Extinguished

Chapter 1

Still not used to the luxurious feeling of it, I stroke the velvet fabric of my sofa as I huddle up next to Peeta. I bury my head in his shoulder and try not to think of my most recent recurring nightmare. I bite down hard on my lip and ignore the cold sweat, and snap my head round to see the blank TV screen start to flicker. A static buzz fills the air and breaks our peaceful silence.

The screen is filled with a picture of an old man with white hair and puffy lips. He has had so much plastic surgery he looks like a waxwork model, and his eyes, like a snake's, bore into mine. I am about to leave the room, eyeing my old leather hunting boots that sit in the hallway, when Peeta grabs my wrist. It hurts, and know his grasp will leave red marks, but I don't shake him off because I never know how much he may need me.

Claudius Templesmith's Capitol accent comes out the speakers, and the anthem of Panem that's also playing gets quieter. "President Coriolanus Snow, the one true face of our nation, will be remembered for generations to come. His influence remains in our hearts. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever." It's the end of a speech I've heard before, recorded shortly after Snow's death two years ago. They didn't air it until after the rebels calmed down, but of couse the broadcast just stirred them - us - up again. The TV screen flickers, and the picture changes, over and over it changes, and I don't quite know what I'm seeing until a pool of crimson fluid takes up most of the shot. I am watching the games. Every single annual games that ever happened. Peeta and I both flinch when we see a fleeting glance of Haymitch at the end of his games as he struggles to keep his insides inside him. And then, all too soon, come the torrent of stills from my games - our games - but although we were in two games in a row, we get less pictures shown than any other single victor. Not once do I see my face. It's all Peeta. It seems he remains the Capitol's weapon, even when the Capitol is no more, really. The thought sends chills down my spine, but I still smirk with the satisfaction of having the Capitol afraid to show my face.

The slideshow has stopped. Caesar Flickerman is telling me something. His forehead furrows with concern as he declares a well-practised speech. It must be important, or disturbing, because I'm now sat on the couch alone. From what seems like a very long way away, I hear china and glass being thrown to the ground and smashed. I should go and stop him - help him. My vision is blurred, and I feel moisture on my cheeks. Stormclouds are forming in the deepest parts of my brain and heart. I feel myself stand on shakey legs, but the carpet is melting away, the ceiling caves in; drips down the walls and fills my lungs and airways. It weighs me down and I sense the corner of the coffee table make a grazing incision in my hip before I feel one side of my face crash painfully to the floor. I hear a crunch coming from my cheekbone. Watering eyes add to the existing stream of tears that are changing their course, flowing over my nose and across my face.

"May the odds be ever in your favour."

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When I wake, I suck in a raspy breath and my eyes fly open. Without moving my head, I look around frantically and try to identify where I am. But I could've done that by looking straight up, at the white ceiling that I have spent hundreds of sleepless night staring at. Although the familiarity provides some comfort, and I am glad that I'm not waking up in a new place for the thousandth time, something is off and it puts my nerves on edge. To bed is too cold, the sheets, crisp and white, are bound too tightly around my body. Peeta is gone. Gone where? Where is there that he will find comfort in, other than with me? Don't get arrogant, I think. He was trained to hate you, so even if he's recovered some, tucked into a bed with you won't always seem like a safe haven.

His family home was destroyed. Too many memories in the district centre; pieces of the bakery sign still lay in scorched shards around the square.

Home is where he ran from. How long has he been gone though? Does he feel safe anywhere? The muddling thoughts dance behind my eyes and provoke tears; desperation and a frantic imagination sent me into fits of sobs, But I am restricted, bound to the bed- Who put me into bed?

"Good morning Sweetheart," comes a croaky voice from the corner of the room. Haymitch sits slouched, with dishevelled hair and clothes, in the plush suede armchair. Sat in the chair, you can see out the large window opposite, the view stretching on for miles. It's where Peeta sits to paint; one of the best forms of therapy he's found. in two years, he's filled a spare room with landscape canvases depicting the rolling hills and forest at every angle, with every shade of sunlight. When he 's sat there, focused only on the art and nothing else, I see the glint of peace in his eyes that reminds me of those nights on the train.

So to see Haymitch, greasy-haired, liquor bottle in hand, staring glazed-eyed at a space somewhere near my head, slumped in the chair, folding the cushion that my mother stitched for...her three years ago....