but now it smells of fresh detergent rather than fire and smoke. I look up into his youthful face and he wipes the tears from my eyes. 

“I’m sad too, son,” he says. “It was a tragic, horrible accident.” He pulls me close again.

“What are they going to do now?” I say, sniffling. “They lost their father, there’s no more money. They’re going to starve.”

“Shhhhh,” he coos, ruffling my hair. “They’re not going to stave. They’ll find a way. They have a family of fighters.”

“Can we make them a breadbasket?” I ask, wiping the tears from my eyes. 

“That’s very thoughtful,” he says, turning up my chin so my eyes match his. “Of course we can. Just don’t tell your mother,” he winks.

The scene ripples away, like it’s fast-forwarding a few hours. I can feel a welt on the back of my head from my mother’s rolling pin; as it turned out, she had noticed the missing bread. My father returns home, looking disheveled and depressed. I run up to him, hugging his waist. “What happened?” I ask, desperate for good news but, from his look, expecting the opposite.

“She’s not the same,” he sighs. “She wouldn’t even look at me.”

 

Everything goes black again and a moment later I’m in the Everdeen’s house. Laying on the floor, I see Katniss, Prim, and their mother wasting away into skeletons, rotting, with rats scampering over their lifeless bodies. 

Gale bursts through the door and walks right through me, as if I were a ghost. He scoops up Katniss and the moment she is in his arms, her body glows, and she springs back to life. She embraces him, and, to my dismay, presses her lips against his. They kiss passionately, as if they were molding into one person. Their lips finally part, and Katniss’ eyes bore directly into mine.

“You are nothing, nothing compared to him,” she pronounces. “You are weak. You are useless. Get out of my sight, baker’s boy.” She turns back to Gale and passionately caresses him, as if I wasn’t there.

 

A series of explosions rouses me from my nightmares. Though, I can’t quite tell if I’m just entering a new one. Through my eyelids, I can make out the glowing of the sun directly above me. I gradually open my eyes, but the dried mud that I’m coated in restricts me from opening them fully. I don’t how long I’ve been out. Through my narrowed vision, I see that my camouflage is still holding up. In fact, the clay has hardened and, to the untrained eye, I am unquestionably one with the rock. My brain tells my fingers and toes to wiggle, but even that is impossible. From my own weakness and my self-inflicted clay prison, I cannot move. 

I return my thoughts to the explosions. They happened in succession, and though I tried to keep a count of them, I’d lost track. They sound like they’re coming from my left, which I reason is towards the lake. What could’ve caused it? Still woozy, tired, and dehydrated, I can’t bring myself to give it too much thought. I decide whatever it is doesn’t concern me much. Here under this rock shelf, I am as safe as I can be, given the state I’m in. 

For all I know, I could either have been out for several hours or several days. Aside from my nightmares一 likely hallucinations brought on by the tracker jacker venom一 I have no recollection of anything since I passed out. But those dreams are not something I will soon forget. I think of home. My family must be watching. I doubt the cameras are focused on me at the moment, however, especially with those explosions likely wrecking all sorts of havoc somewhere in the distance. My camouflage stillness is not the hot topic of the moment, though I’m sure the cameras feature me every now and then to remind the audience I’m still here, still alive, though barely so. However, I bet my family has already accepted their loss and moved on with their life. I dug my own grave the moment I laid down in this place, and business must go on. I wonder if they’ll bake a cake in my honor, maybe write something cheesy like “Gone from the world but not from our hearts,” in icing. An insincere tribute to my “noble,” or rather, pathetic, death.

Another explosion interrupts my train of thought. Two others follow shorty after. What the heck is that? A cannon booms. Wherever the explosion was, and whatever set it off, seems to have picked off another tribute. Who was it this time? I run through the list of remaining tributes, to the best of my knowledge. But who knows what’s happened since I blacked out? Marvel, Cato, and Clove must’ve escaped the tracker jacker attacks. I never saw their faces in the sky officially, but I assume Glimmer and Koiya are done for. There was no coming back from tracker jacker stings as severe as theirs. District 5… I’m trying to remember their tributes. I know the boy died in the bloodbath. The female tribute… who was it? Ah yes. the red-haired girl. I vaguely remember her interviewー “No weapons can match a brain,” she’d said. Maybe her wits have kept her alive thus far, unless she was killed while I was out. Districts 6 and 7, as I recall, were wiped out on day one as well. I wonder what the citizens of those districts do when all hope is lost so soon. Do they pick favorites from a different district and cheer them on? Do they watch to see the demise of the tribute who killed their children, cheering on their opposition?

I’m sure everyone in District 12 is cheering for Katniss. She’s always been more of a contender, and that move she pulled with the tracker tracker nest was pure geniusー especially considering she hadn’t only wiped out two tributes, but two Careers. And the audience, unlike the rest of the tributes, has probably seen Katniss’ aptitude for shooting. Now that she has a bow, she in unstoppable. Or at least, I can hope she is. 

Again I think of Haymitch. Mentors have to pick favorites, don’t they? Only one of us will live, so why not focus all of the attention, sponsorships, and money on the one that’s had better odds from the beginning? And this is what I asked for; I told Haymitch I wasn’t going home before Katniss, that she had to be the one to win over me. Sitting here on this riverbank, at the edge of my life, I’m as close to receiving a silver parachute with the life-saving medicine from the Capitol as I am to winning these Games. Though I can’t move my head to glance down at my feet, I can imagine that the condition of my leg has only gotten worse. The bleeding must’ve finally stopped, or else I’d probably be dead by now. But the agony is incessant and there is no chance that an injury such as this can heal naturally, let alone in the limited time I have before the Games come to an inevitable end.

I wonder how much longer the Games will last. I try and count the days I’ve been in the arena. As I recall, the tracker jacker incident and my encounter with Cato was the fifth day of the Games. Add on however many days I’ve been passed out, and I conclude that I probably have less than another week or two to live. The Gamemakers rarely allow the Games to last more than a few weeks, depending on how much action they’re getting in a typical day, since they have to keep the audience engaged.

After hours of agony and an inability to go to sleep, the sun finally begins to set. Staring into the orange sky with waves of fluffy pink clouds, I hold on to the only piece of beauty I can capture. The beauty that says this day of pain is ending, but the hope of tomorrow is coming soon. 

The faces of two tributes appear in the sky tonight: the boy from District 3 and the boy from District 10. The last time I saw the former was at the campsite by the lake, teaming with the Careers to set up the bomb trap around the pile of supplies. That’s when it dawns on me… the explosions. Though I’d lost count, I’d bet there were twenty-four of them total.

It occurs to me that this is the first night that I am without a sleeping bag, disregarding the night or nights I was unconscious. The clay around me is hard and cold, encasing me in an ice cube. Nothing I can do could alleviate this numbness. It seems as if all the blood in my bodyー what’s left of it, that isー has stopped flowing. Left to my thoughts, unable to move, and swimming in inescapable pain that I have come to accept, tonight is by far the longest night of my life. 

Category: Fan Fiction
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 15

December 28, 2019 Published by spamifischer

Chapter 15

 

I can’t believe I’m still alive. Though I would happily welcome the numbness of death over the pain I’m experiencing, I know I cannot just lay here until I die. And I will, soon enough, whether it be from infection, starvation, tracker jacker poison, or the rest of the Careers coming back to investigate and retrieve Cato. But some inexplicable will inside of me urges me that I will not die here, not like this. I muster every bit of strength I have left to crawl away, heading in a direction I’ve never been before.

Using my forearms and good knee, with my left leg dragging behind, I heave myself through the woods. I cannot imagine where I am headed, but I know any long journey is made one step at a time. I can feel dirt scratching in my open wound, but I fight to resist the urge to scream out in pain. After I feel like I’ve made it far enough out of sight, I allow myself to roll over and finally assess the injury. 

The combination of pain and the sight of my gushing leg are enough to make me lose whatever food I had left in me. The gash cuts down to the bone, and the oozing of dark brown-red blood shows no sign of slowing. Fire ants burst out of wound and crawl up my body, a hot tingling sensation overcomes me, the ants grow larger and larger like balloons, until they become the size of a rabbit and burst into a gush of blood. I try and beat the imaginary ants off of my body but the impact to me leg injury only amplifies the agony. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the ants to go away. I try and focus on what I can do to somehow treat the wound. Not like it will make much of a difference, but dragging it through the dirt obviously isn’t doing it any good.

I wish Katniss were here. Maybe she would know what to do. Not only that, but she has supplies, which I am now sorely lacking. I left all my stuff at the campsite when I ran to flee the tracker jackers. Now I have no weapons, no first-aid, no food, no water. Water. I dream of how refreshing it would feel to take a dip. But there is no way I am going back to the pond. Or the lake. These are both familiar places, but I know they are infested with people who want to kill me. There has to be more water somewhere in this area, I just haven’t found it yet. 

I decide to crawl facing upward, like a crab walk. A crab with three legs. That way my wound isn’t dragging on the ground, and I can keep my head up to see what’s around me better. Not like I’d be able to put up a fight if I saw anything threatening. Just in case, though, I feel around the ground for leaves, mud, sticks, and anything else I can find to attempt to cover myself. If I hear something coming, I’ll bury myself in a pile of foliage and hope for the best.

My face and skin now covered in mud, my wound bandaged with leaves, and my body covered the best I can, I keep crawling. I want to lay down so badly. Every movement aches. But if I stop I know there is no way I’ll be able to get back up. With as bad as I’m feeling right now, it is sure to only get worse. I need to use my last bit of strength to find water and a safe place to hide until… well, I don’t know what. 

I remember the Career’s pile of supplies. Oh how I wish I could have just one sip of water, one bite of food, one dab of medicine. I suddenly remember that along with the rest of Panem, Haymitch is watching. What does he think, seeing me pathetically dragging myself through the forest, without a destination in mind, like a wounded animal just begging to be put out of its misery? I’ve seen the Games before. When a front-runner gets an injury like mine, their popularity is the sole deciding factor between if they live or if they die. If they have a lot of sponsors, they might be sent a silver parachute, which floats into the arena like a gift from heaven containing life-saving supplies. The Capitol has a stockpile of medicine that heals wounds or sickness almost instantly, like a magic potion. If Haymitch was able to round up enough sponsors to send one of those parachutes to me, I could be on my feet and nearly good as new by tomorrow. But I don’t kid myself into expecting any such thing. Yeah, I scored an 8 in my training session. That gets a reasonable “not bad” shrug from the sponsors, but nothing extraordinary. I think I came off as relatively likeable in my interviews, but again, no one bets on the “nice guy.” I certainly made an impression when I confessed my love to Katniss, but again, why would anyone in their right mind want me to go on living but suffer the heartbreak of losing her? Maybe them wanting me to die is their idea of compassion. Sometimes heartbreak is far worse than physical pain. So, with all of those pieces added up, I conclude that I will not be getting so much as a matchstick from any sponsors. For the first time since the gong sounded, I fully recognize just how alone I am.

Nonetheless, I keep moving until the sky begins to turn pink. I need to find a place to rest before sundown. My arms give out for a moment, and I lay flat on the ground, facing the sky. Shades of pink and orange swirl together above me, painting a picture with all my favorite colors. For a moment, the pain slips away as I gaze up into the beauty of the sunset. My eyelids grow heavy and I allow them to rest, just for a moment. I lay in stillness, fully experiencing my other senses. My leg throbs, and sharp twinges of pain, like a million tiny needles being jabbed into my open wound, are incessant. My hands feel around me. The crispy fallen leaves. The soft grass. The gust of breeze sweeping by. The wet mud. The wet mud? 

Suddenly my ears register the far-away sound of flowing water. My eyes shoot open and a surge of energy pulses through me. I flip over and crawl with all my strength towards the sound. The river, less than a hundred feet away, beckons me. 

By the time I reach the water, the sky has grown much darker. I dunk myself in the moment I can reach it, watching the blood escape my leg and join the flow downstream. Painfully, I rub water all over my body: my leg, the burn on my chest, my tracker jacker bumps, and various bruises and scratches whose origins I can’t exactly recall. This will be where I’ll rest. Feeling the workable clay lining the riverbank, I decide this is a perfect place to test my camouflage skills.

I do my face first. Using the dark gray clay, I cover the entirety of my face and arms, caking it on and comparing the shading to the rocks around me. I add small pieces of sandstone to my mixture to create the flakey and jagged appearance of the rock. Perfect. I grab a glob and drag myself up to the rocks a bit further from the water, collecting moss, grasses, twigs, and leaves. I spot a large rock overhanging slightly, creating a perfect slot for me to hide. Crawling over, I settle between the two boulders. I scoot my legs as deep into the small crevice as I can, and the rest I’m able to cover with the moss I’ve collected. Most of my upper body is covered by the overhanging rock, but I make sure to coat all my exposed surfaces with the clay, again using small rocks and sheets of limestone to create texture. Finally, I place the remaining greenery strategically to match the pattern of my surroundings and, using mud as a glue, cover up my dirty blonde hair with it. I lay down my head and settle into my spot right as the sun has finished setting. With one last look at my work, I close my eyes, silently wondering how long I’ll be here, and if this is my final resting place. If I were to die here, bleed out, my body plagued with infection, they would only be able to find me because of the tracker still embedded in my forearm. I let out a massive sigh, in more pain and despair than I’ve felt in my entire life, and everything goes black. Not even the booming sound of the Capitol anthem will wake me up tonight.

Category: Fan Fiction
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 14

December 27, 2019 Published by spamifischer

Chapter 14

 

The Games force you to be a light sleeper. At the first note of the Anthem my eyes shoot wide open, just in time to see the Capitol Emblem projected into the night sky. No new deaths today. The forest fire, though it was unsuccessful in wiping out any tributes, certainly served its purpose by forcing us into closer proximity with Katniss. With us camping out right below her, the anticipation the audience must be feeling is exactly what the Capitol needs to keep the viewers on the edge of their seat and the Games impossible to resist. 

I tell myself to go back to sleep, since sunrise is still a few hours away, but I silently scope out our camp. The torches are still lit, allowing me to notice Glimmer and Koiya sitting on watch. They’re silent, and for a moment I swear I see Koiya nod off and then catch herself, shaking her head. Tiredness is getting to all of us. I wish they were both asleep, then maybe I could somehow signal for Katniss that the coast is clear. Even then, the sound of her descending the tree, or more likely the sound of me emerging from my sleeping bag, would certainly wake one if not all the Careers. I force my eyes shut, but the rest of my senses are elevated. I can faintly make out a distance ruffle of leaves, a minor cracking of branches from above. I’d bet Katniss is having a sleepless night as well.

 

A loud crack startles me awake. In a moment I’ve squirmed out of my sleeping bag and with a half-second glance at the source of the noise my instincts tell me to run. A nest  of tracker jackers一 mutant wasps created by the Capitol to torment us一 has exploded on the ground. They’re swarming around us and I’m able to get far enough away to escape the dense mass of them angrily buzzing around the camp. 

I feel an excruciating sting on my upper arm, then another, and again on my chest and behind my ear, but I swat the massive golden tracker jackers away immediately. That doesn’t stop the venom from seeping in, causing my arms chest and ear to throb and my vision to go fuzzy for a moment. Tracker jacker stings are no petty injury; they have been known to cause maddening hallucinations, that is for those who aren’t killed by large doses of their venom. I fight the urge to succumb to the pain and try my best to keep my mind clear. Though my vision blurs and I stumble, my flight instinct drives me to keep moving forward. This is the most unpleasant sensation I have ever experienced, but I am thankful I’ve only had four stings rather than dozens, even hundreds.

I glance back and notice not all the Careers are so lucky. Like me, Marvel, Cato, and Clove made a run for it, screaming orders to get to the lake, but Koiya and Glimmer, who both appear to have dozed off on their watch shift, are still in the thick of the attack. Glimmer has the bow and arrow in hand, gripping it tightly and swinging it around trying to fend off the swarm. They are relentless, and Glimmer’s struggle is to no avail. Koiya stumbles away, repeatedly tripping and pushing herself back up again, but each time suffering more stings from the deadly wasps. 

The scene is so brutally compelling, and it takes everything I have not to look back. I keep moving, knowing that tracker jackers are known to pursue their victims, hence the tracker part of the name. I need to find water一 make them drown before they can continue to sting me to death, as I’m sure is the fate for Glimmer and Koiya.

I’m stumbling through the wood as fast as a can manage, so overcome with pain and confusion that I’ve almost forgotten the reason we were camped out under the tree in the first place: Katniss. She must’ve been the one to cut down the nest. 

Genius. 

“Loverboy, over here!” I head Cato’s pained voice calling from my right, and I stagger towards it. 

The trees are spinning around me and I can’t seem to decide what’s right and what’s left. Finally I catch a glimpse of three long-limbed figures by a pool of shimmering golden liquid. It seems to be radiating a sparkling steam. For a moment my faulty vision shifts to reality, and the liquid turns from tracker-jacker-gold to a cool blue. The pond. 

In my disorientation it seems to take me forever to reach the water, finally slipping into it with desperation. I’m overcome with a cooling sensation that seeps into the stings over my chest and arms, and I sink a little deeper to submerge the back of my head. My hand runs across my arms and chest to feel the plum-sized bulges forming. I remove the four stingers, the size of toothpicks, and I message the affected areas to ease the throbbing. I close my eyes to make the world stop spinning around me. When I open them, I see the sixーno, threeー remaining Careers, looking equally distressed, also soaking their injuries, basking in the glory of the cold water. 

We all perk up at the sound of the first cannon.

“The supplies,” Clove exclaims. “Someone has to go back for them.” Her and Marvel, still writhing in pain, seem in no rush to do this themselves.

“I’ll do it. And I’ll finish off that bitch who tried to kill us!” Cato growls, rising clumsily from the water. 

I rush to follow. Katniss’ idea, genius as it was, was certainly not without risk. Was she able to escape the frenzy once she climbed back down? Or, like the girls from 1 and 4, is she lying motionless on the ground, covered in blistering stings under relentless attack from the angry swarm? I think back to the cannon. Was it hers?

I find myself running faster and faster, trying to pass up Cato. Though I can’t see straight and can’t think straight, I do know one thing. If Katniss is still there, I need to get there first. Find out what happened to her. Protect her. Another cannon fires. I run faster.

Neither of us are in prime condition, and by the thudding of body hitting the ground right behind me, I know Cato is stumbling too. At this point I am on all fours, hurtling towards the scene I’d just run away from. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a silvery snake slithering just ahead of me, and I strain to reach for it. My hand wraps around a solid thin rod: Marvel’s spear. He must’ve neglected to pick it up during his frantic escape. I’m relieved to be armed, in case this is the moment where I’ll finally have to defend myself, and perhaps defend Katniss, from Cato. I hold the spear above my head, ready to strike, no longer aware of Cato’s location relative to mine.

I burst through the trees and I see her. Katniss, having experienced a fair share of stings herself, is kneeling nearby Glimmer’s body, mangled and blistered to the point where she一 once beautiful with flowing golden hair and an impeccable complexion一 is hideously unrecognizable. She’s pried they bow away from her, and fumbles to load it, ready to shoot. 

I lower my spear. I am not a threat to her. I never will be as long as I can help it. But Cato is right behind me and there’s no time to explain that to her. She stares at me, dumbstruck, eyes swimming. 

“What are you still doing here? Are you mad?” I yell. I see three Katnisses, blurry and motionless, all giving me identical stares, confused, unaware of my desperation. The three bodies blend back into one. When she doesn’t move, I reverse my spear and prod her with it’s dull side. “Get up! Get up!” As I poke her with the end of the spear I see a geyser of blood erupt from her as she convulses on the ground, her blood floating into the air and creating wisps that swirl around my head. It’s not real, I tell myself. It’s not real.

My mind clears momentarily. The blood disappears. Finally, she’s on her feet, unbalanced, but making no effort to flee. I hear the rustling of leaves behind me and whirl my head around, see Cato stumble through the trees. “Run!” I scream. “Run!” 

She finally registers my command and bolts off, bow and arrow gripped tightly in her hand. Now that she has her weapon of choice, the Games are hers. I, on the other hand, am sure my heartbeats are numbered as I see Cato slash through the bushes towards me, scowling and murderous.

I turn to face him, spreading my stance and holding my spear in front of me as if to provide a barrier between Katniss and the Careers. If you want to get to her, you’ll have to go through me. 

“You let her get away!” screams Cato, enraged. “I knew I couldn’t trust you!” He’s collected his sword from the site, and brandishes it above his head. I shield myself with the spear and kick him off as he lunges at me. In the next moment I can’t tell if his head has doubled in size from sheer rage, inflammation from his tracker jacker stings, hallucinations from my own, or all of the above. Regardless, he’s clearly discovered I’m not on his side. He gets up, teeth clenched, and launches himself at me, tackling me to the ground. While Cato has a lot of combat skills that I don’t, I’m able to match him in build and strength. 

We wrestle, rolling across the forest floor over roots, sticks, and rocks. I hear Cato cry out as a tracker jacker blister on his shoulder bursts in an explosion of pus. He has suffered from many more tracker jacker stings than I have. He rolls me onto my back and has me pinned, but I position my feet on his pelvis and launch him off of me. I get up off the ground, raising my spear as I approach where he landed. Before I can throw it, he wraps his legs around my ankles and pulls, yanking me back to the ground. He hurls himself at me again, wrapping his hands around my neck. I let out a gasp of air, attempting unsuccessfully to take another breath. 

I make eye contact with him but his gaze is unfocused and clouded. I glance to my left and spot a jagged rock. In one swift motion I reach out to grab it and smash it against the side of Cato’s head, causing him to release his grip on my neck and cradle his bleeding ear. 

I jump to my feet, brandishing my spear. Cato does the same with his sword. 

“Alright, Loveboy, that’s it,” he slurrs. “No more Mr. Nice Guy.” 

I throw my spear first, striking his shoulder, which throws off the aim of his sword. It catches just below my left knee and he slashes upwards, slitting deep into my leg up to just below my pelvis. 

The agony is unbearable. I fall to the ground, trying to cover the wound with my hands, but the blood won’t stop. My eyes are squeezed shut一 I tell myself if I close them hard enough this will all go away. I open them just a sliver to see Cato rise from the ground, stumbling away, cradling his injured shoulder and biting down hard on his lip until it bleeds. He moves dizzily, the affects of the tracker jacker venom clearly taking its toll. He barely has enough strength to stand up, hunch-backed, and lift his sword with his other hand. 

“I’d put you out of your misery if I had any respect left for you,” he says as he turns and limps away. “I wish you a very slow, painful death, Loverboy.” Then he collapses in a heap on the ground.

Category: Fan Fiction
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 13

December 27, 2019 (updated December 28, 2019) Published by spamifischer

Chapter 13

 

It seems odd to be walking towards the forest fire rather than away from it, but walking into danger has never been a foreign concept to the Careers. They train their whole lives to volunteer for the Games, whereas people from other districts do everything they can to avoid being selected. If they willingly risk their lives to be a part of the Games, walking towards the flames must seem like childsplay to them. I, on the other hand, am resisting every instinct I have that screams “Run! What are you doing, idiot? Run!”

It’s still dark outside, but the glow of the fire not far ahead of us lights the way. Every now and again there’s a violent crash accompanied by a burst of light, followed by a sizzle. I’ve seen the Gamemakers use fireballs in past Games, it’s not unusual for them to add new threats to keep things interesting. It’s also used, as I’m sure it is in this case, to force the tributes into closer proximity with one another. To the audience, a murder is much more entertaining than a tribute dying from natural causes or Gamemaker-generated hazards. 

My heart beats faster when I truly begin to feel the heat. What would happen if I subtly made my way to the back of the Career pack and took off in the other direction when they weren’t looking? 

A sudden burst of light emerges from the trees and soars towards us, passing right in front of me and skimming my shirt, setting it ablaze. I pound on my chest with the palms of my hands to put out the fire, feeling the bubbling of blisters form on my skin. I drop to the ground and begin rolling, when suddenly a cool splash of water is dumped on me. I open my eyes and see Koiya standing over me, her empty water bottle tipped over. She reaches out her hand and I take it.

“Thank you,” I breathe. 

Koiya simply nods. My chest is throbbing. But the rest of the Careers continue on like nothing had happened, and I do my best to follow, burrowing my nose into my shirt to avoid the smoke, though this makes me more aware of heat emanating from my burn.

My fear of being burned alive subsides when the wall of fire approaching from a distance comes to a standstill, as if an invisible glass wall is preventing it from advancing. The smoke, however, continues towards us, thick and choking. 

“Looks like this is where it stops,” Cato says between coughs. “I say it’s safe to walk parallel to the fire, it’s not going anywhere. That’ll get us closest to whatever sad sons of bitches got caught in it.”

Cato leads, followed by Glimmer, Marvel, Clove, me, and Koiya taking up the rear. I bury my nose and mouth into the collar of my shirt to prevent myself from inhaling the smoke, but that doesn’t stop the stinging in my eyes or the stuffy, sweaty air I’m forced to breathe. About a hundred yards to my left the flames still linger, taunting us. Katniss was no doubt in the forest when the fire started, but was she far enough away to make a quick escape or did she get caught in the thick of it? I try to remember if I heard a cannon— no, I don’t think I did— which brings me a bit of comfort until I realize that the fire wouldn’t necessarily kill you immediately. Katniss may have survived, but she could be somewhere, somewhere very close, plagued with third degree burns, searing pain, and extreme vulnerability to any predators, including us. 

“Do you think she was in there, Loverboy?” Clove asks, nodding to the fire, as if reading my mind.

“Could’ve been,” I say, struggling to get the words out over the thick black smoke. “If she was, she’s gotta be either dead or dying.” Some people might ignore the tributes who they know are goners, letting their own injuries and vulnerability take care of them. My feeble attempt to make Katniss seem like one of those tributes isn’t going to work. The Careers take no pity, they’ll kill anything with a heartbeat, whether it poses a threat to them or not.

“Didn’t hear a cannon,” she says. “I bet my throwing knives that she’s around here somewhere.” 

We walk without speaking for awhile, no one daring to open their mouths to speak in the smoke of the fire. The only sounds are the crackle of the subsiding flames, the occasional cough, and the crunching of dead leaves and branches beneath our feet. The sun begins to emerge, dimly illuminating the sky with the light of dawn. In contrast, the smoke seems blacker now, still limiting our visibility. We’ve been walking for hours now, with no sight of another tribute. My throat is dry and pleading for water, my eyes stinging, my chest burning, and my leg still throbbing from the tussle with the boy from District 8. I walk with my eyes fixed on my feet, and I’m minutes away from collapsing with exhaustion when Marvel suggests we take a break.

We all agree immediately and start walking adjacent to the smoke. It thins as we walk further and further, eventually finding ourselves in the clearing where we’re finally able to breathe in fresh air. We all retrieve a bottle of water from our packs and chug it. Cato passes around a pack of beef jerky and we all gnaw on a strip. The rumbling in my stomach subsides as the meaty juices fill my mouth. The Careers chat quietly but their voices seem a million miles away. I’m staring off into the distance at nothing in particular, lost in thought. I think at one point I doze off, still sitting up, but my eyelids have grown too heavy.

“Hey, Loverboy!” Marvel’s voice snaps me out of my trance. “Did you hear what I said?”

I’m not sure how long I’ve been out, but my perplexed look seems to answer his question.

“I said,” he continues, annoyed, “that I think your girlfriend must be around here somewhere. Any idea where she might be?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say. “But I’d assume she’s just like everyone else, probably looking for water. Maybe if we can find water, we’ll find her.”

“He’s got a point,” Cato says, tipping his own water bottle upside down to confirm it’s empty. “Plus we have to fill up, too. There’s gotta be some stupid pond or something around here, and if nobody’s found it yet then they’re dumber than I thought. If we don’t find her, we’re bound to find someone else.”

We start walking back towards the smoke, bracing ourselves by digging our faces into our shirt collars once again. The sun has already made its full arc across the sky and night is falling again. The smoke seems worse this time, and the heat is on the verge of unbearable, maybe because we’d just been basking in the glory of clean air for a few hours. Clove is leading the way this time, crouched down and feeling for dampness in the ground, searching for a path to water. For awhile it seems as if she’s found nothing, and meanwhile I’m just following the tracks of the person in front of me, staring at my feet and desperately trying not to choke. 

Suddenly our train of people comes to a standstill, and I nearly bump into Glimmer. Cato and Marvel are stopped in their tracks, pointing straight ahead, leaning over and mumbling to one another. 

“What is it?” Glimmer intrudes, trying to suppress a cough.

“I think it’s your girl, Loverboy,” Cato smirks, then immediately breaks out into a run.

The rest of the Careers follow, and I, reluctantly, join in. Is it really her they saw? My heart trembles with a mixture of panic, anticipation, and pain. Part of me hopes it is her just so I can see her again, so I can know that she’s alive and uninjured. But then again, she could be hurt, vulnerable, and an easy target to the Careers. Then what would I do? Protect her at all costs, yes, but does that mean that I might die today, too? I don’t know what lies ahead, but I know it won’t be a joyful reunion. Someone is going to have to go down, whether it be Katniss, me, or, in some backwards scenario, one of the Careers. 

As we run I try to convince myself it’s someone else they saw, it is getting dark after all. It could just be a deer. Just not Katniss; anyone but Katniss. But when I see the small, nimble figure navigating through the woods ahead一 a figure with a long dark braid flapping against her back as she runs一 I know it’s her.

By the splashing sounds the water makes as she bolts out of the pond, it’s evident she’s managed to find water, I can just see the moonlight reflecting it. Coughing and with my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat, I try and keep up with the Careers as they charge after her, shouting chants of triumph. Though the smoke stings my eyes and the water is difficult to trudge through, I keep my gaze fixed ahead on Katniss, desperately trying to keep track of her as if this was my last chance to see her. For a moment I think I’ve lost her, until I see a dark figure quickly scaling a tree in the distance with the agility and speed of a squirrel. The Careers notice her too, but by the time we’ve reached the base of the tree she’s far out of our reach. I place my hands on my knees, crouching over, trying to catch my breath, and I finally allow myself to take my eyes off of Katniss, confident that she’s not running off anytime soon.

The Careers seem perplexed for a moment, as if assessing their plan of attack now that their prey is not in the palm of their hands as they’d expected. While tree climbing has always been one of Katniss’ strong suits, clearly none of the Careers share the same mastery, as none of them jumped at the opportunity to follow after her. The stillness that falls seems eery, one may even describe it as awkward, as the Careers and Katniss size each other up, neither knowing what to do next.

Katniss is the first to speak. “How’s everything with you?” she calls, a tone of exuberance evident in her voice. I can’t help but smirk. The teasing question, the fact that she has the physical strength to speak up at all, gives me hope that she is, and will be, alright. She’s managed well so far, considering she escaped from the bloodbath at the Cornucopia with a backpack, which I notice she has flung over her shoulder. By the look of her ripped and scorched jacket and significantly singed hair, she sustained some scathing in the fire but nonetheless made it out alive. 

The Careers seem momentarily alarmed by ther cheerful but taunting demeanor, but decide to play along. “Well enough,” Cato retorts. “Yourself?”

Katniss responds without skipping a beat. “It’s a bit warm for my taste,” she says, and I stifle a laugh. I’m silently thankful that I’m standing at the back end of the Career pack so they don’t notice the grin that flashed across my face. I quickly stop myself and plaster back on my stoic expression, just in case the Careers glance back to assess my reaction to Katniss. To distract myself, I pull the knife out of my belt loop and begin shining it with the hem of my shirt. “The air’s better up here,” Katniss continues. “Why don’t you come on up?”

It’s obvious that this enrages the Careers, who have finally faced something that they must admit they were not built to do. Despite being the largest in the group and the tribute most likely to snap the small branches leading up to Katniss, Cato steps up to the challenge. “Think I will,” he says, making his way to the trunk to begin climbing. 

“Here, take this, Cato,” Glimmer pauses him, offering her bow and arrows. Cato promptly refuses them, patting the sword her has tethered to his belt.

“No,” he says, “I’ll do better with my sword.” Smart choice on his part, I think to myself. From what I recall none of the tributes demonstrated the same aptitude for archery during training; none come even close to holding a candle to Katniss’ ability. Cato’s sword work, however, is deathly intimidating, and that is an understatement. The upside, however, is that in order to use his sword, he has to be an arm’s reach from Katniss, and by the fragile-looking branches he’ll have to climb to reach her, I’m certain he won’t come even close.

My prediction holds true. He scales maybe fifteen feet of the tree before grabbing a bad branch that breaks with a loud snap and sends him crashing to the ground. He roars in agony and rage before jumping to his feet and dusting himself off, frantically looking around as if hoping no one saw his pathetic attempt. Katniss has climbed a little higher and must be at least fifty feet up at this point, becoming harder and harder to pick out among the dark trunk and leaves. 

“Are you okay, Cato?” Glimmer coos, trying to sweep the pine needles off the back of his shirt. He whips around, his face aflame with anger, slapping her hand away.

“You think it’s easy, why don’t you give it a try, Glimmer?” Cato yells. “Go on!”

Glimmer swings her quiver and bow around her back and gingerly grabs the first hand holds on the tree. Her success is no better than Cato’s 一 she makes it about ten feet up and panics when she hears the first cracking of a branch, and she quickly climbs back down.

After witnessing the failures of the first two, no one else seems up to the task. Glimmer retrieves an arrow from her quiver and loads it into her bow, sloppily pulling the string backwards and making some feeble attempt to aim. She misses Katniss by a landslide. On her third shot the arrow is launched in Katniss’ general direction and for a moment my heart drops, thinking maybe this time her aim is true. The arrow ends up sticking into the trunk several feet away; Katniss wrenches it from the tree and swear I see her triumphantly wave it above her head. The little light that was left from the dusk is fading and, even with a good aim, the nearing pitch backness eliminates any chance of the Careers getting at Katniss tonight. I know she is safe up there, at least for now. However, I can’t stop every possible attack strategy from shuffling through my head as I try to predict what the Careers might be planning now. Burn the tree and run. Chop it down. Set a trap with Glimmer’s bow and arrow as bait. I decide to propose a counter-option, anything to give Katniss more time and discourage them from considering more sensible plans.

“Oh, let her stay up there,” I say. “It’s not like she’s going anywhere. We’ll deal with her in the morning.”

The Careers shrug their shoulders. “Okay, Loverboy,” Cato says. “You have a point. We’ll set up camp here for the night. But if she’s not here in the morning, you’re gonna pay.”

I give him a confident nod. Katniss isn’t stupid enough to try to escape with a pack of angry Careers below her. Every part of me wants her to find a subtle way out, but there’s no chance. On the other hand, I haven’t thought far enough ahead to consider how we’ll handle her if she’s still here in the morning. Maybe buying time isn’t enough. 

By torchlight, we roll out sleeping bags and share a sleeve of crackers, apples, more jerky, and a bottle of water. Cato makes it clear that those on watch will have to be extra vigilant. He also tells me that I will not have a watch shift. They, understandably, still don’t quite trust me, perhaps afraid that I’m in cahoots with Katniss and plan to take out my shift partner while helping her escape. I don’t have a plan to get Katniss out, nor do I think she’d accept my help. I wonder what she thinks of me right now, seeing me ganged up with the Careers. Can she read between the lines? Or have I become a good guy gone savage in her eyes, nothing more than another predator for her to pick off?

I crawl into my sleeping bag, not sure what the daylight will bring. Nonetheless, I’m thankful that I’m not on watch and have an excuse to get some rest. If rest is even possible. My body aches from the past few days’ events, and I am overcome with every type of exhaustion imaginable. However, I fight to keep my eyes open just a bit longer to look up into the tree where Katniss has settled. I can barely make out the dark mass resting over a net of branches. It looks like she’s found a sleeping bag as well, so I’m glad she’s keeping warm as the night grows colder. I get chills thinking about her shivering, tired, hurt, having experienced God-knows-what since the Games started. It feels like a lifetime ago that I stepped off the pedestal and saw her whole and unscathed. I fight not to overthink about morning, but soon enough, fatigue gets the better of me and I fall into an anxious sleep.

Category: Fan Fiction
Tags: Peeta, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

The Hunger Games: Peeta’s POV. Chapter 12

May 22, 2019 (updated May 22, 2019) Published by spamifischer

Chapter 12

As I pick up my torch and leave the scene, I suddenly remember that I’m being watched. I’ve almost forgotten that the Games are televised live for the whole country to see. District 8 must be having a riot, having lost both their tributes in less than 24 hours. I wonder if they hate me. District 12, my own home, has probably even turned against me, especially now that I’ve ganged up with the Careers to target Katniss.

Moments later I return to the Careers, who are waiting impatiently.

“Was she dead?” Cato asks.

“No, but she is now,” I say. The cannon booms at that very moment, confirming my claim. “Ready to move on?” During my short walk back, I’ve managed to compose myself, transitioning back to playing the role of a villainous brute.

They nod approvingly, and we begin running, continuing the hunt. Again I notice the sudden silence of the birds, glimpse the hovercraft out of the corner of my eye as we begin to run again.

Dawn has already come. My body is aching and exhausted from running on empty. If I hadn’t teamed up with the Careers I would probably be even more dehydrated and hungry right now, though I doubt I’d be exhausting myself this much. Despite how much I’m supposed to hate them, I’m grateful that they haven’t killed me yet and, on top of that, they seem to care enough about keeping me alive that they’ve given me food and water. Of course, these commodities are abundant for them, seeing as they’ve taken ownership over the Cornucopia and everything in it.

Since the Careers prefer to hunt at night, they decide that we should make our way back towards the Cornucopia and the lake to refill on water and supplies. After a few hours of painful walking, my ankle still throbbing from my tussle yesterday, we finally arrive in the clearing where the Games began yesterday. The Cornucopia is still gleaming in the center, but it’s been totally stripped of its supplies. I notice two other tributes nearby. The boy tribute is doing some digging around the pedestals, and the other, a female tribute, is carrying and stacking supplies into a big pile. The Careers don’t seem to be alarmed by their appearance, so I suspect they’re also part of the team. I assume they’re both from District 4, but then I remember the male tribute from four was killed yesterday.

Cato introduces me to the District 4 female, Koiya, who smirks menacingly as she shakes my hand. The other boy, who I learn is from District 3, gives me a timid nod in greeting then returns to his work. There’s a small mound of dirt beside each pedestal, and he appears to be digging for something, clearly a task that the Careers put him up to in return for not killing him. He’s small and scrawny, and they know they could kill him in a heartbeat once they’ve gotten what they need from him. We’re both their prisoners.

Koiya instructs me to take over in transporting supplies and stacking them up, while she goes off to talk to the rest of the Career pack. I comply, despite knowing that I’m intentionally being left out of an alliance strategy meeting. One after the other, I haul large crates of food, bins of medical supplies, sacks filled with fruits and grains, and I pile them neatly into a pyramidal shape close to the lake, where the Careers have decided to set up camp. I can’t help that think that the Careers have everything they could possibly need to live comfortably in this arena for weeks, yet all the other tributes die of starvation, injury, and disease. It’s no wonder they passed up the survival skills stations during training; with this surplus of goods, they won’t be needing them. I wonder how the other survivors are doing. I think of little Rue fending for herself in the wild. I didn’t see for sure, but I imagine she also made a run for the woods knowing she would never stand a chance in the bloodbath. Most of all, I think of Katniss. She doesn’t have a bow and arrow; there was only one and currently Glimmer is holding tightly to it. Is she managing to hunt and defend herself without it? Was she able to brave the frigid cold the night before? Has she managed to find fresh water? So far the only source of water I’ve seen has been the lake and, with the Careers camped right next to it, you’d be dead before you could even take your first sip.

Soon the male Careers join me to help to stack up the rest of the supplies while the three girls begin setting up a tent and starting a fire.

“Wow, Lover Boy, you’re a lot stronger than we gave you credit for,” says Cato as he watches me pick up a massive sack of rice like it’s nothing and plop it on the pile. His tone is casual, and I wonder if he meant that as a compliment or a threat.

Soon every last item from the Cornucopia has been removed and stacked in a neat pyramid by the lake. Around us, Marvel has begun to dig strategically placed holes surrounding the pile.

“What is all this for?” I ask, letting curiosity get the best of me. “Why didn’t you just make camp in the Cornucopia?”

Cato smirks, pausing for a moment, as if deciding if he wants to let me in on the plan or not. “That’s exactly what people would expect us to do, but that’s no fun. They’d know not to come near us. But this,” he says, gesturing to the pile, “this is way out in the open. And if we’re not here guarding it, who wouldn’t want to come pick off from our pile? We have everything, everyone else has nothing. They’re bound to come crawling back.”

Cato’s reasoning explains the pile itself, but the presence of the boy from District 3 and the holes circling the outside of the pyramid remain a mystery. “So what’s with all the digging by the metal plates?” I ask.

“Oh, that’s the best part!” Cato says, brutally excited, rubbing his palms together. “Remember the mines underneath the plates? District three over here is resetting them, and if anyone tries to get near our stuffー” he pauses for dramatic effectー “boom!”

This creates an unpleasant visual, and it just so happens the the person I’m picturing in my head is Katniss. She sees the pile, maybe even sees the bow and arrow resting there and calling her name, and after making sure the coast is clear she goes in. Tiptoeing noiselessly, eyes on the lookout, until all of a sudden she missteps and there’s an explosion. Then she’s gone, her body reduced to fragments.

I try to shake the image from my head, but I can’t, and as I say “Wow, that’s a great idea!” I feel like a monster.

By the time we’ve finished our work and the sun is starting to set, the girls have nearly finished cooking dinner. They’re just taking the pot of beans off the heat when we arrive. Each of us, even the silent boy from District 3, gets a plate full of rice, beans, and carrots. Despite the delicacies I enjoyed in the Capitol, I can’t remember a meal ever tasting this good. This is the first full meal I’ve eaten since the night of the interviews. Even then I didn’t eat much, what with my bandaged hands and distraught heart. That seems like a lifetime ago. My hands are feeling much better and the cuts are sealing, thanks to the ointment Portia gave me, but I take some time before nightfall to clean and rewrap them.

There aren’t nearly as many faces in the sky that night. Just the girl from District 8 whose eyes closed for the last time in front of me last night. Beyond that, it’s been a relatively uneventful second day. The remaining tributes are probably just getting settled to life in the arena, trying to learn how to get by each day.

When the sky goes black again, I’m suddenly weighted down by exhaustion. We decide to take shifts guarding in pairs while the rest of us sleep. I’m thankful when I’m not assigned first watch, and I sleep surprisingly well despite the fact that I know the people surrounding me could kill me anytime they want to.

After a few hours of blackout, dreamless sleep, I feel someone’s hand on my shoulder.

“Wake up,” says a boy’s voice. “You’re on next watch.”

Marvel is shaking me awake, and I groggily arise, unzipping the sleeping bag the Careers had given me. Marvel and Glimmer must’ve taken the second shift after Cato and Clove, and Marvel begins to settle into his own sleeping bag as I make my way out of the tent.

Koiya, who I assume will be my watch partner, is already outside sitting on a rock at the edge of the lake. She’s bundled in a large blanket, and I instantly wish I had one of my own. It’s freezing out here, especially right next to the lake as the cool water is wafted towards us by the breeze.

“Hope you slept well,” she says.

“Best sleep I’ve had in days, surprisingly,” I say. “What about you?”

“Could’ve been better,” she says. “Can’t expect much, I suppose.”

I nod in agreement. I miss my shared room about the bakery with my brothers, the sweet smell of fresh-baked bread every morning. It wasn’t much, but I would take the warmth and familiarity of home, however imperfect it was, over this arena anyday.

The coals from the fire the night before are still glowing in the pit, but the humid air is slowly causing them to die out. Only about a week ago, Katniss and I were coals, our fire unquenchable. Today, we’re dying out. Our emanating glow had the Capitol in the palm of our hands, but oh how the tables have turned. I wonder how long our fire will continue to flicker.

Koiya has a her fingers wrapped around a mug of coffee. She seems to notice me staring longingly at the cup as I’m trembling from the cold.

“Would you like some?” she asks. “There’s hot water left in the pot.”

Before I can answer, she’s already retrieved another mug, filling it with water and swirling in instant coffee from a packet. Another luxury from the cornucopia. She hands me the mug with a sweet smile, and I accept it with a grateful nod. Is she really being nice or is this a ploy to soften me up so they can coax the information out of me that they need?

“I bet it feels like home, sitting next to the water like this,” I offer, as I take a sip of the coffee. The steaming bitter liquid tickles my lips and warms my body from the inside out, reminding me of Sunday mornings at home. I can almost picture myself back at the bakery, can almost smell the sweet aroma of cake in the oven. I always used to decorate them in the afternoons to be put on display every Monday morning.

“It does,” she agrees after taking a sip from her cup as well. “Except back home we were next to the ocean. It was peaceful almost, not being able to see the other end.”

“Not so peaceful here, though, when whatever’s on the other side might kill you,” I add.

“Exactly. That’s why we’re on watch, right, partner?”

Partner? An oddly personal word choice coming from a natural enemy. But, to my surprise, I don’t feel threatened in this moment. In fact, sitting here by the lake with Koiya reminds me that I’m not in this by myself. Yes, it’s a war against one another, but we’re really all in this together. I feel bad for all the tributes hiding away in solitude, unable to speak to anyone or relate to another human about what they’re experiencing. I know that I would collapse inside if I went days on end without interacting with another person.

“What’s that?” Koiya speaks up, breaking the silence and snapping me out of my trance. She stands up and and squints her eyes, as if trying to make out something in the distance.

My heart races when I jump to the conclusion that it’s another tribute coming for us, but it’s not long before I too spot what she’s seeing. The glow of orange, growing brighter and larger: a wall of fire slowly advancing through the woods, but still far enough off in the distance that it poses no immediate threat. Not to us, at least. I immediately worry for Katniss, no doubt hiding up in a tree somewhere. But the forest is massive, and the fire is only consuming a small part of it. She could be anywhere, couldn’t she?

“Wouldn’t want to be in that,” Koiya comments, and I nod in agreement. “But it’s good for us, that fire is either doing the killing them for us, or it’s driving them right towards us.”

Koiya grabs her machete and marches over to the tent to inform the others. A few minutes later, the whole pack emerges from the tent, weapons in hand, led by Cato.

“Who’s ready to go hunting for some easy prey?”

 

Category: Fan Fiction
Tags: Peeta, Peeta Mellark, POV, The Hunger Games, thg

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vomitcolaOc Roleplay Group uploaded 1 photo
2 months ago
Name : Berry Syae
♀ - She/Her
10 years old - 10/10/2015

Nationality - Japanese-British

Berry was born in Japan in 10/10/2015, her parents are unknown, though her father is from Newcastle, England. She is inspried by 'Little Red Riding hood', one of my childhood stories that I grew up with. She is created in 2018, recreated in 2025. She likes strawberries, which probably is obvious. She has two unknown brothers that left her and her parents in their twenties.

Extra info - She does like drawing. She is the only oc without a comic backstory (YET). She is adventurous. She is just a happy little fella, that's all.
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