The Nightmares Hidden in Dreams - A Hunger Games Fan Fiction

Waves

4 Years Later

Feather light sensations drift across my back, rousing me from sleep.

I blink slowly, allowing my vision to adjust to the light pouring into the room. As I become more awake, I recognize that the faint tickling is from Peeta pressing kisses along my bare back.

Smiling, I turn around to face him, and plant a gentle kiss on his lips. I can see from his eyes that there's nothing he'd rather do than stay here with me all day. And I'd gladly do the same.

"We're out of groceries," he says. "I'm going to rush into town to get some stuff for breakfast. Are you okay with staying here?"

The mattress creaks as I get closer to him. "Fine, but you better be making cheese buns."

He laughs as he sits up, pulling a shirt over his head. "That's the plan." I watch him get dressed from my position on the bed. He comes over and kisses me before leaving, shutting the door quietly behind him. Faintly, I can hear the front door close, and know that I'm alone in this house.

I turn over to stare at the ceiling, unable to wipe the smile off of my face. The temptation to stay in this bed until Peeta comes home is tempting, but my stomach begins to rumble. In search of food, I get out of bed and put on a large shirt, creeping to the kitchen. I find some cookies that Peeta baked yesterday, and begin to nibble on one in the hopes that it will hold me over until Peeta makes something more substantial. However, it seems to have the opposite effect. The gnawing in my stomach becomes painful. I frown and set the half-eaten cookie on the counter. Maybe I'm catching something, I think.

As if in response to my thoughts, my stomach flips. Panicking, I dash to the bathroom and hunch over the toilet, empty the meager contents of my gut. When I manage to stop retching, I straighten up and wipe at the corner of my mouth.

As crummy as I feel, I don't think I'm sick. I haven't felt feverish, or groggy, or any other symptom. It must have been something I ate.

We had eaten seafood the night before, and while I don't doubt Peeta's cooking, it's possible that I'm having some sort of reaction to that.

Since the root of the vomiting must be my dinner, I figure that there's no need to let Peeta know. Besides, I feel perfectly fine now. There's no need to worry him over nothing.

But as much as I tell myself that I'm fine, that this is normal, my thoughts and all sorts of what-ifs circle my mind, casting a dark cloud over my mood.

In an attempt to look as though I'm not overthinking, I move to the couch and turn on the television. Some newswoman is discussing all of the construction still occurring in the districts, but I don't hear or see any of it. I'm too immersed in my own thoughts.

I'm so preoccupied that I don't hear the door swing open, nor Peeta's footsteps as he approaches.

A hand meets my shoulder, and I flinch so hard that Peeta immediately withdraws it.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

I tell my skittish heart to stop beating so quickly as I turn to look at Peeta.

"Yeah, I was just distracted by the TV. You caught me by surprise, that's all," I say, the lie springing from my lips far too easily.

Yet I've always been told I'm not a convincing liar. Peeta looks at me doubtfully, seeing something in my face that I just can't seem to hide.

Before I can say anything else, I ask him, "Did you get the ingredients for the cheese buns? I'm so hungry."

The suspicion clears from his eyes and he smiles at me. "I'll have them done in an hour."

➳➳➳

That night, I go to bed early with the excuse that it's because I want to spend time with Peeta. I give him my best bedroom eyes, and he easily accepts the request. He was a suitable, even pleasant distraction from the darkness of my mind, but now I lie awake, staring at the ceiling as the waves of nausea hit again.

Nothing is wrong, I tell myself, but to no avail. I can't turn off my brain, can't get it to stop the circuitous thoughts.

I don't sleep for a few hours. When I finally manage to doze off, I toss and turn in a restless sleep. I dream of death, my own.

It's the first nightmare I've had in a while.