Stay Who You Were Before

Peeta's room has changed a lot since my last visit. In the middle of the room, where his bed used to be, stands a long, sturdy metal table, while his bed has been pushed into the top left corner. The table is covered with baking dishes, bowls and colorful foods. Just the smell of chocolate filling the air around me around me makes my stomach growl in sudden cravings.

"Hello Peeta," I say in a friendly, thoughtful tone as the electric door behind me automatically clicks shut. I stay where I am and wait for a reaction from him. The doctors have just reassured me that he is doing much better, but I still don't want to put him in a position where he might feel unwell.

When the door opened and I entered his hospital room, he suddenly stopped moving. Now his wide, light blue eyes are fixed on me and for a long time we just look at each other. His hands, which had been busy rolling out a piece of dough, tremble around the rolling pin. Then, as if waking from a trance, his gaze darts from me to the door and back again. Something in his posture relaxes.

"Effie," Peeta whispers, relieved.

All I can manage is a nod of confirmation. "I'm so glad to see you, Peeta."

"I thought you were dead," he admits, looking me up and down. "You look different."

"Fortunately, Johanna and I were able to escape this fate," I reply, now also looking down at myself. "As for my outfit ... unfortunately, District Thirteen doesn't have an ounce of fashion sense."

Peeta's mouth twitches. "I didn't know you were with Johanna. She and I were put next to each other at the very beginning."

I nod again. "She told me. Luckily, that's all over now."

Peeta doesn't respond to my words. He's still looking at me as if he's not sure if it's really Effie Trinket in front of him. I can't blame him. Even during our meetings in captivity, he saw me in the usual Capitol getup on both occasions. He doesn't know what they did to me. If anything, he can only guess.

"They told me that you would pay for what I said in the interview," he continues, the look in his eyes strangely misty. Absent. Tormented. "They said you would have a long, painful death."

"They lied, Peeta. Look at me, I'm alive," I reply in a soft voice, raising a hand to my cheek to make it clear to him that I'm not a figment of his imagination.

"I know that," Peeta says in a dark tone that makes me uncomfortable. "They showed me videos of you and Johanna and Annie. I saw them beat you up. I fell asleep and woke up to your screams. They told me that if I convinced her to stop, I could stop your suffering. It's all her fault."

This wasn't a good idea, a voice whispers in my head. What he says feels like a powerful punch in the chest. My stomach threatens to tear in two where the suddenly released panic tries to reach the surface. "Don't say that, Peeta. The Capitol alone is to blame for what they did to us."

But Peeta shakes his head vehemently and stares at the mirrored windows to his right. The trembling in his fingers becomes stronger. "They're watching us right now, aren't they?"

For a moment I'm speechless at his insight, then I nod.

"Is Katniss there too?" He rips her name on his tongue as if it were pure poison.

"Katniss is there, as are Haymitch and Dr. Jennings," I admit without hesitation. What would be the point of lying to him? Peeta has always been good at seeing through the well-intentioned lies from Haymitch and me. "And they're all very worried about you, Peeta. Just like me."

"They told me you killed a Peacekeeper. Is that true?" Peeta's eyes look at me with genuine curiosity. He sees the twitching of my hands, the way I press my lips together so as not to lose my self-control. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to."

In his twisted world, he seems to need my answer to put another piece of the puzzle together to the picture that doesn't make sense to me. His intention is not to torture me. All he's trying to do is break out of the prison in his head that the Capitol left there. I raise my shaking hand and manage a twisted smile as I slowly move towards him.

"I find it difficult to talk about it." A mirthless laugh escapes my lips. "But Dr. Jennings says speaking the truth would help me."

"That sounds familiar," Peeta explains. He seems to be slowly relaxing. "So many things happened in the Capitol. So many things that don't fit with reality. Sometimes I wonder if I didn't just dream it all."

Tears fill my eyes. What they did to me was hell. What did the boy have to go through then? I sigh deeply before answering his actual question. "I killed the Peacekeeper," I admit, unable to tear my eyes away from his shaking hands. "I know I did it, but I barely remember it. All I remember is the hate I felt."

"Thank you for telling me," Peeta murmurs, running a floury hand through his blonde hair. "I don't know what they did to you back then, they only started telling me about you and showing your videos at the same time as the interviews. I'm glad I don't know."

At that point they must have started giving him the Tracker Jacker venom. "If it helps you, I'm glad," I say, looking at the mess on the table. "What are you actually doing there?"

I need the change of subject because otherwise the long-lost feeling in my body will consume me. To my relief, Peeta jumps at it this time and doesn't drift off into his parallel world. "I'm baking a cake." He shrugs. "I haven't baked for a long time and can still do it as well as I used to. It distracts me."

I approach the table with interest and curiously look at the food closest to me. A euphoric laugh rises from my throat as I again focus on the smell that makes my mouth water. Tears cloud my vision again. "You can't imagine the last time I saw a piece of chocolate. This is the most beautiful sight I've seen in months."

A smile graces Peeta's lips as he holds out the bowl of crushed candy to me. "They give me plenty of it, so feel free to help yourself."

And so, we fall into a more pleasant conversation. Peeta tells me what he has baked so far and how the ingredients here differ from those at home. His passion actually seems to distract him. Because even though he talks about his destroyed District and his dead family, he doesn't get lost in his confused thoughts. Just the way his eyes darken each time suggests that the memories are causing him distress. I stuff myself with chocolate, strawberries, and dried icing while he shows me how he makes the dough. As kids, Aurelia and I sometimes baked, but that was a long, long time ago and it turns out I don't have a knack for it. I break two of three eggs before Peeta can hand me the correct container for their contents.

When the watch on my wrist beeps, both he and I jump. It's Haymitch's watch and it looks way too big on my thin arm. He gave it to me so that they could signal me from outside when my time was up. Peeta glances at the flashing display and his facial features, which had just contained the hint of relaxation, return to the lifeless rigidity with which I met him at the beginning of our encounter.

"Will you come back?" is all he asks as he puts away the containers I used.

"Of course I'll come back, darling," I promise immediately. A promise that Haymitch will have to make possible, but I don't care about that right now. I can only hope that Dr. Jennings will have no objections. "I need to try your cake, after all."

Peeta smiles one last time. "I'll leave you a piece."

I wave to him as the door opens in front of me and I step out. The second it closes behind me, I kneel on the floor, hands protectively over my head.

In there with Peeta, I was also able to push my pain aside. I was able to push aside the things he revealed to me, and I revealed to him. But that security is gone now that I'm back in reality.

Adrian's malicious look dances in my mind's eye and I have trouble concentrating on anything else. I lied when I said I didn't remember killing him. I remember everything: his weak breathing, the stiffness of his limbs, the coldness of his body. How could I ever forget that?

And then there's the fact that they forced Peeta to watch as they tortured us. My pain was part of the hatred for Katniss that they planted in Peeta. A darkness spreads in my head that I've been able to hold back for weeks. Is this the trauma Dr. Jennings warned me against?

"Shall I give you a sedative?" I hear Dr. Jennings ask in her usual friendly voice. She has crouched down in front of me and squeezes my shoulder in a gentle touch.

"No," I whisper, but I'm not sure if she even understands me. Tears run down my cheeks, seeping between my fingers, which I still hold up to my face like a protective shield. "It would just push it back."

"Alright," she says in her casual way. Nothing and no one can upset this doctor. "You did very well in there. Peeta has never spoken so openly about his time in captivity. We learned a few things that will help us tailor his therapy more closely to him. But how do you feel after everything Peeta has thrown at you?"

I lower my shaking hands and look straight into Dr. Jennings's face who gives me a small smile and still holds my shoulder. Maybe she's afraid I'll lose my balance. The vision blurs before my eyes again. My heart is pounding in my chest. "I tried to forget it, but now it's all back."

Dr. Jennings nods, more serious now. "This is the post-traumatic stress disorder we were talking about. Over the next twenty-four hours, see how your condition develops. But come to me immediately if it gets worse or you lose control."

My body manages to nod, but I don't feel like I'm the one controlling it. With some effort I stagger to my feet and meet Haymitch's gaze over Dr. Jennings's shoulders. Katniss, who is standing next to him, holds his arm as if she is trying to hold him back. Her face is blank of emotion, but her eyes are wide in alert. She looks at me like she's never met me before.

"Thank you for doing this for Peeta, Effie," she manages to say, looking away as if my emotional outburst was too much for her. She lets go of Haymitch, who bolts forward, coming to a stop inches from me. My fear is reflected in his eyes. His hands are shaking just like mine. In a nervous movement he wipes the tears from my cheeks.

"I'm getting you out of here," he murmurs in a harsh voice, and I follow him without protesting. Nothing better than that. I don't want to stay in this room for a second longer.

As we leave the infirmary behind us, I find it easier to breathe. We roam the corridors of District 13 until we reach Haymitch's apartment complex. He doesn't say a word as he closes the door behind me, and I collapse onto one of the beds. The watch on my hand begins to beep again and my fingers fail in their attempt to remove it from my wrist. Haymitch, who briefly disappeared into the bathroom, returns with a glass of water, which he places on the nightstand next to the bed. Then he returns to me, knees in front of me and clasps my hand in his.

"You're having a panic attack," he says, helping me remove the watch. Its shrill tone makes my throat tight, even though I can't say why.

"They want you at Command," I try to say, but I can barely make out my own words. Every fiber of my body is shaking. I can't help it. I can't calm down. All I can manage is to lift my head to meet Haymitch's eyes. He shouldn't see me like that. And yet, a small part of me that hasn't been overcome by panic can't help but wonder that he seems to be suffering just as much. He looks like he's about to lose his mind too.

"To hell with them," Haymitch growls, throwing the clock across the room. The sound stops as the device hits the wall. Then he puts the glass into my hand. "Drink."

Our fingers touch as he hands me the water. They haven't stopped shaking. I take a few sips, but my stomach clenches in warning. "I can't."

Haymitch just nods and puts the glass back on the bedside table. "I told you it wasn't a good idea to talk to Peeta."

"You were afraid he was going to hurt me," I correct him, unable to ignore the faint feeling of triumph in my chest. "I managed to get through to him."

"Look at you, sweetheart," he replies with a sigh, sitting down next to me on the unused bed and taking my face in his hands as he looks at me intently. "He hurt you."

"I've been through worse."

"I hate it when you start talking like that," Haymitch hisses in an ice-cold tone and presses his hands harder against my cheeks. I raise my eyebrows and he continues. "Stop comparing every pain you experience to what was inflicted to you by the Capitol. Yes, it was hell, just hearing what Peeta said makes me want to kill them all. But don't act like this new pain is nothing more than a stupid incident. It may not hurt as much as your old pain, but that doesn't make it any less important."

I stare at him, unable to respond to his words. For a moment the chaos in my body is forgotten. Haymitch's face is inches from my own and I see the storm raging in his gray eyes.

"Stop ignoring your pain just because you've had worse. Talk to Johanna or talk to me if you want, but don't push it away. You're one of the strongest people I know, sweetheart. You've been through a lot of bullshit, and I'm not entirely innocent for a lot of it, but every time you're faced with something that could cause you pain, you put on your mask of cheerfulness and think that no one notices the cracks it has by now." Haymitch's voice is full of anger, frustration and helplessness and with every syllable he speaks the pulsation in my chest increases. He's right and my subconscious has been aware of this for a long time.

"I know you're not happy," Haymitch continues, pausing for a moment as if waiting for a reaction from me. But I can't say anything back. I can't even open my lips. "Katniss knows it too. We're playing this game with you because we hope you'll eventually turn the corner. You get beaten up and all Johanna has to say is that you've dealt with worse. Does that change the fact that they wanted to hurt you? Does that make the act less important?"

His big, dark eyes are fixed on me. He's waiting for me again, hoping I'll take a stand. Something in his eyes begs for me to wake up from my impassive stupor. I don't avoid them, I hold his gaze and I see my desperation reflected in his pupils. "Part of you is recovering here in District Thirteen, Effie," he finally whispers, his voice breaking. "But another part, the person you were before all this shit, continues to eat everything up like it has for the last eleven years. I'm afraid it might soon be too late to get you back."

My hand shoots up to his cheek. My fingers stroke his skin. Gently, in a soothing rhythm. "I'm so sorry," it comes tremblingly from my lips and the next moment a sob cuts through my body like a knife. Haymitch removes his hands from my cheeks and pulls me into his arms without much difficulty. He says nothing. He rocks me back and forth in silence, leaning his forehead against mine and waiting for me to let out the pain I've bottled up for far too long. The gesture reminds me of the night in the Capitol when he woke me up from one of my nightmares and, after some effort on my part, wrapped me in his arms in the same way.

So much time has passed since then ... I've changed so much since then ...

Of course I won't be the old Effie overnight. I'm still not entirely sure if I'll ever be able to go back to my old self. But Haymitch is right: I spent years hiding behind the happy, high-spirited mask of the Capitol, pushing back anything that didn't fit the colors of that lifestyle. I smiled after two malnourished children were again reaped, after the Capitol again made fun of them during their interviews, after they again brutally lost their lives at the Cornucopia. To keep up appearances. To please others. To fit into society. All my life, I've bottled up the feelings I've had, learning to hide them beneath the surface.

At some point, exhaustion overcomes me, and I nod off. But sleep provides little rest.

oOo

It's like a switch went off inside me. The prison is back, its contours starker than before. Dark corridors appear in the darkness and my invisible body slides through them, searching for the exit from this nightmare. Johanna's hissing reaches my ears from a distance. Peeta's roar for mercy. Finally followed by my own screams. There seems to be no escape, because suddenly Adrian is creeping through the halls, a malicious grin on his lips and a Peacekeeper escort at his heels, eager to give someone hell. The two blue-eyed siblings who tortured me in this place last night follow Adrian first. A devilish smile lies on their round faces as they follow him down the seemingly never-ending hallway.

My body convulses beneath me. A gasp rises from my throat, and I feel the tears of fear closing in my throat. The screams have stopped and a deep, pleasant hum has taken their place. I open my eyes and find myself in a strange bed. It takes my brain several seconds for the events of the past day to come back to me. This is Haymitch's room.

Haymitch lies there, exactly as my consciousness stored it shortly before I drifted off to sleep. His arms are still wrapped around my body. We are so close that I can smell his scent. Even though we are far from District 12, it reminds me of a mixture of pine trees and the soap they provide us here. None of the intense aftershaves he sometimes wore in the Capitol.

Haymitch's face is only a few centimeters from mine. He has his eyes closed and his breathing is so even that I might actually have believed he had fallen asleep too, if it weren't for the soothing hum that comes from his closed lips and the gentle patterns his thumb draws on my back. I turn my head to the side and look down at us. We're still lying sideways on the second bed in his quarters. The position can hardly be comfortable for him because he has to support himself with his feet on the floor in order to stay lying because the mattress is not long enough for his body.

Most of my own body is wrapped in a blanket, although I don't remember Haymitch covering me. He himself is not under the covers. He's still wearing his gray uniform and the longer I look at it, the worse my conscience becomes. He's needed and I'm stopping him.

My head rests on his upper right arm while his other arm rests on my hip. When was the last time we were this close? The feeling of lying here next to him and knowing that I don't have to fear anything or anyone in his presence is completely different than the carefree feeling we both felt back then.

Haymitch doesn't ask what I dreamed about or how I feel. For a moment he squints into the darkness, broken only by a small lamp on his bedside table. His arm moves up and his warm fingers absently stroke my cheek and the few strands of blonde hair that have escaped my headscarf. Then he closes his eyes again. He knows the demons that sleep brings better than anyone else. They have accompanied him since his own Games. The tiredness that has weighed on him since our first meeting here in 13 has not disappeared over the weeks. Who knows how many days he hasn't slept properly.

Gradually, my heartbeat calms down next to Haymitch's presence. My breathing becomes more even and I move closer to him as I close my eyes again. Haymitch won't fall asleep, and I try to keep myself from slipping again. Time passes, but none of us move. We remain in our position, so close to each other that it suddenly becomes easier for us to breathe. We're both awake and yet we don't say a word, we're both lost in our own thoughts, we're just grateful for a peaceful moment of calm. It must be hours before Haymitch finally clears his throat.

"I was thinking," he whispers into the silence between us, pausing for a moment as if he wanted to make sure I hadn't fallen asleep after all. I turn my upper body a little to the side in silent response, but also to see him better. "You don't have to share a room with refugees from the Districts. My complex is big enough for two. I don't use the second bed."

Haymitch's voice has taken on a serious tone and you can tell that it took some effort for him to make the suggestion. An uneasiness that never otherwise exists between us weighs on the atmosphere of the room. Suddenly the air in the room seems stuffy and heavy. My concerned silence lasts a moment too long.

"Only if you want to, of course," Haymitch interjects, his words almost falling over one another in an attempt to sound unconcerned. "I understand if it's weird for you." I understand if it's moving too fast for you. Neither Haymitch nor I can deny the tension that has accompanied us since our first encounter. Our chemistry matches, even if there has never been a way to test the depth of this connection until now. District 13 changed that, and I understand the meaning of his unspoken statement better than I would like. I can't put into words what we have or where we stand, but I hope I haven't crossed a line that you aren't yet ready for.

I hope Haymitch doesn't misunderstand my inaction. I feel good around him. Not healed or redeemed, but safe and confident. So far, none of us have overcome the final barrier or addressed what is emerging between us. We didn't talk about the kiss at the Training Center and I tell myself that I would have if I wasn't so afraid of his answer.

"Can I think about it?"

I know Haymitch is nodding, even though I'm not looking at him. Our bodies are so close together that I feel his every move. "I don't want you to feel obligated to do anything. Take the time you need." He hesitates for a moment. "And even if you decide against it, I'm here and that won't change."

oOo

A few more hours pass before I return to my own quarters. It's already late in the evening and Dasha and Betha have already prepared for the night's rest. As usual, they ignore me. They sit cross-legged on Dasha's bed in the corner of the bedroom and whisper to each other. Their words are too quiet for me to understand, but I have no interest in knowing what they're talking about anyway. The past day is still spinning in my head and my thoughts consist of a constant change of Peeta's and Haymitch's faces. So much has happened today that it's hard for me to calm down.

In an absent movement I sit down on my own bed and push the gray sheet aside. My eyes are heavy and my limbs feel sluggish. My body is longing for rest. The skin over my stomach, where the woman hit me last night, throbs faintly, but it barely hurts anymore. Even if it hurt more, I'm pretty sure I would still drift off to sleep without any problems. It's been a while since I last felt such exhaustion. It's strange how quickly the body can adapt to new, better circumstances.

I'm just about to take off my headscarf, which is completely askew, when my eyes slide over to the two women again. They're still whispering to each other and seem so engrossed in their conversation that they probably don't even notice me staring. Strangely, Haymitch's words come to mind when I watch them. You don't have to share a room with refugees from the Districts.

Something about his words gnaws at me, even if I can't quite place it. It's an ambiguity that I don't like. I don't have to share a room with people from the Districts because I'm from the Capitol and so we're not on the same level? I shouldn't share a room with people from the Districts because they despise my Capitol background? Haymitch doesn't think in terms of classes. Haymitch thinks tactically, with foresight. What does he see that I don't see?

How did the attackers find out which of the apartment complexes I live in? Maybe they were shadowing me before the actual attack and followed me here. Or someone who knew told them. Neither Dasha nor Betha have the same build as the attacker and their voice is not the same, but that doesn't mean anything. They could still be involved. In any case, they are disinclined enough to me.

I go to sleep with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. One of the two women turns off the light as the two also lie down in bed. I don't like the calm that suddenly surrounds me. There was no fear when I faced the attacker and looked into her eyes. Nevertheless, I don't want a situation like that to happen to me again. Don't act like this new pain is nothing more than a stupid incident.

Maybe Haymitch is right, and I actually have a hold over it. How high is the risk that someone will try to kill me again if I wait and stay? I press my lips together and decide within a second.

The next moment, I jump off the bed and gather the few things I own. Someone groans in annoyance, and I feel the suspicious eyes on my back as I stuff my things into a backpack. Then I leave the room without another word, without looking back one last time.

Even as I cross the residential level, I ask myself whether I may have made the wrong decision. I still need to figure out what the relationship between Haymitch and me is and whether this closeness could possibly hinder what is currently developing. I still need to figure out if I even want it to develop. The most important piece of the puzzle remains a mystery to me. What are Haymitch's intentions behind all this? Does he feel guilty? Are we continuing what began in the midst of the Quarter Quell? Is he just trying to clear his conscience? And although I'm afraid of misunderstanding Haymitch's intentions, an admonitory voice in my head reminds me that he's shown me more than once here in 13 that he feels something.

I don't even know if Haymitch is there when I knock on his door. Just because it's the middle of the night doesn't necessarily mean he's here. The door opens after a while and an amused grin spreads on his lips when he sees me. He's still wearing his uniform and leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed as he watches me. "It's pretty late," he remarks with an exaggerated glance at his watch. "What happened to your manners, sweetheart?"

I roll my eyes and hear my mother groan in shame at this beyond indecent behavior. My arms fold automatically over my chest, careful to imitate his posture as best as possible. Only his smile doesn't want to spread to me. I wait until he clears the way.

After some headshaking, Haymitch finally leads me into his quarters. Only now I'm realizing that, in the flood of emotions, I haven't really noticed the room before. It seems like they really don't make exceptions for higher-ranking members of the government, because Haymitch's room is almost identical to mine, except that the third bed is missing. It makes the room seem larger than it actually is.

The room itself is a disaster. How could I have missed this? Haymitch's usual chaos runs through every piece of furniture like his personal signature, except for the second bed, which order seems almost eerie. A sigh escapes my lips as I think back to his room in the penthouse, the condition of which was quite similar to this one. How could I forget this detail after eleven years of working together?

Haymitch behind me laughs. He knows that his laxity when it comes to cleanliness has always been a thorn in my side. "Do you regret it yet?" he asks teasingly, watching at me with a look in his silver eyes that almost seems happy. You'd think the expression on my face would make him happy.