Katniss POV
There will be nothing triumphant about the train's return to District 12 tonight. Two caskets will be in tow, the same as every year. But that's not the only reason why I've been a nervous wreck all day.
Prim joins me for lunch. Our conversation is light, and for that I'm grateful. It's not until we've finished our meal and she's gathering up her things to leave that she brings it up. Her eyes search mine. "You don't have to stay here, you know," she says quietly. "You could quit. Move back to the Seam?" Prim is still angry with Peeta. As for myself, I'm not sure how I feel.
I shake my head. "You know I can't."
"Yes, you can," she argues, growing louder. "We'll find a way. There is no excuse for treating you like he did." I wave my hand, as if I could bat her words away. "Some people might call it-" She stops short and lowers her voice before she speaks again. "Some people might call it rape, Katniss."
"It wasn't-"
"It can be a very fine line sometimes."
It's the first time either of us has used that word. I haven't even wanted to think about it. My mouth is dry. "It wasn't that. I'm not sure what it was, exactly."
"You're not sure what it was," she repeats. I shake my head. "Don't make it sound like it was your fault."
"I'm not saying it was."
She scowls in a way that most people don't even know she can. "Peeta Mellark, poor, traumatized victor, got so upset watching his Hunger Games on TV that he can't be held accountable for his actions." She laughs bitterly. "That's what you keep telling yourself, isn't it?" She's angry, her blue eyes look almost black. Peeta should be glad he's not here right now. "You have to stop making excuses for him, Katniss."
I know that Prim is right. I do have to stop making excuses for him. "Let's just see what happens when he comes home, alright?"
Prim seems unconvinced. "What are you planning to do?"
"I'm going to talk to him about it." Prim doesn't know about the room at the end of the corridor. She doesn't know just how much Peeta and I have to discuss.
"Good. Do you want me to be here when you talk to him?" I shake my head. "Are you sure it's safe?"
"Yes, of course it is."
Prim doesn't look convinced. "Just promise me that if he's drunk or high when he comes home, you won't talk to him about what happened that night until I can be present. Okay?"
I sigh, looking away, but don't answer.
"Promise me?" Prim presses.
"I promise."
I know what time the train is supposed to arrive, but I don't go to the train station. It's past the children's bedtime, which is as good an excuse as any, but even if it wasn't, and even if things weren't up in the air like they are now, I wouldn't have gone. Going to the train station to meet Peeta in public, when everyone in 12 believes me to be his whore? It's unacceptable. Like everything else I do, I suppose.
I consider going to bed early, just to put off speaking with Peeta a bit longer. But I decide it's better for this first meeting to happen when the children are asleep. We live in the same house, for now, anyway. We can't avoid each other.
It's been over than a month, and I still don't know what to say to him. It's nearly 10 when I hear heavy steps on the gravel outside the house. I don't find the words come to mind any easier as he approaches. Peeta opens the front door, and I can hear him put his suitcase down on the floor and take off his shoes. And finally, he stands in the doorway to the living room. I sit on the couch, clutching a book that I've been trying unsuccessfully to read.
Peeta looks tired and older than I've ever seen him. He doesn't say anything. It's clear that he's not going to speak first.
"Hi," I begin.
He clears his throat. "Hi." He sits down in the armchair. The distance between us seems even greater now that he's here. "I've been wracking my brain this last month, trying to figure out how to make it up to you, but I can't. There's nothing I can say or do that can convey how sorry I am, except to say: I'm sorry."
I don't answer. I suspect he's prepared this speech, and I want him to finish it, without interruptions from me. Perhaps I'll learn something I never would have if I started asking questions right away. I'll ask my questions after. I won't let him push me away or avoid my questions, not anymore.
"During the mandatory viewing, I took some drugs I had left over from my last trip to the Capitol," he explains. "I guess you noticed that, right?" I nod. It was hard not to. "I cracked under the pressure. That's the only excuse I've got. Pathetic, I know." He takes a deep breath. "That was a mistake in itself, but then I also took a couple of sleeping pills before I went to bed. Before we went to bed," he corrects himself. "Sometimes, when you mix drugs, they can have strange effects. And when I woke up that night, I didn't quite know what was real and not real."
It's hard for me to understand, how you can't know what's real or not. I've never done drugs. At worst, I've had too much white liquor at a few Seam parties back when I was a teenager. It can't be the same. The liquor may have made me sick, but I always knew what was real.
"It was real," I tell him. I didn't intend for my voice to sound so cold.
"I know now that it was." He looks away. "Look, I'll completely understand it if you want to quit. I'll still make sure that you and the children won't starve." I raise my eyebrows. That's an unexpected offer, and it should be a relief. But it would also be charity. "Whatever you decide, I want you to know that I promise you I won't take drugs again. Ever."
"Not even when you're in the Capitol?"
His eyes are still trained on the floor as he answers. "Not even in the Capitol."
There's a silence that stretches between us. All I hear is the sounds of the even breaths I'm forcing myself to take, and of Peeta scratching at the arms of the chair.
Peeta clears his throat nervously. "Did I...?" He cuts himself off.
"Did you what?" I ask.
"Did I hurt you?" I don't answer right away. He picks up his head and finally meets my eyes. "I don't remember all of what happened. Just bits and pieces."
I'm not surprised. That's mostly what I remember, too, and I wasn't even on drugs. I'm tempted to ask him what he does remember, but seeing the defeated look on his face, I think he must remember enough. "You bit me." I indicate the place where the bite mark, which has healed now, was. His gaze lingers on my fingertips. "You were rough in general." I furrow my brow, because I misspoke. Him being rough wasn't the real problem. "It didn't seem like you were really there. It was different from what happened earlier." On the couch that I'm currently sitting on.
"That shouldn't have happened the way it did either," he mutters.
"I suppose not," I agree.
"Was any of it what you wanted?" he asks.
"What?"
"I mean, did you enjoy any of it?" His voice is very low. He doesn't look at me, instead he stares at his clasped hands.
I hesitate. "Why do you ask?"
"My memories are confusing. The drugs make them sort of shiny. It's hard to explain. And I just can't tell if you-"
"Some of it," I answer truthfully. "At first. In the beginning."
"You wanted me?" He asks.
I nod my head, pushing down my feelings of shame. "I wanted you," I repeat.
"But, not like that," he says flatly. I shake my head no. He grits his teeth. "I'm sorry."
I take a deep breath. I don't want apologies. I want answers. "What was I to you that night, Peeta?"
His eyes widen in surprise. "I'm not sure," he says quickly. "I think that might have been part of the problem. I wasn't sure who you were."
I narrow my eyes. "Did you think I was someone else?"
He exhales shakily. "Yes," he confesses. I flinch, the pain from his words is almost physical. He must notice my shock, because he quickly continues: "Not all of the time. Just sometimes."
"On the couch, too?"
He shakes his head. "No." I guess it should be a relief, but I'm too upset right now to feel much relief.
"So that's how things are done in the Capitol? You wake up in the middle of the night and whatever happens, happens? And it doesn't matter who the person in your bed is?"
"Well... Yes and no."
What kind of an answer is that? I don't understand, I don't understand any of this. Why is Capitol Peeta so different from Peeta the baker? I don't know how all the dots are connected, but I do know that this isn't only about what happened that night before he went to the Capitol. It started long before that, and it runs much deeper.
He's quiet, probably trying to mull over an apology. Finally, he speaks. "There are things I want to explain to you, but I don't know where to begin."
He may not know. But I do. "I went into the room," I say. I don't have to specify which room.
Peeta instantly knows what I'm talking about. His fists are clenched, so hard his knuckles are white. "You must think that I'm a freak." His voice is shaking.
"I don't know what to think."
"You have no idea how fucked up I am."
I actually think that I'm starting to realize just how screwed up he really is, but I don't comment on it. "Why are all the paintings of me?"
I'm pretty sure that I already know the answer, but I still need him to say the words out loud. There have been too many misunderstandings between us because we don't talk.
"I never intended for you to see them."
"You didn't answer my question."
"What do you think the answer is?"
I study his face intently while I contemplate what to answer. "The only reason I can think of why an artist would make that many paintings of one woman would be if..." I trail off.
"...if he was in love with her." Peeta says, just above a whisper. He takes a sharp intake of breath. "We were five," he says, his voice low. "You wore your hair in two braids instead of one. When the teacher asked if anyone knew the valley song, your hand shot right up. You stood up on the chair, and when you sang, I swear the birds outside the window stopped singing to listen to you."
That explains why he would paint me on my first day of school. Why he would remember every detail - braids and plaid dress and all. "All that time?"
"All that time," he echoes. "I never did work up the courage to talk to you. Even when you were starving, and all I did was burn some loaves of bread and throw them into the rain. I've always been a coward."
I haven't forgotten the beating I saw his mother give him over those loaves of burned bread. Peeta's being too hard on himself. He was abused by his mother, and he was only a child. He was far from being a coward.
"Then I was reaped," Peeta continues, "and I figured it was for the best that I'd never told you. I knew you wouldn't grieve me, because you didn't know me. After my Games, on the train home, I couldn't wait to see you. I'd already been through so much and there was so much I wanted to tell you. That I loved you was only the beginning. I thought that maybe, just maybe, you'd love me too. But when I came home, you were with Gale." His eyes, which have held mine as he told me about how he fell in love with me, find the floor again as he speaks Gale's name. "I began to understand what the arena had done to me, and that I could never hope to live a normal life. There were so many reasons why you would be much better off with Gale than with me, so I stayed away."
"You should've told me."
"Would it have changed anything, Katniss?" He looks up again with his big, blue eyes.
I shake my head. "I guess not."
"That's what I thought." He leans back in the chair. "So I watched you. Maybe that makes me a crazy, pathetic stalker, but I tried to be discreet. I painted you. I loved you. I drank, and I took drugs, and it made the loneliness easier to bear. You were happy, I could see it. You must have been tired and hungry at times, sure, but overall, you were happy. He made you happy. I knew I'd made the right decision." His voice is intense, his eyes are locked with mine, but he doesn't move.
"I'm not going to lie to you," Peeta continues. "Seeing you when you were pregnant with Arrow almost destroyed me. And seeing him when he was born, looking so much like Gale, was even worse." I had no idea he'd even seen me with Arrow when he was a baby. I never noticed him, not really. But apparently he noticed everything about me. "So I drank even more. And year by year, it was easier to look up at those paintings on the wall, at the Katniss I fell in love with, and know that it's better this way. It's better that you never knew. But then..." His voice trails off.
"But then I stood at your door," I whisper.
"Then you stood at my door," he repeats, tiredly.
I get up from the couch and walk up to him, but I keep some space between us. I look down at him. "So what happens now?"
"That's up to you. I'll completely understand it if you want to press charges on me. I won't deny anything."
My laugh is hollow. "Sure I will. I'll go to Cray. What do you think he'd do to me?" Peeta's status as a victor ensures that he can do just about anything he wants to in 12. I, on the other hand, am a nobody. I'm vulnerable. "He's been after me since I was 15 or 16," I tell him. "He still is."
"What do you mean?" he asks, furrowing his brow.
Damn. I didn't meant to tell him, but it slipped. "Cray came here when you were away," I confess, and Peeta's eyes widen. "He wanted to 'check' if I complied with the mandatory viewing. Funny he never bothers to do that while you're home, don't you think?"
"Did he do anything inappropriate?"
I shake my head. "Darius was with him."
"Darius?"
"The Peacekeeper with red hair?" Peeta nods. I have to weigh my words carefully, I can't say anything about my hunting or trading in the Hob. Not here, in this house. "I know him. He's okay."
Peeta curses under his breath. "I'll deal with Cray."
"No, you won't."
"Yes, I will," he insists. "He's got a set of balls on him coming here and intimidating my-" Peeta cuts himself off. I don't think either of us knows what we are to each other. "Cray is dangerous. But he's also expendable, and he knows it. I'll make sure he never bothers you again."
"Seems like I have a trail of not-so-secret admirers," I say dryly. "I wonder how many others will come out of the woodwork?"
I'm so sick of all this. For most of my life, I've depended on men to protect me. First there was my father. When he died, I almost did, too. If I hadn't started hunting with Gale, I'm not sure I would've made it. Getting married to Gale ensured me a house to live in, at least some food on the table, and a degree of protection from Cray. And now, I am once again in need of being protected. Only Peeta stands between me and a Head Peacekeeper who wants my body and who knows what more. Peeta also protects me from a district which thinks that I'm a whore, even though he is technically the cause of my ruined reputation.
There are a number of things that aren't right in Panem, but the way women are treated is at the top of the list. Right up there with the Hunger Games.
He looks defeated. "I'm so sorry, Katniss."
"It's going to take quite a lot more than an apology to fix this, Peeta."
"I wasn't even sure if you wanted to try to fix things between us," he confesses.
"I'm not sure myself either," I admit. "I'm still trying to figure it out."
"Katniss, there's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while now. I talked to Cashmere, and she said that..."
That's it. I've had it. He's apologized, repeatedly, but he hasn't really given me any reason to start trusting him again. It's so easy to say 'I'm sorry'. They are just three little words can that slip off the tongue all too quickly. And now he brings up her as well? I know he's been in the Capitol with Cashmere for more than a month. I don't want to know what they might have talked about... or what they've done.
"I really don't care what Cashmere said," I hiss. I can't do this. "I'm going to bed," I tell him, without turning around as I leave the room. "Alone."
I go upstairs to my own room. I consider locking the door, but I end up not doing it. I know he won't come.
The next day, I avoid Peeta as much as I can. After following Arrow to school, I visit Prim, which means I'm out most of the day. Prim is relieved that our first talk went well - or as well as it could, I guess, all things considered. I reassure her that I have nothing to fear from Peeta, and she seems to believe me.
Later that afternoon, both of the children are playing in the living room, and Peeta knows better than to bring up the conversation we had last night when they're awake. We have dinner together, all four of us and the tension around the table is thick. Peeta doesn't look at me for too long, and he hardly says anything. I try to ask Arrow questions about school, but he is also very quiet. It's not like him at all. Ivy is whiny and keeps deliberately throwing food down on the floor. Peeta and I are obviously failing miserably at hiding from the children that something is wrong between us.
At night, after the children are in bed, I'm washing the dishes when Peeta comes into the kitchen. I hear his heavy footsteps behind me as he approaches the fridge. There's something I didn't tell him last night. There was just too much to take in, I had to clear my mind somewhat before I could tell him. I don't know whether or not he cares, but he still needs to know.
I don't turn around or look at him when I speak. "You'll be happy to know that there won't be any results of what happened." I try to keep my voice neutral, but still it's as if I can hear the weeks of frantic worry in it. I keep scrubbing the dishes as I talk.
"Results? What do you mean?" He closes the fridge door.
I sigh. How oblivious is he? I guess I have to spell it out for him. "I'm not pregnant."
"Katniss?" His voice is strangled.
I turn around, drying my hands on the apron, leaning my lower back against the sink. His eyes are wide and shocked. "Did you think that you could be pregnant?"
"You came inside me," I say simply. "Even though I specifically told you not to."
He's very pale now. "I'm sorry." I roll my eyes. How many times in the last 24 hours has the told me that he's sorry?
"Is that one of the things you don't quite remember?"
"No, I do remember that part." He pauses. "Fuck, I'm an asshole," he says, it seems like he's saying it more or less to himself as he shakes his head in disbelief. At least he acknowledges it. I'm about to agree with him, but he speaks first. "I should've told you, I just didn't think. I can't believe I let you go through several weeks of thinking that you could've gotten pregnant. They give me injections in the Capitol to prevent pregnancy. They last for a year. My last shot was in March, so the idea that you could get pregnant never even crossed my mind, because I knew it wasn't possible."
This takes me aback. I had no idea injections like that even exist. There are a few Capitol birth control options in 12, but only the most well-off Town couples can afford them, and none of them are all that effective, anyway.
Suddenly, I'm furious. Furious that I've been stupid enough to listen to Haymitch's advice and never pressure Peeta on what's going on in the Capitol. Furious that Peeta let me go through more than two weeks of being frantic with worry that I was going to get pregnant, and it was all for nothing. "Then why didn't you tell me?" I yell at him. "Would it have killed you to pick up the phone for just two minutes to let me know that I had nothing to worry about?"
He looks defeated. "Haymitch said I shouldn't call you, and like I said, I didn't think. I didn't consider pregnancy at all. I'm so sorry. I thought that you were on..."
Haymitch again. "Why are you discussing so much of what goes on between us with Haymitch and Cashmere?" I've had enough of that old drunk interfering with my life, and Cashmere is literally the last person I want him to discuss our relationship with. Yet clearly he does.
"I... I wasn't-"
"And how could I be on any kind of birth control? Do you have any idea how people in 12 live at all?"
Looking at him, I realize he probably doesn't. I can see how distressed he is. He's running his fingers through his hair repeatedly. He's pacing back and forth across the floor, breathing heavily. The idea of me thinking that I might have become pregnant must be very disturbing for him. In a way, it feels good that at least he acknowledges that it was really hard for me.
I consider what he just told me, about the injections. He got one in March, at a point in our relationship where we weren't anywhere close to being intimate. I highly doubt Peeta asked his Capitol doctor to give him that injection because of me. I've seen Peeta on TV with various women on his arm over the years, so I suppose he has had a string of lovers in the Capitol. Getting a birth control shot to make sure they don't get pregnant would be the responsible and sensible thing to do.
Right?
Still, something seems wrong about this. Actually, something has been wrong all along.
"Peeta. Why did you get that shot?" I say slowly.
"I told you. To prevent pregnancy." His voice isn't quite steady.
"To prevent that who exactly gets pregnant?" He looks away. "I've never seen you with any women in 12. Have you had a relationship with someone here?"
He shakes his head. "No, I haven't."
"So it's to keep your lovers in the Capitol from getting pregnant? Because it's not only Cashmere, is it?" He shakes his head again. "Are they morethan lovers to you? Are they your girlfriends?"
He looks very uncomfortable now. "They are neither."
I don't understand. "Then what are they?" I hiss.
"They are clients," he says, his voice flat and strangely devoid of emotion.
"Clients?" My confusion must show in my face.
"Yes, clients. You never wondered what exactly I was doing in the Capitol when I wasn't mentoring? Did you really think I went there for the sights or the parties?" His voice is strangely flat. "I'm a prostitute, Katniss. I'm sure there's a fancier word for it, but that's the essence of it."
"What?" It's the only word I'm able to get out. I stare at him, stunned.
He laughs, but his laughter is short and cold. "It happens to all the victors. Well, all the desirable ones, anyway. Because survival in the Hunger Games is based largely on getting sponsors, which again is directly related to your looks, being desirable is a clear selection criterion when it comes to becoming a victor. Either you fuck who they tell you to fuck, or all your relatives and loved ones end up dead. So most of us do it, and the few who don't, generally end up regretting it."
"All the victors?" It's the only thing I'm able to get out.
"I'm hardly the only one. Do you really think that Finnick wants to fuck half the Capitol? He has a girlfriend back in 4. A girlfriend he loves more than anything, but no one can know about her. He can never marry her or have children with her, even though they have been together for almost two decades, she's too crazy to be shown off in the glossy Capitol magazines. Which is unfair, because the Hunger Games were what fucked her up in the first place."
The Hunger Games? I furrow my brow, thinking back. "Annie Cresta?" I ask. I remember her now. The most unlikely winner of them all, who only survived because she was the best swimmer. She was on TV on and off for a couple of years after she won, but she always came across as quite odd and distant, and after that, there's been nothing. It's been as if she never existed. There were hushed rumors that she had gone insane. Some said that she had killed herself, even.
"Yeah, Annie." He looks nervously at the walls for a second, but then he shakes his head slightly, as if to himself. I'm suddenly terrified that I've let too much slip. He shrugs. "It doesn't matter, Katniss. I'm sure the people who are listening in on us already know about her. She's not really a well-kept secret. Annie's mental health situation aside, a married prostitute would be less desirable for many of Finnick's clients. It would break the illusion the customers have that he actually wants to sleep with them. Not to mention that everyone knows the reapings are rigged, and if Finnick had a child, the odds most certainly would not be in their favor. Finnick's too handsome for his own good. No one fetches a higher price than he does."
I never suspected the ugly truth that Finnick is hiding behind his perfect looks and flirtatious smile. I feel ashamed for judging him. "Cashmere, too?" My voice isn't quite steady.
He sighs. "Yes, Cashmere, too. Finnick, Gloss, Spar, Diamond, Enobaria, Cashmere and I are all money making machines for Snow."
Cashmere is beautiful and strong. She's so different from the starving, shivering women I've seen standing outside Cray's door at night. So different from what I myself looked like on that winter night when I was willing to go to Cray. But we're no different, she and I.
"Do they hurt you?"
"Sometimes. It's worse for the female victors, though, they are much more likely to get injured."
"Is that why you bit me?"
Peeta takes a deep, shaky breath. "A lot of clients want something to remember me by. Something to show to their friends the next morning, to brag about. It's just the way things work in the Capitol. I knew that I was with you, even though it was hazy, but there were times when I slipped. I think that's when it happened."
Hearing that he has confused me with one of the women who pay for sexual favors against his will is almost more than I can bear.
"I told you once that I had no idea what I was doing, remember?" I nod. "Well, it's true. I may know what I'm doing in bed." His voice is bitter, and he chuckles and shakes his head slightly, as if to himself. "But I've never been in a relationship. The only people I've been with without money being involved, have been other victors. Cashmere, mostly."
I look up at him, but I don't know what to answer. His eyes meet mine, but he doesn't say anything either. He abruptly turns around, leaves the kitchen, and a few seconds later, I hear the front door slam shut.
I don't know where he sleeps. I lie awake in the darkness, listening for his steps outside, or the door, but there's nothing. I stare into the darkness, trying to take in what Peeta told me, but I can't. I can't. What have I gotten myself into? The man that I was falling in love with, a kind, smart, complicated man, has secrets far worse than I could ever have imagined.
This is no longer just about me deciding whether or not I want to stay in this house, whether I can trust him ever again. If I decide that I want to acknowledge the feelings that were developing between us, feelings I have to admit to myself are still not gone despite everything that has happened, I'll have to accept the fact that I'll have to share Peeta with countless others.
What has years of forced prostitution done to him? Will he be able to function in a normal relationship at all? Not that this could be normal. If the two times we were together are any indication, I'm not so sure about that.
I don't think I'll be able to sleep at all, but at some point, I must drift off.
I'm walking down the corridor. It's dark, but the door to the study is open, and the light there is on. I go inside. President Snow is sitting behind the heavy mahogany desk. There is a faint, but sickening scent of blood in the air, mingling with the scent of roses. It must come from the single white rose in President Snow's lapel, but it must be genetically enhanced somehow, because no real rose reeks like that.
"Would you like to be in a real war?" Snow says. "Thousands of your people dead. Your loved ones... Gone."
I don't know what war Snow is talking about, but the hologram of my children on the desk tells me everything I need to know. The threat is real. The war is real. I'm unable to move, unable to answer his question, even unable to breathe. All I can do is stare into his pale, blue eyes.
I wake screaming. I switch on the light. I'm sweating, and I gasp for breath as my heart races. I try to calm my breathing as I stare up at the ceiling. The house is quiet. Peeta is gone, and thankfully, it doesn't seem like my screams woke the children.
What did the Capitol do to the boy with the bread?