The Nightmares Hidden in Dreams - A Hunger Games Fan Fiction

MUTT

A frigid wind blasts the curtains aside, pushing its cold, scaly arms through the window, shattering the cozy warmth of the house.

I could've sworn we left this window closed. It's too cold now to leave any of them open, even if Peeta does prefer to sleep with the fresh air wafting in. I stand at the window, peering through the open space towards the ground outside. Nothing is amiss. Maybe Peeta did open the window. Or maybe I opened it at some point and just forgot to close it. I seem to do that a lot now, forgetting little things.

Surely nothing is wrong. After all, it'd be pretty difficult to scale up the walls to the bedroom window.

The window closes with a slam, the frame shuddering slightly. But even with the iciness now trapped outside, the room is too chilly to be comfortable. Heat overcome by the cold, once again.

I make my way down the stairs, rubbing at my arms, trying to get some warmth back into my body.

Peeta smiles when he sees me approach, but it's strained, pain shining in his eyes.

"Are you okay?" I ask, craning my neck to kiss him.

"I'm fine," he responds, passing me a plate of eggs and toast. "It's just a headache. I'm fine." He repeats it as though he's convincing himself more than me.

I frown, "Let me wash the dishes, then. You go lie down or something."

He shakes his head forcefully. "No, I've got it. It's nothing serious. You sit down and eat your breakfast."

It's tempting, so tempting. My stomach growls, making up my mind. "I'll help when I'm done."

I sit at the table, my back to the kitchen, because I'll feel too guilty if I watch Peeta scrubbing at the sink. As I eat, my mind begins to wander back to that window upstairs. It's so odd. I don't see why either of us would've opened it to begin with. It's cold outside, cold enough that we've had a few flurries in the past couple of weeks. December is rapidly approaching. Even with my pregnancy brain, I never would have opened that window, and I certainly wouldn't have forgotten to close it.

I swallow my food. "Hey, Peeta? By any chance did you leave our wind—" I'm cut off by the sound of breaking glass.

I turn so quickly my neck twinges. Peeta has his head in his hands, muttering something I can't make out under his breath.

"Peeta?" I call, walking towards the kitchen, towards him. Shards of a plate are scattered around the floor, pieces split in sharp lines. I'm careful to step around them. Peeta holds his head so hard his knuckles are white. His eyes are shut tight, so tight that a tear escapes through his lids, rolling down his face and onto the floor with all of those broken pieces. His inhales and exhales come heavy and forced, like something is sitting on his chest, keeping him from breathing right. "Peeta are you—"

His eyes snap open, burning with inhuman hatred. The blue is gone, the pupils so large his eyes look black.

Too late, I see this for what it is.

He's having one of his episodes.

They've become rare now. His last one was almost a year ago, the longest he's gone without one. They range in severity. Sometimes, it's just a flashback. Other times, it's like he goes full mutt, not even sure of who he is anymore.

I can already tell that this is going to be one of those worse episodes.

Peeta bares his teeth at me, looking more animal than human as he watches me.

I put my hands up, showing that I'm harmless. "It's me, Peeta. It's only me." If I really look, I can see the thin ring of blue that encircles those dark abysses, so dark that it feels like I would be forever lost if I stared into them too long. Encouraged by the fact that Peeta hasn't shown aggression yet, I take a step closer. "I just want to help you." Another step. "It's just me," I whisper.

Another step.

And another.

Another.

And then I step in a shard of ceramic. I curse, stepping back, leaving a bloody footprint behind. But my sudden movement and the sight of my blood sets Peeta off. My vision is on my foot, so I don't see Peeta stalking towards me until he's too close.

He shoves me back into the wall so hard that I see stars. I try to blink them away, focusing on this man, so familiar yet foreign.

"You're a mutt," he says sharply. I shake my head, needing him to see past that mask, to see that I'm me. He pushes me back again, pressing his forearm into my throat, making it hard to breathe. "YOU'RE A MUTT!" Peeta yells, spit flying out of his mouth, droplets clinging to my face, joining the tears falling from my eyes.

"It's me, Peeta," I cry, bringing a hand to his face, but he smacks it away.

"Don't touch me, you mutt," he snarls.

"Please," I beg, but this only makes him angrier.

He grabs the bloody shard, the one I stepped on, and presses it to my neck. "I should kill you."

I look up, praying to anyone who might be listening. I'm scared, but not for me. For Peeta, because he'll come back and be forced to come to terms with what he's done, with what he might still do.

The glass presses further into my skin, and I feel something drip down my neck. Blood, my blood.

In a last ditch effort, I close my eyes and whisper, "Stay with me."

The ceramic leaves my neck, shattering into smaller pieces when it hits the floor again. "Always."

I open my eyes, relieved to see the sky blue of Peeta's eyes again. But they're shiny, rapidly filling with tears. He stares at me with his mouth agape, in nothing short of agony. "Katniss," he murmurs, looking around, at the broken plate, the blood on the floor, on my neck, my hunched position against the wall. "What did I do?"

I take a cautious step forward. "You didn't do anything. You stopped yourself."

He laughs, but it's more like a croak, pained and without humor. "This doesn't look like nothing."

I place a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him, but he shakes me off. "I could've killed you, Katniss." His voice breaks, and he presses a fist against his mouth, trying to stifle the rising sobs. But I can see it in his eyes, the waterfall of tears he sheds.

"But you didn't. You came back."

He shakes his head, holding his head in his hands again. "I should go."

"No, don't go," I plead, silently asking him to look into my eyes, but he won't look at me.

He doesn't listen to me.

I blink, and he's gone.