The Hunger Games - I'm Still Burning

Chapter 10

Blinding pain, shooting down my spine. A repetitive piercing starts in my abdomen. I scream as my body convulses in agony. I move my hands round to where my slight four-month bump should be and find only the flat, sparseness of my hips.

I grit my teeth and pull myself up. Blood spreads out on the sheets, startlingly red. It keeps spreading, down the bed posts, along the carpet and up the walls. Red. Everywhere I look. I close my eyes but the red manages to seep its way into my mind, dangling tauntingly in the darkness.

A cackle that makes my insides curl floats into the room. I slowly open my eyes to see President Snow standing at the bottom of the bed. His snake-like eyes bore into mine with an amused expression. He holds out his arms and a wail rises from my throat.

A baby lies stiff and unmoving in his cold hands. It's skin almost matches the white of his gloves. It's mine. I did it again. I took someone else's life.

"Katniss what have you done?"

I whip to the side and see Peeta sitting in the bed beside me. He looks back and forth from me to the dead infant.

"I'm sorry," I whisper.

His face grimaces. I can feel the hate radiating off him. He climbs out of the bed and turns to fix me with a stony, hard glare.

"You killed our baby."

"No," I cry, shaking my head.

I hold my arms out for him but he backs away from me.

"Peeta, stay with me?" I say.

"No, how could I stay with someone who has a baby's blood on their hands."

He turns and walks away from me, leaving me trapped and screaming for him in a room that I singlehandedly painted red.

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"Katniss, I'm not leaving! I'm not going anywhere!"

Someone's screaming, it's difficult to hear him over the shrill.

"Please stay with me! Please don't go!" The words come out of my mouth but they feel foreign on my tongue. It takes me a second to realise that the screams are mine too.

I open my eyes and peer into the dimly lit room. My vision is blurred at first, distorted by the thick barrier of tears. I tremble in Peeta's arms as he slowly rocks me too and fro. I cling to his t-shirt, pulling it taut against his chest. Against the light from the lamp, the room looks normal. The walls are the same old beige colour, there's not a dash of red in sight. A cool breeze filters through the open window, calming my breaths and allowing them to fall in line with Peeta's. He continues to whisper in my ear, telling me he's not going anywhere.

I move my hands down and heave a sigh of relief when I feel the small curve on my stomach. It's the only bit of proof that I have that there is a living person inside me. Peeta's hands follow suit, resting on top of mine. He does this quite a lot, cradles my stomach like he's guarding it from the rest of the world. I think he does it to remind himself that it's real. Even I have to remind myself sometimes.

"What was that about?" he asks quietly.

I shrug my shoulders, not willing to relive the nightmare just yet. He shifts a little under my weight.

"Don't go!" I say, moving my hands and gripping onto his arm. A panic begins to surge through me again.

"I told you I'm not going anywhere," he says, running his fingers through my hair. "I was just moving over because your elbow was digging in to my ribs."

"Sorry," I say, settling back into him and making sure that none of my limbs are causing him any discomfort.

He kisses the top of my head and starts to tell me the story of when his father taught him to cook. This is what we do now, a habit that's developed over the past few years. If I have a nightmare, Peeta will calm me down by telling me stories about his childhood. About his brothers and his father. They bring me out of my own head and allow me to get sucked into Peeta's. It's the same for him. After his flashbacks have left him shivering on the floor, I tell him about Prim, my father, my mother. Sometimes it's only small snippets but it's enough to bring him back and return the spark to his eyes.

I hang on to his words, soaking them in. The cooking sessions he had with his father always left the kitchen in a flourery mess. They would race each other, seeing who could clean it up the fastest before his mother came home. I play with the necklace around my neck, lingering over the newest charm. A Dandelion. Peeta thought it was fitting. Like he gave me hope, this baby gives him hope too.

A stirring in my stomach makes me jump, swiftly pulling my attention away from Peeta's story. He stops and sits up, turning me round to face him. I throw back the covers, searching the pristine sheets for any traces of blood. There's nothing.

It flitters again and I gasp, reaching out for Peeta's arm.

"What's wrong?" he asks. "Are you hurting?"

I shake my head, too afraid to say anything.

"Katniss?" he hooks a finger under my chin and lifts it so that I'm looking directly into his eyes. The fear that's taking over me is mirrored on his face.

"It's... it's moving," I manage to squeak out.

"What?" he asks, the fear seeming to have been replaced by excitement. "It's moving?"

He cups his hand around the bump, a smile forming on his lips.

"Is it supposed to move?" I ask. I feel myself shaking as my stomach dips and dives. Peeta doesn't respond, he's mesmerised by the creature that dances under his hand.

"Peeta!" I shout.

He looks up, startled by my outburst. There's a lump that's clogging itself in my chest. I can't breathe. Tears run down my face.

"Why is it moving?" I sob. "Is there something wrong?"

He pulls me in, resting my head on his shoulder.

"No, there's nothing wrong. It's supposed to move, Katniss. It's a good thing!" he says. He takes my hand and starts to move it towards my belly.

"No don't!" I yank it back but he holds on.

"Trust me, okay?" he says.

I pull back and look at him. His smile is genuine, he's not scared. Not worried. I slowly nod my head and let him guide my hand until it hovers just above my waistline. Then he presses it on.

My stomach halts for a minute, taking in this new touch. There's the faintest flutter before it jumps back to life, summersaulting and tickling the palm of my hand. I don't know whether to smile or cry.

"She's saying hello," Peeta says. One glance at his beaming face and I smile, wiping the remaining tears from my cheeks.

"He was listening to your story," I smile.

"He, she, whoever they are, they're going to be just fine," he says. 

 "You promise?" I ask. 

 "I promise," he says.

He leans forwards and kisses me, as if promising with just his words wasn't good enough. 

I smile and lay back down on my pillow, pulling Peeta with me. He turns to switch the lamp off and snuggles into the back of me. His arm wraps round my waist and holds my stomach protectively. I feel his breath on the back of my neck. It eventually slows, indicating he's given way to sleep.

I'm wide awake. The movement continues, dragging me through a range of different emotions. Thinking about how happy this is making Peeta makes me smile. But without his words to reassure me, hesitations slip in. What if I'm not good enough for this baby? What if something bad happens? The more it moves, the more paralysed my body becomes with dread. I don't think I can do this.

It's only when the birds have begun to sing and the sun has started to rise that my eye lids fall heavy and sleep pulls me under.