The Nightmares Hidden in Dreams - A Hunger Games Fan Fiction

Nursery

The ringing reverberates through my brain, an incessant humming that remains even once the bell is no longer audible.

I try to turn over in bed, reaching for Peeta, but it takes an embarrassingly long time to successfully move. His eyes are closed, mouth slightly open. He looks angelic, like the boy I knew long ago, before we were both broken until we were unrecognizable. I poke him, smiling a little as he squirms, not wanting to wake up. But I'm not getting the door. It'll take me five minutes just to get out of bed.

"Peeta," I hiss, still tapping him. "Someone's at the door."

The bell rings again, and Peeta groans as he shifts to his other side, facing away from me.

I sigh, rolling my eyes. It's my own fault. Peeta and I were up far too late last night, at my own urging. But sleep seemed to be the last thing on his mind when he was taking off my clothes.

In one last futile attempt, I try to get Peeta awake, but he dozes off again almost immediately.

It's silent downstairs, but I know that whoever is down there is not leaving until I answer the door.

I huff exasperatedly and roll back to the side facing the edge of the mattress, angling myself to make it easier to push myself to a sitting position. It takes a few false starts before I finally manage to sit upright, but I grin triumphantly once I'm on my feet.

Everything seems to take five times the usual effort now. Putting on shoes, getting out of bed, walking, breathing.

Two months, I repeat, as though it's a mantra. Only two more months.

I waddle down the stairs carefully, unable to walk in the light, quiet manner I tend to prefer.

I swing the front door open, a blast of cold air hitting me, raising goosebumps on my bare arms. My mom steps in quickly, not wanting to let the heat out. But even with the door closed again, the chill remains, clinging to the fine hairs on my arms.

I'm enveloped by warmth again when my mother embraces me, and I barely hesitate before returning it.

Between her sporadic visits and calls on the phone, it's beginning to feel like I have my old mom back. And I don't want to do anything to drive her away again.

My mom pulls back, holding me at arms length, a smile in her eyes. "How have you been doing?" she asks, though I think she can see it better than I can explain it.

"Better," I respond truthfully, though I don't delve into what exactly has improved. I'm sure she can read it on my face, anyway.

She pats my shoulder gently with maternal affection, "I'm glad to hear it." She looks behind me, eyes drifting to the stairs. "Where's Peeta?"

I walk towards the kitchen, and she follows me. "Still sleeping. Do you want something to eat?"

"I ate before coming here," she replies, leaning against the wall as I prepare myself a piece of toast. The full extent of my cooking abilities. "Late night?" She asks, and I go beet red, face uncomfortably hot.

"No," I lie. "Well, yes, I think Peeta was working on a project last night." Because now that I think about it, I vaguely remember Peeta getting out of bed, and the sound of another door closing. But I was already half-asleep, so maybe he was just going to the bathroom. I grab my toast and begin to eat it, wincing when it burns my tongue. "We don't have to wait for him to wake up," I mumble, still chewing.

"Well, finish your breakfast first," my mom says with a smile, likely amused by my atrocious manners.

I do as she says, sitting on the couch while she does what she knows best. She asks questions, I answer. She informs, I listen.