'there is happiness
past the blood and bruise
past the cursed and cries
beyond the terror in the nightfall'
• where olwyn laurier
will do anything to protect
...
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chapter eleven
LIKE A STORM, Peeta heard fists clatter against his bedroom door. Fierce and loud, heavy with purpose. He attempted to ignore it, head in his hands as he tried to block it out. Attempted to forget someone was there. It was nothing, he told himself, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, not now. Did it ever? Does he matter now? Did he ever matter?...
But the fists continued to bang against his door, growing louder until calls of his name filled the gaps of silence between persistent thuds. Maybe it was Death, coming to take him early, knowing he didn't stand a chance at becoming victor, it coming to start dragging him to the depths of hell. He imagined hell to be full of bloodshed and the screams of those, who slept in this bed before him, crying out at him, laughing at him, mocking him for being afraid.
The knocks grew louder, thumping against his skull. This voice calling his name also heightened in volume, as if that chorus of sinners was screaming his name. A choir calling him to slaughter, just as they had for the last boy before him, and the one previous, and again and again. Like an age-old agreement, Death knocked and the young, foolish boys fell into her grasp, all but one over seventy-four years. And yet, the one who defied her seemed dead on the inside, more than the rest. He may have won, but Death knew in her head he was hers. After that last final breath, Haymitch Abernathy would become her newest soul. A special one to add to a collection. Maybe it was better to die than to survive. He shuddered.
The knocks never stopped. No longer could the boy ignore them, as much as he wanted to. It was incessant, the calls of his name becoming more pained until he swore Death herself was echoing for him. He sighed, gulping before moving to open the door. His footsteps echoed, feet feeling hollow with anticipation. A bubble grew in the pit of his stomach, he couldn't decipher why. He almost felt guilty.
Outside his door, fist raised to bound the door some more, was Olwyn Laurier, who looked to be in a state. Her eyes were rimmed red, it was clear she'd been crying. Her hands twitched her whole body on the verge of shaking. Peeta wondered what Olwyn was doing here, in that frame of mind. But then again, Peeta never knew if Olwyn truly ever was normal. Calm, unburdened, and lighthearted were never words to describe Olwyn Laurier, at least in the short time he had known her and the countless whispers he had heard over the years.
However, as her mouth was pressed into a line, her face blank and eyes staring into his soul, Peeta wondered if anyone ever truly knew Olwyn Laurier, as her mind seemed too far away to be truly known. Too distant, too complicated, too broken.
"We need to talk", she told him, side-stepping into his room and signaling for him to close the door. She invited herself inside, standing in the middle of the room with hands clasped tightly behind her back. Peeta felt his heartbeat quicken, licking his lips nervously. The sentence had struck fear in his heart. You would've thought she'd threatened him with her trusty switchblade, but Peeta Mellark gathered that the girl's words tended to hurt more, deep like shattered glass or shrapnel. Talk? To him? What could she possibly want from him?
