Remade (After Mockingjay Story)

Chapter 9 - Peace

Katniss

Peeta and I sleep in separate rooms. I suggest that we stay in my house, because I didn't want to leave Buttercup alone. I don't know for sure if he would care, he's quite an independent cat, but he's the only one other than my mother that shares the same amount of love for Prim as I do. That love is what brought us closer, and it's what bonds us together. I had hated that cat, but now he's one of my only sources of comfort. I don't admit this, but I see him as the last tangible bit of Prim that I have left. He sneaks into my room every other night, and I find him sleeping on the edge of my bed. His nighttime presence isn't as strong as Peeta's, but it's better than nothing. Peeta is now one less thing to worry about now that he sleeps in the bedroom across the hall, but I'm still pathetic enough to admit that I'm a weak mess without him with me.
Sometimes when I sit in my bed, covered in icy sweat, shivering at the recurrent nightmares with their ghostly taunts, I wonder if Peeta is suffering the same thing in his room. I do hear noises coming from his room every now and then when I'm awake. It's those times that I wonder if we made a smart decision, and I'm almost tempted enough to walk into his room to be with him, but Peeta is too afraid of himself to be around me at night when he's vulnerable to flashbacks. I don't tell him about my own struggle, it would make him feel worse. His worrying about me is what this whole decision was based on.

I don't know if this was the best choice for us. Neither of us seem to feel better, Peeta has good and bad days. On his good days I can tell that he is really trying, when we talk those quirky remarks of his that make me smile slip into the conversation. It's things like that that convinces me of the old Peeta coming back to me. I know immediately when it's a bad day for him, the second I see him the look on his face reads complete suffering. He'll ignore conversation as much as possible, stare at the walls for long moments with wild fearful eyes, and squeeze his eyes shut at random times. I never know what to do, when I ask him if he's okay he just subtly nods at me. I'm always tempted to call Dr. Aurelius, but what would he say that's different from what he's already said? Maybe Peeta needs new medication, but I know how that could not help very much at all. I don't know what to do, and this ongoing worry about it contradicts my denial of love.

All we can do is keep going on with our lives, I hunt, he bakes and paints, we invite Haymitch over sometimes. We watch the election in the Capitol play out, with Paylor in the lead. District 12 is rebuilt around us, when I walk out of the Victors Village to go hunt in the woods I pass by people building the bases of new buildings. Everyday it seems like I see more people helping out with the construction. Big and small tents are scattered at the edge of town by the train station, I assume that's where the workers stay. There's still the two rows of mostly empty houses in the Victors Village. The only occupants are me, Peeta, Haymitch, Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. If anyone wanted to come back and live here, there are plenty of houses for them here. But no one else has come back, and I don't blame them, there's nothing much to come back to.

One evening, when I'm done hunting for the day, I have an idea. It's a simple idea, usually when I'm done hunting on a beautiful summer day like this, I sit in the grassy field and watch the sun set. It's all so peaceful, the pretty colors in the sky, the light breeze, the wonderful nature scent, and the singing birds. It's the only calming moments I can find in my solitude, but today I decide to share it. I don't know why I didn't think of it before, Peeta would love this sort of thing. I guess it's his unpredictable moods, I never know what he really wants.

This time I'll put more effort, I can't see why he would decline.

I enter the house, he's in the kitchen, as usual. When I see him, he's baking bread. The steaming loaves are on the stove, fresh out of the oven. He's sitting at the table, browsing through one of my mothers old recipe books.