The Hunger Games - I'm Still Burning

Chapter 17

"Does this baby ever stop crying?" I groan, rocking our still un-named, screaming child in my arms. I'm sure her high-pitched shrieks are rousing all the dogs of District 12 right now.

"Give her here," Peeta says calmly.

"No!" I stubbornly pull back. "I can do this."

But I can't. The more I rock her, the louder she cries. What ever I say to her, she doesn't seem to hear. In the dim lamplight I can see her face getting redder and redder by the second. I can't do this. Fat, salty tears roll down her chubby cheeks and it's all I can do to not join in with her.

"Here," I give in, gently handing her over to Peeta.

The minute he has hold of her; the cries die down. He sways slowly with her, cooing and whispering words of comfort. The only sound coming from her mouth is a muffled gurgling as her tiny hand wraps around Peeta's finger.

I back up and sit down on the edge of the rocking chair, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. This is the third time tonight. The third time I have been unable to console her.

"Why does she only cry when she's with me?" I ask. I can't even stop my own baby's tears; what kind of a mother am I? How am I supposed to look after her when she doesn't even want me? I knew I wasn't cut out for this.

"You're stressed, Katniss. That's going to come across to her and make her even more agitated," he says.

"Well we can't all be calm and collected like you," I say sourly.

He shakes his head at me and turns away.

"That probably isn't helping," he says.

I sigh. Great, I can't keep my baby or my husband happy.

"Sorry. I feel like I haven't slept in years," I say. I can no longer remember what a good night's sleep feels like. She wakes up every hour, on the hour. And when she does, Peeta is the only one who can get her back to sleep.

"You and me both," he chuckles, settling her back into her cot.

When he's finished staring dreamily down at her, he turns back and makes his way over to me. He crouches at my side, running his fingers through my hair. I nuzzle into his hand, my cheeks becoming damp.

"What's wrong with me?" I ask, shakily.

"Nothing is wrong with you," he reassures me, pulling me in for a hug.

I slide off the rocking chair and collapse into him.

"Why doesn't she like me?" I sniff.

"She does like you, Katniss. But when she makes the smallest of noises and you go into full on panic mode, it could make her unsettled," he says.

"But I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how to be around her," I sob.

He rubs my back, letting me cry it out.

"It's new for both of us, Katniss. It will just take a while to get used to."

"But you're already so natural with her! What if I never connect with her?" I ask.

"You will, Katniss. Just give it some time," he says delicately.

I snuggle closer into his chest, hoping that he's right.

"It's like she already knows," I whisper.

"Knows what?" he asks.

I swallow, finding it difficult to hold back tears and breathe at the same time.

"Knows who I am. What I've done." I say.

"What you've done is save millions of people and brought us all out from a dark place. You saved her from the Games, she'll never have to experience what we did."

This revelation pacifies me, until another worry pops up.

"How are we ever going to tell her about the Games?" I ask.

"When she's ready. When we're ready," he says simply.

I don't think I will ever be ready to expose her to that.

"We can't even find a name for her," I murmur.

"Well that's not entirely true, we've found lots of names but you just don't like any of them," he says.

"You're just annoyed that I refuse to call her Beatrice," I say, smiling to myself.

"Well I thought it was cute," he pokes me in the sides.

I jump and push him backwards.

"You think just about any name would be cute on her," I yawn.

"Now that's not true either. I think Haymitch would be an awful name for our baby," he says, pulling me to my feet.

I laugh and lean into him as he leads me out of our child's room and back into our bedroom. Just looking at the bed makes my eyes feel heavy.

I'm about to flop on to it when Peeta squeezes my hand and tucks me tighter into his arms. We stand there, two silhouettes in the dark. There's that cinnamon smell that follows Peeta everywhere. We are unable to break away, forever holding each other up. He begins to slowly sway from side to side.

"Why are we dancing?" I ask, coyly.

"Because you look like you need to dance," he replies.

I let the motion clear my head, pushing away at all the worries till there is only me and Peeta. Nothing else exists outside of this dance. For right now, it doesn't have to. Tomorrow will be a different story.

"I just need you," I say.

He smiles and we fall back onto the bed, sleep welcoming us as we hit the pillows.