The Hunger Games; Extended Epilouge

Chapter 4

Chapter four

Peeta's POV

I knock on the door to the bathroom, a little worried. "Are you alright? You've been in there an hour, and the shower isn't even on."

"I'm okay," I hear Katniss say weakly, the tiles from the ground making her voice waver slightly, altering it minorly.

"Can I come in?" I call out to her, growing anxious, because I can tell that she's lying.

"Y-yes," she stutters, and her voice cracks like it does when she's upset about something, and I fling open the door as quickly as possible. I need to know that she's safe, alright...

I'm relieved to find that she's fine; well, you couldn't really call it fine, by the state she's in. I get tensed up again after even a moment's glance at her, knowing instantly about the "flashbacks," as we call them. I have them too sometimes, so I know how she feels.

She's curled up like a ball, cheek pressed to the floor, tear stains trailing down her face. Her hair is in a loose mess on the floor like a mop, wet from her salty tears. Sobs make her body shake violently every second, and the pained expression, that pained expression on her face makes me feel my heart break on the inside for her.

I want to carry her burdens for her, to lift them off of her shoulders and hurt for her myself so that she'll be alright. But I can't, and I know that. The best I can do is crawl over next to her on the floor and pull her to me so that she's basically on my lap, and rock her, whispering soothing things in her ears.

"P-P-Prim," she softly sobs into my shirt. "N-n-need Prim." Most of her flashbacks are associated with Prim, and I don't blame her. Even a blind man could see the innocence and happiness that was etched into her sweet little blue eyes, and I know that Katniss did everything she could to save her.

"Shh... It's okay," I say soothingly, pressing my lips to her hair. "You're alright. Prim's safe now. Happy." She lets out a little choked sob at the mention of Prim's name. "Shh..."

The words make her calm down, but only a little bit, for only a moment. I let her cry into my shirt as I wrap my arms around her, protecting her. I have no idea how long we stay on the cold floor like that, and I know that it doesn't matter if it is days or weeks or years. Eventually, her crying turns to hiccups, and I watch as her eyes droop, and then finally close, worn out from all of that crying.

The steady rise and fall of her shoulders as she breathes is the only thing in the silence, keeping me sane. If I listen hard enough, I can even hear her heartbeat; beating in the same rhythm as mine. The thought makes me smile, although I don't exactly know why.

After I'm sure that she's out for good, I shift her slightly so that she's cradled in my arms like a baby, and pick her up as gently as possible. She's limp, like a rag-doll, and her head tips back slightly as she's lifted into the air.

As I carry her to bed, I can't help but think of how ironic all of this is. She is a victor- or for lack of better word, survivor- of two Hunger Games. Yet here she is, so small and fragile, so vulnerable to the outside world. And it's my job to protect her, to stay by her side no matter what, through thick and thin.

I try to pull back the covers on the bed, but that doesn't really work out too well considering that I have my hands full. I grab the sheets with my teeth and try to pull them back, unsuccessfully, and I feel Katniss stir in my arms.

Giving up, I sigh, and set her down on the comforter. I walk away swiftly to go downstairs to get a blanket for her so she doesn't get cold, but I stop when I hear her speak.