The Hunger games - I'm still breathing (Everlark)

Chapter 7

"Katniss?" Peeta whispers, his hands cupping my face, gently running his thumbs along my cheekbones.
I open my eyes and take in my surroundings. Prim's wardrobe. It all comes flooding back. I squeeze my eyes shut again, trying to block out reality, trying to block out the memories of last winter.
Peeta begins to peel the dresses I pulled down off me but I cling on to them, determined not to lose the last shred I have left of Prim.
"Katniss, come on. You can't stay in here," he says quietly.
"I'm not leaving her," I say, opening my eyes to look at him again. They feel swollen and sore from my earlier breakdown.
"You won't be leaving anyone, Katniss," he says soothingly.
"I left her before, I can't do it again," I murmur, burying myself deeper in her dresses.
After a moment I feel Peeta begin to slide into the wardrobe next to me. His hand searches for mine and I grip onto it as if it were my lifeline. In some ways it is.
"I miss her, Peeta," I whimper.
"I know you do," he says, trying to position himself so that he can console me.
After a lot of shuffling, his arm wraps around my shoulders. I lean my head into his chest and allow the beating of his heart to calm me.
"She never even got a grave," I sigh. We sit there for a few minutes, until Peeta begins to get fidgety.
"I've got an idea," he says, struggling to get out of the dresses. He accidentally causes me to fall out of the wardrobe and on to the floor in the process.
"Oops sorry, are you okay?" He asks, helping me to stand.
"Yeah I'm fine, what's your idea?" I ask.
"It's a surprise," he says, smiling at me with a look of sheer determination written on his face. With that, he turns and heads towards the spare bedroom that now holds all of his art equipment.
Seeing that I may be on my own for a little while, I decide to get ready and to start making some food for the both of us. My appetite is better than it was but it still hasn't fully recovered. For myself, I make some toast but for Peeta I make a bacon sandwich.
When I knock on the spare room door to give it to him, a paint splattered hand reaches out to take the plate and then quickly shuts the door again. Charming, I think.
It's a good couple of hours before Peeta finally emerges from the room. His hair is sticking out in peculiar places and his clothes that were black earlier, are now a mess of mismatched colours. His face holds a sense of pride in what he has just created. It also holds a smudge of green paint on the tip of his nose.
"Are you ready?" He asks, his voice eager.
I nod. Then he moves round behind me and covers my eyes with his hands and carefully leads me into the room. When he removes his hands, my breath catches in my throat.
There on a slab of dark oak, is Prim. She is beautiful with her hazel brown eyes glistening and full of joy. The different shades and mediums in her hair suggest the sun is shining down on her. Her smile is bright and looks like she just witnessed something amusing. I feel myself wanting to join in the laughter with her. She's stood in a meadow, surrounded by evening Primroses. Her name is printed in a baby pale pink at the bottom.
I turn to face Peeta, letting the tears roll down my face. He bites his lip, the earlier excitement has ebbed away to doubt.
"Don't you like it, Katniss?" He asks, sounding disappointed.
"Peeta it's perfect!" I say, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing the paint smudge on his nose. Peeta's arms wrap around my waist and hold me close to him.
"I thought we could take it to the woods and make our own memorial for her," he says. I nod in agreement.

Later that day we trek into the woods. I direct us all the way to the lake, thinking that this would be the best place for her. Here where my father's presence is so strong. The only place I have ever felt truly at peace.
We dig a little into the ground, next to a Willow tree, and place Prim's picture into it. Then we gather any different flowers that we can find. Bluebells, Foxgloves and Wood Sorrell line the bottom of the painting by the time were done.
We stand there, hand in hand and in silence, the sun setting through the trees. I think of Prim and my father and all the wonderful memories that this place brings. I think of my mother who I still haven't called yet and who would love to see Prim's memory treasured this way.
"Now you always have a way of talking to her. Whenever you miss her, whenever you need her, just come here and she'll be here. And this way you'll never really leave her," Peeta says, breaking the silence.
I look at him, my heart swelling with admiration for him. It amazes me how this broken boy can say and do the right things at exactly the right time.
"Thank you Peeta, for everything," I say, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.
Where would I be without my boy with the bread?