ghosts that we knew: A mockingjay fanfiction

22

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 22

Peeta

A part of me wishes that I had kept my mouth shut. This is the part of me that cries out, whimpering, begging, pleading like a distressed animal, with each gust of air that leaves my body while Snow and his guards unleash their wrath upon me. A month's worth of healing from my previous daily beatings flushed down the drain with the blood of reopened and new wounds is the consequence, I remind myself, for making the choice to open my mouth in the first place.

Barely cognizant, I struggle to count the milliseconds between each blow, losing grip on my count with each dizzying hit.

With an average of about three seconds, I spend my fleeting time among bashes trying to piece together what I have just seen.

The rebels of District Thirteen quickly stole the show with their interrupting clips. With each snippet of footage, it became clearer that Thirteen was both negating the ceasefire and declaring war on the Capitol. It was smart thinking on Thirteen's behalf, to use the broadcasting system, the Capitol's sole resource for entertainment, information, and overall livelihood, to make such a declaration.

One Peacekeeper maliciously wrenches the prosthetic from my leg and hurls it across the room, where it falls with a sickening thud just as I feel what remains of my leg begin to bleed out in a dreadfully warm gush.

While I respect Thirteen's choice of action, I only wish their timing had been delayed enough to keep me out of the crossfire. But that would be nearly impossible. I am too much of a pawn in this Game to be allowed the privilege of standing on the sidelines and merely watching it all.

My mind wanders off as it drifts, in usual fashion during my beatings, to thoughts of Katniss. Stalwart, steady and surrounded by her namesake flames, she looked so different, portrayed now as a warrior, in those clippings that I had a difficult time figuring out if the image of her before me was even genuine.

Then again, I had been deprived of that face-the large gray eyes that could turn the tides of the sea, the slight curvature of her nose, the sun-kissed olive hue of her skin, the hardness of her clenched jaw, the natural pout of her lips-for so long that the mere sight of her would have me believing I was hallucinating.

One clip in particular still has me fighting for mental clarity while being clobbered. I latch onto the image of her, arms open wide and stomach jutting forward, as I fade in and out of consciousness.

Katniss shouting about her pregnancy, one that, from the looks of it, seemed very authentic, hits me harder than any of the men that have swarmed around me can.

Confusion invades my head just as quickly as blood escapes everywhere else.

This pregnancy cannot be real, can it? Or could Thirteen have another trick up its sleeve by using an impostor child to gain rebel support?

"I want a copy of that footage now!" Snow orders over the fuzzy sounds of the roaring in my head.

"Sir, the rebels were too quick in erasing all of the footage before we could copy it in time."

And if the pregnancy is real, than who is the baby's father? There is no telling how far along she was in that video clip. Yes, we spent one night together, but the chances of making a baby after one time seem almost too slim to be possible.

A small smile peppers my lips in spite of my denial. If that is the case, and that child she had been gesticulating over is truly mine, then it brings me a strange comfort to know that somewhere, out in this desolate world, there is a part of me that cannot be touched or harmed. That part of me combines with all of the beautiful parts that make up the girl I love, and the new person that emerges from this combination is stronger, safer than the lot of us because he or she is a clean slate and is unable to be marred by this world just yet.