The Hunger Games - Peeta's POV

Chapter Twenty Six - Recovery

The room absorbed all sound. Plain white walls, not even a door in place. A simple white bed, where I lay in only a nightgown. My arm was hooked up to five different wires that led to machines. One beated consistently, lines spiking on the screen. Another had a bag of liquid, and another with what I can only assume is blood.The other two led through a hole in the wall, so I can only guess what they did. Only a few seconds awake, I became aware of a dull, consistent ache in my leg. Did they fix it? The one with the tourniquet? I stand up, out of my bed, and see it. A cylinder piece of metal. Only half of my right leg remains. It was cut off. Was the mutt scratch really that bad? I try to waddle over to the mirror, using the frame of the bed to support myself. My face, my arms, my neck. Smooth. Blemish free. There are no tracker jacker stings. No scars from my mothers' beatings. Not a scrap of dirt or blood. Not even a bruise. What?

I spend an hour trying to get used to my new leg. It is hard to balance on, and even harder to control/ But like anything, a bit of time did the trick. Running would be a whole new story, and climbing is definitely out of the picture. But walking, I can do it. An Avox slides open a panel from the wall, bearing a bowl of hot soup. It is finished within minutes, and so I sit straight on my bed, bored. Worrying, actually. Is Katniss okay? Is she even alive? Where is she? And what happens now?

Hours? Days? Weeks? How many times has an Avox served me food? How many times have I fallen asleep? How long has it been since the Games?

The wall slides open, revealing Haymitch. I am unsure how to act, if we were even friends in the first place. But he helped save Katniss' life, and I am forever grateful. I fall into his arms.

"You did good kid. You did good." He holds me there for a second, before I remember about my worries. "Katniss?" I ask.

"I saw her a few days ago through the window." I make a questioning look. "One-way window. She was asleep. Looked fine. I'm going to check up on her again after you. How's your leg?"

"Manageable. I've been trying to walk around with it. It's different, but I'll get used to it."

"I know" With that, he turns on his heel and leaves. I entertain myself by trying to find the one way window, and then I sit in the corner when I give up. The stars. I just want to thank the stars. The stars! The stars! I just want to see the stars! Anything to see the stars! To be on the roof-top again, looking at the same galaxies as I did the day before the Games. The only things that I can confide in. My safe spot.

I think it's a few days before Portia visits. I don't know what's been holding them back, as I am not necessarily injured and my leg is not too much of a burden. But still, it takes a few days. I embrace her only for a few seconds. She is quick to business, though. Telling me about my suit for Victor's Interview. She then tells me how I won't see Katniss until the interview, as the Capitol wants Panem to see the re-union. As Portia was finishing up, the panel in the wall slides open, and out bursts three familiar faces.

"We couldn't wait to see you!" Says Trey.

"Peeta! Our victor!" Says Julius.

"You were fantastic, darling!" Says Mollace.

They bring me to Beauty-Base-Zero, which apparently doesn't take too long. My face was only mildly injured during the Games, so they only need to pluck a few eyebrow hairs, and dab a bit of powder on tracker-jacker scars. They then put pigmented colours on my eyelids and nose, but I am surprised by how normal I look when I glance in the mirror. Maybe the same amount of "Capitol" as Cinna. The only thing that worsens my mood is the constant chatter from my prep team. Mostly about when I camouflaged myself in the Games.

"Honestly though, I wouldn't be surprised if your camouflage becomes the new trend. Either that or Katniss' mockingjay pin." Expresses Trey, keen to start a conversation.

"Oh yes. When I saw Peeta paint himself, I tried it at home. It's much harder than it looks. Peeta, my boy, you have true talent! Obviously I was able to replicate it though. I am a stylist, you know."

"Mollace, I couldn't agree more. You know Peeta, we could use you in the camouflage station at the Training Centre. The guy who mans it is barely awake, let alone sober. None of the tributes that go to his station are ever victors. They normally die in the bloodbath. If not then, then certainly not past the top 12." I interrupt Julius. I can't bear another word about the Games, oh the sadistic Games.

"Can we ... not talk about the Games? It's not that nice in there." I can see their apologetic faces.

"Of course, Peeta." Julius waits a second, before continuing. "I've always wanted to know what the bloodbath would've been like in person." I feel as though they are legitimately testing my patience. I can't hold it in anymore. No more sugar-coating.

"You three don't realise how lucky you have it! How badly the districts have it! When you were turning twelve years old, your biggest concern was whether or not the lunch ladies at school would be nice to you. When either of you had siblings, you were only thinking about the attention from your parents that would now have to be shared. When you turned eighteen, you were all thinking about becoming a stylist. Well, breaking news, not everyone is born into that! Yeah, shocker! When I turned twelve, I was scared about being picked to fight to the death. I was scared about having my life taken away from me. When I was only twelve. My biggest concern with my two older brothers was how much food would be left for me. If I even turn eighteen, I will have to live the rest of my life over 600 feet underneath the ground. All of that, only if you were lucky! If you weren't, your siblings would be reaped. If you weren't, you had to watch your family die in ways I can't even imagine. If you weren't, you would live only eating a mouthful of food a day. You wouldn't have even made it past fifteen tops. And the amount of times I have seen twenty year-olds not permitted to the mines - their only source of money - because they were not strong enough to. So next time you are crying on your velvet bed, in your spacious room, after eating your eighth meal of the day, sad because your mother won't buy you the most expensive piece of jewelry, think!" I swat away the brushes and sponges, and snatch a card from Mollace's neck. I scan it against the panel that opens, and wait for it to slide. When it does, I walk into the hallway, throw back Mollace's card, and watch them unfold through the one-way window.