The Hunger Games - I'm Still Burning

Chapter 12

The large plate of cheese buns balances perfectly on my six-month bump. Where there used to be five, there is only one now remaining. I can't seem to stop eating. It's not just in the day either, some nights I'm waking up in the early hours ravenous. I'm no stranger to hunger but this is on a whole new level. And since Peeta can't sleep without me in his arms, I can't get up without waking him.

He yawns now as he splashes the misty grey paint on to the walls. At first I was against the colour, just hearing the word grey took me back to District 13. The never-ending tunnels, the ugly uniforms, the claustrophobia. But seeing it on our child's bedroom walls, next to the cream furniture we picked up last week, feels almost soothing.

The cot stands against the back wall, tucked into the corner. Two days it took us, to put the right pieces together and make something that actually resembled a child's bed. I say us, it was mostly Peeta and Haymitch. I only got frustrated, throwing down the screws and wooden planks when I couldn't get them to fit. Haymitch didn't help with his snarky remarks. I ended up throwing a bolt at his head too.

I resigned myself to the rocking chair, which is by far my favourite addition to the room. Placed just to the left of the window, it overlooks the meadow and the evergreen trees that border the woods. In the morning, the sun falls directly onto it, leaving its warmth to linger for the remainder of the day.

It's where I sit now, contemplating whether I should finish the last cheese bun off or not.

"Are you sure you should be in here, Katniss, with all these paint fumes?"

I sigh. I can't even breathe without him worrying about me anymore.

"I'm fine, Peeta," I respond calmly.

I decide to go ahead and eat the bun. I've already eaten four, one more won't make much difference now.

"Are you sure? I really don't think you-"

"I said I'm fine, Peeta!" I snap.

I don't mean to; I know he's just trying to help. But with a much shorter temper fuse lately, there's only so much of his worrying that I can take.

He carries on painting the walls in silence. From his tense posture, I can tell he's not far off from losing his cool either. I sigh again.

"Do you want any help?" I ask.

"Nope," he says curtly.

Irritated, I throw the half eaten bun down on my plate.

"Actually..." he starts.

I perk up, thinking he's already forgiven me.

"You can go and get me a drink if you want."

I have to laugh; his little tactic is about as subtle as a flying brick.

"You just want me out of the room and away from the paint don't you?" I ask.

"No," he says, his back still turned from me. "I'm thirsty."

"Right, okay," I say sarcastically.

I struggle to get out of the chair, the extra weight on my stomach making the simplest of movements seem like a challenge. I wince slightly when I get to my feet, the pressure on my swollen ankles more than uncomfortable.

"Aren't you going to carry me down the stairs?" I tease.

He turns and looks me up and down, his eyes stopping on my bump. His muscles relax and he smiles, I'm forgiven.