
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4096735.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      The_Hunger_Games_(Movies), Hunger_Games_Trilogy_-_Suzanne_Collins, Hunger
      Games_Series_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Katniss_Everdeen/Peeta_Mellark
  Character:
      All_of_Them, Literally_every_single_character, Just_kidding_-_Character,
      Katniss_Everdeen, Peeta_Mellark, Johanna_Mason, Finnick_Odair, Haymitch
      Abernathy, Effie_Trinket, Cinna, Portia, Probably_toast_babies, Actually
      -_Character, totes_toast_babies
  Additional Tags:
      Mentions_of_molestation/rape, Drug_Use, the_story_is_about_drug_use,
      Suicide
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-06-08 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 19997
****** Placebo Effect ******
by Falafel_Waffel
Summary
     Emotions are scary, maybe that's why Katniss Everdeen chose the pipe
     instead of feeling them. Now, at the bottom of the bottom she has two
     choices: get clean or die alone in her dirty apartment. Written for
     Fandom4LLS 2 years ago.
Notes
     I would like to thank Chelzie for betaing, Fairmellarky for pre-
     reading, RoNordman for the banner, and you, where ever you are on
     this planet, thank you for taking time out of your day to read this.
     Since this fic is complete I will be posting it all at once. This
     will be the only note you see.
     Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games.
***** Prolouge *****
 
===============================================================================
 
Prologue - Effie
She looks as though she’s unaware that camera has been on her for a good long
while. Her eyes are dull and cloudy, like the hundredth rainy day in a row,
when she finally speaks into the camera. This isn’t an addict who’s being
forced into rehab by a well-wishing family. No… this woman has no more options.
Whatever pushed her to submit an application has made her realize that she has
no more strings to grasp at.
“My name is Katniss Everdeen…” She’s groggy and moves constantly, either to
stay awake or to distract herself. “And I am addicted to crystal meth. I’ve
spent the last eight years lying, stealing, and prostituting to pay for my
habit.” She’s tiny; if I saw her on the street, I’d guess that she’s maybe
seventeen, if that. A large gust of wind would blow her away.
“I lost custody of my daughter, and–” Her little hands shoot up to her face,
which is marked by scabs from where she’s scratched off the skin. Her rough
complexion is the only thing that would make me guess she’s over eighteen. The
only noise on the tape is a loud sob.
“What else do we have on her?” Haymitch asks, sneaking up behind me.
I try to pretend that he didn’t scare me and open the manila folder containing
her application. “Katniss Everdeen, twenty five years old, charged with
prostitution and assault. Only served house arrest, but has mandatory rehab.
Never married, has one child, an Avery Hawthorne… in her mother’s custody.” I
flip the page, “The father was incarcerated last year for negligent homicide.
The longest she’s been sober since age fifteen was six months.”
Haymitch doesn’t say anything, which could be good for the girl, or bad. We try
to take in the worst of the worst. The girl on the tape is a walking skeleton.
She’s lost everything, which makes her a perfect candidate.
“Get her in. We have a bed for detox open, give her the rundown. You’re picking
up that other client tomorrow, right? The heroin addict?”
I nod and watch as he takes the paper with her current address on it. “The boy
and sweetheart right here live five blocks from each other. If he didn’t OD on
his last hurrah, he should be ripe and miserable. Call me if you need
anything.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Katniss
It’s hard to say goodbye. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing in my studio
apartment and I don’t really care. Mom agreed to come through and clean it up;
I won’t be back here, and I don’t care.
I don’t really own anything of value because I sold it all for meth. The one
thing I still have is my car, an ancient Camry I used to share with…
I’m not sure how I got to my Mom’s house; sometimes I have blackouts but still
go about my day. The last thing I need to do before going inside is check my
purse for any illegals. My pipe is still cold; a simple tube of glass with a
bulb at the end, clouded by white residue. I crank the window down and dangle
the cold glass shackles tying me to my master out into the blazing summer sun.
It slips from my fingers and I hear it shatter. I should care, but bouts of
apathy are normal for me these days.
I don’t even get high anymore, so what’s the use? I just get myself to a
‘normal’ state where I can function. No more euphoria, no more days on end
without sleep, because why sleep when there’s more meth to keep me awake? All
of that is ending at three today when Miss Effie Trinket takes me away to detox
and rehab.
It’s fancy speak for ‘get me clean so I can learn how to be an adult’… so I can
get Avery back. The rehab is court mandated since I broke a cunt’s nose last
year. The second condition was my mother’s idea. She’ll agree to go to court
and let the judge determine if I’m fit to help raise my daughter, but only if I
can stay clean.
Step one, get clean… The lingering aroma of marijuana in my Camry isn’t a good
start.
“Avery!” my mother starts when I walk in without knocking, “You have a
visitor.”
I get to spend one more afternoon with her.
“Momma!” My little girl is almost four now and I’m missing all of it… it’s one
of the few things I care about.
She looks like a smaller version of me. A head full of thick hair that hasn’t
quite lost its curl yet, grey eyes that are still bright and full of light. The
world hasn’t stolen the shine from them.
“Are you nervous?” my mother asks gently, handing my daughter a sandwich. She
knows that I barely eat anymore, especially on a day like today.
You’re going willingly… I tell myself over and over again. You’re going for
her…
I kiss the top of Avery’s head. “Yes,” I answer honestly. I’m already
emotionally exhausted and I know it’s just going to get worse. I’ve been
through withdrawal once, but with weed as my back-up to keep me from jumping
off a bridge. “What if I can’t do it?” I ask, already tearing up.
My mother doesn’t really know what to tell me. She doesn’t understand how fully
addiction takes over your life. It’s not something that you do to feel nice;
it’s a fuck up that turns into the only reason you wake up. It makes you suck
cock in the back of a grocery store parking lot just to get enough crystal to
get through the day. It’s choosing to pay for a little plastic baggie of shit
instead of food, formula, or rent. It’s choosing to be homeless, because who
needs a house when you have a pipe?
Not too long ago, the only thing that mattered was the white cloud of smoke
that came out of me after a good hit.
I’ve slipped into another blackout. When I come to, my parole officer is here.
They technically put me on house arrest, but they know the only two places I’m
allowed to go - my shitty apartment and my mother’s, and the route I have to
take. I can see my daughter… I just can’t live in the same house as her yet.
Darius looks at me the same way he always does, like I’m a pitiful charity
case. Begrudgingly, I get off the couch and hand my half-awake daughter to my
mother. “We were just getting to the good part,” I tell him, pointing to the TV
where Finding Nemo, Avery’s favorite movie, is still playing. I don’t even
remember Mom putting it in.
He shrugs, “Going to cut you free. Miss Trinket should be here any minute now.”
I pull up my pant leg, my government issued bracelet loose on my ankle. They
don’t make them small enough for me, apparently. I can’t get it off my foot,
but it shifts when I walk, causing a bruise on the underside of the bone that
sticks out on the side.
The funny thing is Darius and I went to high school together. Well, he was
three years ahead of me, but we still went to the same school. We had the same
education, yet he’s clean and I’m being ordered into rehab. It’s either this,
or go to prison and detox in a tiny cell, with little to no support or chance
of getting custody of my child back.
As he tells me my responsibilities, I just remind myself that my Mom is only
keeping Avery out of the system. He tells me that after detox I’ll have to go
for a drug test; if they find anything in my system, I’ll be taken to prison to
serve my five years for felony assault and beating a bitch within an inch of
her life.
Finally, he gets to the fun part. “When was the last time you used an illicit
substance?” He used to give me a list, but he knows my regulars.
“About three hours ago, marijuana.” If I wasn’t going to rehab, this would get
me sent to prison. Hell, he could still cart me off if he wanted to.
The sound of the doorbell nearly sends me out of my skin, but now that my new
keeper is here I can only watch as Darius frees me from my shackles.
Effie Trinket doesn’t look like someone who brings in lost causes from the edge
and turns them into functioning humans. She looks like she should be on a
runway. Tall as fuck with little to no curves, but unlike me, she looks
healthy. In her platinum blonde hair is one pink streak that some women get for
breast cancer month, though it’s summer. She’s done this of her own volition.
She must love the fucking color because she’s sporting a matching pink Jackie-
O suit and heels.
“Hello, Miss Everdeen. I’m Effie Trinket.” She offers me a perfectly manicured
hand and only cringes a little when she sees my bitten down nails and scabby
hands.
Darius and Effie go over some preliminary paperwork while I rock in my chair
and try to stay focused.
That I’m going of my own volition, yes. Apparently, the most successful addicts
are the ones who want to get better. I want to stop this bullshit. I want to
start living for me, not for meth.
The fact that I understand this is a substitution for my prison sentence and if
I fail any drug test, I will be immediately sent to jail.
Because of this fact, I cannot check myself out until they deem me to be stable
enough to live on my own.
I effectively sign away my life to Miss Effie Trinket and hug my mother. “Make
sure she knows I love her…” I beg quietly, “And that I’m doing all of this for
her.”
Once I get in the car, I won’t be able to contact anyone on the outside until
they say I can. It could be weeks, or even months.
Avery wakes up from her catnap, as if she can sense that I’m being taken away.
“Momma, where are you going again?” she asks, latching onto my leg.
I get down on her level so I can look her in the eye. “Momma’s going somewhere
so they can make her better,” I stroke her cheek with my thumb. “So you and I
can be a family again.”
Her face contorts. “Are they taking you because I was bad?” She looks to
Darius, “I promise I’ll be good! Please don’t take her away!”
I know I should cry, but I’m already numb. “Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.
I was the bad one, remember?” She looks unconvinced. “I’m just going away for a
little bit. It won’t be long and when I come back, I’ll be better. I won’t be
sick anymore.”
I don’t want to let go. I don’t want her to slip from my arms, but Effie and
Darius pull me to my feet and into Effie’s Lexus.
“Do you have any other bags, dear?” she asks as she puts the key into the
ignition. Much to my surprise, Darius gets in as well. Apparently I have to
remain in his custody until I’m fully admitted.
Clothes are the only things I’m allowed to bring. Toiletries will be provided
because apparently, it’s possible to sneak shit into detox in bottles. All of
my clothes fit into one large duffel bag.
“Nope…”
She nods and we make eye contact in the rear view. “Alright, we have one more
to pick up. It’s a little unconventional, but important we get him in as soon
as possible.”
I don’t even give a fuck. Instead, I watch my mother’s house disappear.
Darius takes the front seat once the other person is loaded into the car. He’s
thin, but isn’t skin and bones. I didn’t see him walk up to the car - he just
kind of appeared in the seat next to me, but he takes up so much space.
He extends his hand while I try and press myself up against the door to get as
much space between us as possible. I look at his arm as it gets near me. Track
marks… heroin.
“I’m Peeta, and you are?”
I press myself closer to the window. “Don’t talk to me,” I snap instead of
introducing myself. I really meant to introduce myself.
He doesn’t seem too spurned by it at first. Addicts are used to being shunned,
even from their own kind; though as a tweaker, I’m kind of the lowest of the
low.
“Didn’t you suck my dick for like fifteen bucks a few months back?” he asks,
five minutes into the drive.
I shove him into the other door as hard as I can, but he barely budges.
“Mister Mellark!” Effie scolds from the front seat like we’re children, because
basically we are. Needy, tall children…
“I was just trying to start a fucking conversation!”
“Give me your fucking belt,” I hiss. “I’ll find a vein for you. Want your last
hurrah?”
Effie slams on the brakes and parks the car on the side of the road. She
reminds both of us that if we don’t behave, I will end up in prison and Peeta
will end up in a coffin.
We don’t even look at each other for the rest of the ride.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
The heroin addict and I are separated once we reach the detox and taken to
individual intake rooms.
The detox and the rehab happen on the same plot of land - a harmless looking
farm with access to a large lake in the middle of fucking nowhere Pennsylvania,
simply called Panem.
“You will be granted a week of detox where you will not be expected to attend
any group meetings. On day seven, we will drug test and assess you. When you
prove to be clean at the seven day mark, you will start the rehabilitation
process.” The man’s name is Haymitch Abernathy, and apparently he’s an ex-
alcoholic.
“When that happens, then what?” I ask curiously.
Haymitch swivels in his chair. “Your day will start every morning at eight am,
a quick walk, breakfast, group meetings. We’ll probably start you with one for
the first few days, then individual counseling.”
He hands me a key on a heart with a pewter lock keychain. I want to ask him
whether the keychain is a fucking joke, but I choose not to.
“Your only job right now is to make your bed and get in it. The women’s
washroom is the one with the ‘W’ on it. You’ll find whatever you need to keep
yourself clean in your room. Shower at your leisure, but don’t stink up the
place, sweetheart.”
I spin the key around on my bony fingers and get up from the chair. “Any other
questions before I cut you loose?”
“Any advice on how to get through this?” I ask him quietly.
“Do whatever you have to do to stay alive. The crash is the easy part. You’ll
sleep through it and we’ll let you. After that, if you’re going to beat this,
you’ll have to be the one to get yourself out of bed, even though it’s going to
seem like you’re climbing Everest. I will advise you to try and eat first,
though.”
I already feel myself crashing as I wander through the halls looking for my
room. I have no roommate, so there’s no one to watch me cry as I make my bed.
If I were on the streets, I would be looking to score. Now I’m just looking to
go comatose for a few days so I can prepare for the worst of it.
“Knock, knock!” an unfamiliar voice greets just as I get to tucking in my
sheets. “Fresh meat… nice!” He looks me over with his bright green eyes.
There’s still some light in them, or maybe it’s returning. Detox rooms do
become patient’s rooms for rehab here…
He has no issues entering my room in only his boxers. “So I just scored some
sweet shit off this dope fiend… Wanna… you know…” I watch as he rolls something
white between his fingers. It’s tempting, oh so tempting to get one last high,
no matter what it is, before the hell starts.
Then I think of Avery… and everyone else I’ve disappointed. “I’m trying to get
clean.”
He pops the thing in his mouth right in front of me. “Me too, good thing it’s a
tic-tac,” he tells me before sticking out his tongue. Sure enough, the ‘pill’
is just a breath mint. “Want one?”
“Will it make you leave?” I ask bitterly. I just want to sleep, I need to
sleep, all I need in the world is sleep.
“Sure, why not?”
I hold out my hand and let him shake a mint into my palm. It crunches under my
molars. “She passed the test!” he shouts out the door.
“Test?” I ask while putting my pillowcase on my pillow.
The man shrugs, “You’re going to need people you can trust. Even as people are
taken in, you’ll need people. We needed to make sure you could be trusted.”
“Fantastic, now get out.”
The man waves me off and leaves without a goodbye. The last thing I remember is
flicking the light switch. After that the fog takes over, enticing me with the
promise of sleep.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter 3
The sound of vomiting wakes me up. Not my own, fortunately, but it’s coming
from the bathroom across the hall. I don’t know why, but I get right up and
walk straight into the men’s room.
It’s the heroin addict, Peeta, enjoying one of the perks of his withdrawal –
nausea and vomiting. It’s three in the morning, so probably insomnia as well.
When he’s done, he looks me dead in the eye. I’ve never seen fear like that
before in my life, and I never want to see it again.
“Can I pee here?” I ask, realizing that I have no idea how long I’ve been out,
and I might just piss myself. He doesn’t respond. “If I get you something to
rinse your mouth out, will you not tell them that I used this bathroom?”
He nods and I fill a few Dixie cups with water, setting them on the back of the
toilet before going down a few stalls.
I barely have my pants down and he’s at it again.
I leave the bathroom without thanking him and head to the kitchen. It’s a hazy
walk full of accidental wall bumps and a near fistfight with a lamp, but I get
there in one piece.
The only thing I can figure out how to cook at this point is toast with jam. I
take my dinner, along with a sleeve of saltines and some ginger ale, back to
the bathroom. The tic-tac man was right, maybe I will need allies to get
through this… Either way, if I give Peeta stuff to settle his stomach, maybe he
won’t rat on me for using the men’s room. I don’t think it’s a bad offense, but
it still can’t be good.
He’s rinsing his mouth out again when I come back in. “What are you doing?” he
croaks, completely out of breath.
I sit down on the floor just outside of the stall. “I figured someone should
make sure you don’t puke up all of your large intestine…”
He only has shorts on, so I can see all of the silvery scars from his
injections. They’re everywhere - his arms, his legs, his feet, even a few on
his neck. “Plus, crackers and ginger ale settle the stomach…”
I already feel the fatigue coming again. I want my food, I want my bed. The man
looks pissed that I even offered to help him, then his face softens and he
takes my offering with trembling hands. My toast is cold when I finally bite
into it, but I can’t stop watching Peeta’s hands shake as he nibbles on a
cracker.
“You talk in your sleep…” he says vaguely, “A lot.”
I frown because I don’t remember dreaming. “What was I saying?” Of course the
walls are made of paper. These people must need as many methods as possible to
make sure we aren’t using.
“You kept asking for someone named Prim…” he tells me while struggling with a
soda. His fingers can’t even get the tab open.
“Here,” I say, holding out my hand and I almost drop the soda when he hands it
over. It’s so shaken up that it sprays me in the face. Peeta snorts and mumbles
something about me being used to getting sprayed in the face. I resist the urge
to use the drawstring of my shorts to strangle him. After a few sips, he offers
me the rest of his soda.
“Ew, no, you were just puking.”
“Figured you’d be thirsty. Plus, my biley spit can’t be the worst thing you’ve
ever had in your mouth.”
He’s trying to make a joke, an inappropriate one, but still a joke. I give him
the benefit of the doubt and chug; he’s right, I was thirsty. The soda is
deliciously sweet and lets me forget the craving for my master in the back of
my head. Then Peeta is over the toilet again and I lose the taste for ginger
ale, hopefully for the rest of my life.
I head back to bed shortly after that. There’s nothing else I can do for him.
His mind has to beat this so the body can follow.
Peeta disappears from Panem. In my fog, I hear people say he was taken to the
hospital for severe dehydration. I try not to focus on his setback and focus on
my own triumphs. I’ve been clean for four days. Granted, I’ve been in and out
of a horrible fog for most of that time, but still. I’m clean.
Squeaky clean.
Unless someone hands me a phone, then I’d try to score the second I stepped
over the threshold.
After I mangle a can of chicken noodle soup and decide to only drink the broth,
I head back to bed. I feel more tired than normal.
I don’t make it back to bed, because the hardwood floor is good enough. I pull
whatever I can of my sheets from the bed and let the fog completely cloud my
mind.
 
===============================================================================
 
I don’t want to remember this day… Can I dream about anything else instead?
I used to always have this dream and meth chased it away for a few hours. Now
meth is gone and the dream is back. Of course it came back.
The car pulls up to the hospital where Prim works. My sister, the nurse, of
whom I couldn’t be more proud.  Then I see who’s driving. I can only see the
back of Gale’s head, but I know he only comes to this part of the city when his
supply is out. The car reeks of burned plastic. “Prim, don’t get in the car,” I
tell her as she approaches. She’s so sweet and innocent. Of course she’ll get
in the car of her niece’s father.
She’ll notice the smell and think nothing of it.
“Prim,” I warn her as she buckles her seat belt. “Get the fuck out, take the
bus. You have the money.”
Gale starts to pull out of the parking lot. She can’t hear me; neither of them
can, so I yell.
“PRIM! GET OUT OF THE CAR! YOU’RE GOING TO-“
I’m thrown as the #5 bus rams into my sister’s side of the car.
“Katniss!” I’m thrown again. What’s happening? “Katniss! You’re just dreaming!”
I force my eyes to open no matter how thick the fog.
“Peeta?”  He’s supposed to be in the hospital… what is he doing in my room?
Much to my surprise, he pulls me into a hug. “Are you okay?” he asks, smoothing
down my hair over and over as my heartbeat slows down.
I don’t give a fuck why he’s in here. I cling to his wife-beater and fight my
tears, even though some sneak through.
Peeta helps me back into bed once the cloud comes back. I almost want to ask
him to stay, but if I do, we’ll be the talk of the rehab.
“If you wake up and need some company, I’m just next door. Not like I get sleep
anymore,” he shrugs in my doorframe. “Heroin, man… should be medication for the
narcoleptics…”
I hear myself laugh before I’m gone again.
Another day or so goes by, like a slow hell. I’m always tired, always thirsty,
always hungry. I get up and walk around for a little bit before napping, but
what does it matter? My naps are never long enough, nor does the entire fridge
have enough food to satisfy me.
I just sleep in my dark, quiet room, festering in my own filth and trying not
to claw my eyes out from the thought of making the phone call to submit myself
to my old master again.
There’s a knocking at my door too early. I just want to sleep, but it won’t go
away. “Miss Everdeen, time to get up!”
It must be day seven…
The haze is still here. It’s not a pleasant drunken haze, but more like
someone’s placed a translucent bag over my head and loosely taped it. I can get
some air, but not enough to be alive.
It takes me a minute, but I pull myself from my bed and head into the bathroom.
There’s a woman in there I’ve never seen before. Her dark hair is cut short and
she ignores me as I splash water on my face and attempt to brush my teeth, but
end up drooling toothpaste all over my shirt.
The woman snorts, “Aww, you’ll get it right eventually…” she says, patting my
head like I’m just a dumb, confused puppy.
When I get back to my room, there’s a small bowl of oatmeal on my nightstand.
I’ve never been so hungry in my life. I don’t care where it came from and five
seconds after discovering it, it’s in my stomach.
There’s ten or so of us here, and no one tries to introduce themselves on our
walk. I assumed that we’d be walking around the front lawn like corralled
animals. Instead, we follow a worn trail in the grass straight into the tree
line.
It pulls me out of my fog somewhat. Everywhere there are birds chirping, twigs
snapping. I want to push further into the forest, but we loop around and head
back to the main house where we all share a quiet breakfast. Most people pick
at their food, but a few people dive in like me. Apparently it’s normal; once
the fog starts to wear off, the fatigue is replaced by the undeniable need to
feed.
A few people talk amongst themselves, but most everyone is still groggy so when
I’m satisfied, I leave the table and head to the shower. It’s been over a week
since I’ve cleaned myself, and even when I was being ridden by clients all
night long, I never let myself get this filthy.
Sobriety isn’t about getting yourself clean, it’s slowly coming alive again.
The shower is so warm and I never want to leave because I don’t know how long
it will be until my next fog coma. Maybe I’m done with them, or maybe I’m
waking up.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Haymitch sits at what I guess is the top of the circle. “A few ground rules –
first, no nodding off. We respect each other; what is said here should never be
used against someone. You can curse, you can yell, you can cry. I don’t give a
fuck, just participate. Everyone has to speak. Now, let’s go around and
introduce ourselves. My name is Haymitch. I am an addict, and I have been sober
for close to twenty years.”
Effie speaks up next. “I’m Effie. I am an addict, and I’ve been sober for
fifteen years.”
People go around introducing themselves and include how long they’ve been
sober.
“My name is Finnick, and I am an addict. Today is my thirtieth day sober.”
“My name is Johanna. I am an addict and I’m twenty-two days sober.”
 “I’m Peeta,” I start fully paying attention now, it’s not like I couldn’t
guess. He got here the same day I did. “I’m an addict who has been sober for
seven days.”
The room goes quiet and I realize everyone’s eyes are on me. “What? Oh…
Katniss. I’m an addict, and I’ve been sober for seven days.”
There is no ‘welcome to the group’ here, you’re just automatically thrown to
the sharks. We have Finnick, a male model who used to do lines of coke instead
of eat; Johanna, who was addicted to pills; two trippy looking people who must
have been so far over the edge they stopped looking like people. They liked
their morphine.
There’s LSD users, three cokeheads to every heroin addict, and finally me, the
only meth head. Today they want us to face what’s so appealing about our
addiction. Some people say the rush, some say it’s an escape.
I’m already fading out by the time they get to me, hugging myself and trying to
stay awake. “I like…” my voice fades off for a little bit, “The white puff of
smoke that comes out of me after a really good hit…”
And I fucking miss it. I fucking miss blowing out clouds. I miss the euphoria.
I miss not feeling like a zombie. My name is Katniss Everdeen, I’m an addict,
and I miss crystal meth.
Haymitch tells us that there are better things than a dangerous rush, a mental
escape, and a cloud of white smoke in the world. There’s falling in love,
following your dreams, traveling the world. Apparently all of it is possible
with sobriety.
After group, I have a one hour window that is supposed to be filled with
exercise. There’s a full gym on the farm, but I want to go back to the woods.
“Haymitch?” I ask once the room is starting to clear out. “Does my exercise
have to be in the gym or can I go hiking again?”
“We’d rather not let clients go off into the forest alone,” he tells me as
gently as possible. What am I going to find in the forest to smoke, some nice
bark?
“I’ll go,” a voice offers. I don’t even have to turn around to know it’s Peeta.
He must feel bad for all the whore jokes he made in my direction.
Haymitch looks between the two of us, two addicts alone in the woods. What’s
the best that could happen? What’s the worst?
Haymitch first points to me. “You have individual therapy in two hours, you in
three. Don’t be late… especially you, sweetheart.”
I want to nap, but I know I shouldn’t. I want this little taste of freedom.
Plus, what’s the point of napping? I’ll just wake up exhausted.
“Thank you,” I tell Peeta, just now realizing that I’m holding onto his track
mark covered hand, dragging him back to the tree line.
He chuckles and the sound makes me feel warm inside. I think it’s what
happiness feels like, but I honestly can’t remember. “I figured I owed you,
plus that gym is cold as fuck.”
I nod and stop listening to him for now. In these trees, I feel my senses
coming back, the fog lifting from my mind. In these trees, I’ll find my
sobriety.
“So tell me about yourself,” he finally says as I watch a squirrel scurry
around like an asshole as he looks for nuts.
I look up. “I’m a meth–”
He snorts, “I don’t give a fuck what you’re addicted to. That doesn’t define
you, and you shouldn’t let it.  Who are you, what do youlike?”
I kick at a rock. “I don’t know…” I bite my lip and sit down on the soft
ground. “I don’t know what I like,” I laugh at the realization, “I’ve been
addicted to drugs since I was seventeen. I barely graduated high school.
Floated around with a guy for a few years, prostituted as you apparently know…
he got me pregnant maybe…” I look up at Peeta, “You?”
He doesn’t give me the backstory I want, he actually has interests. “I love
painting. I want to get my shit in a gallery someday. Heroin used to kind of
open my mind; it’s hard to describe, but it only lasted for a week or so…. then
it became about when I’d get more dope. After that, it was finding veins in
dark alleys, speed balls, and pawning my Dad’s shit.”
The air is heavy with his confession, as if there’s something hanging there
that he’s still holding back. I barely know the guy, of course he has secrets.
We decide to head back instead of making them come and find us. Plus, Peeta
says he has to go back for his medication, stuff that lessens the side effects
of his detox.
“It only takes the edge off,” he confesses. “One gets rid of the nausea, the
other stops the pain and shaking,” he laughs nervously. “I’m twenty-seven and
I’ve never wanted to be in bed in the fetal position more in my life.”
I’m inclined to agree, so I distract him from his pity party before it spreads
to me. “I used to dance, before meth,” I don’t even give him a chance to come
up with a quip. “I wanted to be a ballerina as a child, but I wasn’t graceful
or fluid enough so I did more modern shit,” I grin smugly, “I could have been a
Rockette, except I’m a little too short.”
He smiles and I know he’s right. Meth isn’t who I am; it can’t be what defines
me or what controls me. I control me.
 
===============================================================================
 
We hike every day as the haze leaves my life. It’s the only place in the world
where I feel joy. Well, maybe not joy yet, more like peaceful.
Peeta and I have been here for close to a month when Effie takes him away for
the day. I like our talks. He has two brothers, but lived with his father. He’s
afraid of small dark places, spiders and thunderstorms.
He never asks me how I started using, but it’s not like he doesn’t give a shit
about it. He does actually - a lot of shits, I might add.
I’m surprised to say I give a shit about his recovery as well. I don’t care how
heroin came into his life, just that it stays out. One of the worst side
effects of his withdrawal is insomnia. I can get a full eight hours no matter
when or where I drop, but Peeta is lucky to get an hour of sleep at a time.
They don’t care what we do at night; that is… they don’t care who we socialize
with as long as clothes stay on and what not. Several nights a week, Peeta
finds himself sitting on my bed, telling me about things he watched on TV today
or stuff he wants to bring up in group.
I feel bad, but I always fall asleep during our talks and when I wake up in the
morning, he’s gone.
I wish he could stay, even for just one night. When he’s on the other side of
my bed, I don’t have the dream about Prim.
I take my seat in the forest. After a month-ish of being sober, they trust me
enough to wander in the woods and come back. It hasn’t been easy; a week ago,
the cloudiness, fatigue, and overall meth-hangover made me want to use again so
badly that I had to lock myself away so no one could see me like that. I didn’t
want them to think I was failing.
It was Johanna who found me. She’s one of the only people here who I actually
like. Most of the other people fit into the category of addict we call “The
Careers” - the ones who have been in and out of rehab over and over. This is a
last chance kind of place so if it doesn’t work, they’ll find home in either a
jail cell or a body bag.
Johanna pulled me out of that dark corner and dragged me to group, claiming
that she made me late because she needed a tampon. We were 30 minutes late, so
Haymitch asked if we had to crochet it ourselves.
I smile at the memory. I’m not happy here, but I’m content. I’m at peace.
That is until I hear the silence of the woods. I realize it’s not the trees
that make me happy. I mean, sure, they help… but it’s really been Peeta. The
realization terrifies me; I know I need allies, but not someone I depend on.
I want to separate myself from him so I don’t risk making him relapse or hurt
his kind heart, but we help each other. It’s what we do, and it’s gotten us
this far. It’ll get us out into the real world, I hope.
At dinner, everyone ignores the empty seat; everyone but me, that is. Haymitch
and Effie join us at the long table, telling us a story about this old dog
Effie once owned whose sexual orientation was expensive furniture.
“Where’s Peeta?” I ask, interrupting someone mid-sentence.
Peeta’s appetite is just starting to come back, so he never misses a meal and I
don’t think he’s still getting sick.
Haymitch pops a carrot into his mouth. “Peeta wasn’t feeling well this
afternoon, so he’s resting in his room.” Something in his voice tells me that
what he really means is that Peeta should be left alone.
So naturally I ignore it and knock on his door the second dinner is over and
free time begins.
“Peeta, it’s me,” I call through the wood. “Can I come in?”
There’s a thump and a grunt before I hear his heavy footsteps approach the
door. It swings open a second later, but he’s already heading back to his bed.
I don’t close the door when I enter. They prefer we leave them open if there’s
more than one of us in a room.
He’s already on his back on the bed when my eyes adjust to the darkness. “I’m
sorry I missed our walk…” he mumbles as I join him.
I move closer, watching as the sinking mattress makes him roll a little. “It’s
okay.” It has to be. Sure, I missed him, but he was doing something for his
recovery.
He takes my hand and closes his eyes. He’s already starting to look healthy;
his skin is still littered with scars, but he’s filling out to match his broad
shoulders.
I’ve been told that my complexion has been evening out and I’m no longer a
walking skeleton.
“I’m so tired,” he admits. “Always tired. But I can’t sleep, it just keeps me
awake,” his face contorts in pain, either from muscle aches or an emotion that
comes to the surface. “Every inch of me hurts. I had to go see my fucking
mother today to bury the hatchet or face my demons, or whatever that shit is…
And all I could think about was how easy it would be for me to get just enough
dope to make the pain stop. I wanted to run away from Effie, jack someone’s
phone and call my guy. Fuck, I’d give him the phone for the shit.” As he
confesses, I sit up a little to get a better look at his face.
“What stopped you?”
He snorts, “The opportunity to call my mother a bitchy cunt.”
He never mentions his mother, ever. And honestly, I thought she had died.
“She liked to hit me and my brothers. Once the older two got too big and
started to hit back, she came after me… constantly. My old man grew a set,
divorced her and got custody of the three of us,” he sighs long and hard, like
he’s pushing his grief out of his body. “I’ve always wondered why I wasn’t good
enough to deserve the love of my own mother…”
I bite my lip, wishing I had an answer for him.
He rolls to his side to look up at me. “Come here…” he pleads, holding out an
arm. He wants to cuddle, I think.
“No… the door’s open. What if someone walks by?”
He shrugs, “I don’t care. I’m aching and you’re like an oven.”
Peeta rests his hand on my shoulder, a completely innocent place, but my heart
starts racing. I feel like we’re being watched, like any second now Haymitch or
Effie are going to come through the door and kick my ass to the street just for
being here.
Suddenly, my twiggy arm gives out and I crash into his chest. The panic is
gone, the fog disappears a little more, and the warmth in my chest is back.
“I think I’m happy…” I confess after about a half hour of trying to get my
breathing to match his.
When he doesn’t respond, I look up only to see his closed eyes and completely
relaxed face. For the first time in who knows how long, Peeta Mellark is sound
asleep.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter 4
It’s been forty-five days since I arrived at Panem. During that time, I’ve
shared almost every little bit of myself with complete strangers because I
finally found people I could relate to.
They’ve tried to teach me how to write checks, balance a checkbook, and apply
for jobs. They’re trying to make me into an adult the courts will allow to
raise Avery.
Today is what we like to call autobiography day, where we share our stories
from birth to today. It also means that since most of us are just as fucked up
as the person next to us, if not more so, group has been extended.
I stand at my chair when it’s finally my turn. “On the eighth of May, 1988, my
mother gave birth to me in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. When I was a little
girl, she told me that hearing my cry made her happier than she had ever been
in her life. Little did she know all the pain and suffering I’d actually bring.
Four years later, my little sister Primrose was born and my family was
complete. We were happy, or so I assumed.” I pause, mostly because my brain has
gotten overloaded from the reading and I need to let it catch up.
“When I was ten, my bipolar schizophrenic father brought home a gun and shot
himself in the head as we sat down for dinner. My mother blamed herself for my
father’s death, like she knew what was happening inside his head. She became
suicidal herself and checked herself into the mental hospital, leaving Primrose
and I to fend for ourselves in the foster care system,” I pause again as my
hands start shaking.
“I was eleven when it happened. My foster father, the man who was supposed to
nurture and keep me safe, came into my room late at night. I can still hear the
click of the lock and feel his hand cover my mouth so I didn’t scream as he
undressed me. I can’t remember much more of that night, other than sneaking
into the bathroom after he left to wash the blood off of me. He did this at
least weekly, sometimes more, for close to six months until my mother regained
custody of Prim and I.” I wipe a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand,
unaware that I’ve been crying. “I never told anyone about what that man did to
me.”
“I don’t know what makes people do such horrible things to children, but I’m
thankful his eyes were on me and not my sister. I was thirteen when Gale moved
in next door. He was two years older than me and our mothers said it was love
at first sight. Unfortunately, it was a love that destroyed my life. By age
fifteen, I couldn’t make it through the day without a drink. At seventeen, I
was doing lines of cocaine off the dashboard of Gale’s car and not too long
after, the pipe owned my life. I made it through high school only because it
was the one place my mother wasn’t. I blamed her for leaving Prim and I in
foster care and letting him violate me, though now I know that she couldn’t
help it.  Gale and I got an apartment together on my eighteenth birthday and to
pay for it, I started selling my body so I could support my habit. I was twenty
when I found out I was pregnant and it was the longest period where Tina wasn’t
in my life.”
I want to stop talking and sit down. What I’m about to say was hard enough to
put down on paper, let alone read out loud. The courts should have taken Avery
away from me the day I gave birth. It’s hard to read my sloppy handwriting on
the shaking paper, now dotted by my own tears. Then there’s a warmth behind me
and I know without looking that it’s Peeta. One of his large hands rests on my
shoulder, the other on my arm, giving me a reassuring squeeze. He doesn’t judge
me for my past or anything else I’ve done.
“I couldn’t get through the day sober, though. I continued to smoke weed and
cigarettes and occasionally drink throughout my entire pregnancy. Gale was
arrested when I was four months along and I was homeless for a while because
not enough people were willing to hire a pregnant hooker. My mother took me in,
not because she wanted to, but because she couldn’t let her granddaughter be
born on the streets. I sold some of the jewelry my father gave her for weed and
stashed some of the leftover money so I could buy glass with it once I gave
birth. I had every intention of giving my baby up until I held her on September
2nd. She was born a month early because of my irresponsibility, but she was
mine and I knew nothing could take her from me at that point.”
“It was hard for me to raise Avery on my own, so my mother helped me. Sure, she
stayed, but Mom had to pay for food and clothes since every dollar I owned went
to my meth habit. Gale was released from prison when Avery was almost one. He
loves her more than his own life, but not more than crack cocaine. It was a
warm day close to two years ago when he decided he could smoke and pick up my
sister Primrose from work. He was so out of it that he didn’t see the bus
speeding down the road until it was too late. There was nothing left of the
passenger seat in his car, and little to nothing left of my sister. I couldn’t
even recognize her when my mother and I went to identify the body. They wanted
to charge Gale with first degree murder and I fully agreed, but he got off with
a fifteen year sentence for negligent homicide. A week after her death, his
little brother Rory committed suicide. He was going to propose to Prim on their
anniversary two weeks after her death. I know it’s selfish and horrible, but I
like that Gale was forced to feel the pain he caused me. Gale was unable to go
to the funeral.”
I lean into Peeta, letting him be my rock through this, just as I will be for
him when he reads his autobiography. It’s what we do - we anchor each other in
this confusing world of sobriety.
“I became very depressed and just stood there as the courts handed custody of
my daughter to my mother. I am no longer allowed to live in the same house as
her until I can prove that I am a responsible adult and that I can stay sober.
At that point I wanted to die, but was too afraid to pull the trigger even
though I had a loaded gun I traded sex for in my mouth. Instead, I began
smoking a gram of meth or more a day, hoping I would overdose and die so I
could be with my sister again or at least stop feeling the pain of my never-
ending failures. One day I snapped and beat a woman for something I don’t even
remember. I was at the lowest point in my life and on the verge of being
incarcerated. In a brief moment of clarity, I discovered that I still had some
fight in me. I decided that I needed to get clean so I could fight for my
daughter and repay my mother for everything she has done for me, and everything
I have stolen from her. When Effie picked me up, I was scared. Another person
got into the car with us and I spent the whole ride trying to press myself up
against the car door, especially after he made a remark about me sucking his
dick for money and I offered to help him find a vein. Over the last forty-five
days, that man has become my closest friend whether he likes it or not. He’s
becoming the anchor that makes me want to stay sober, while my daughter is the
air that keeps me afloat.”
The confession hangs in the air as I soak up what I just shared. Hearing it
spoken makes me realize how lucky I am to still be alive.
Effie hugs both Peeta and I because he refuses to let me go at this point.
“Thank you for sharing that.”
Peeta and I don’t move as he tells the room about his mother locking him in the
trunk of the car or whipping him with a belt. I squeeze his hand when he tells
us about how she’d turn the shower all the way on hot and throw him in there
while his Dad was at work. I try not to read ahead even though the paper is in
my line of sight. Instead, I focus on how my shoulder is getting damp from his
tears and bring my hand up to his cheek and just rest it there.
Even though group is emotionally exhausting, we don’t have any time off.
Someone is coming to see Peeta to talk about his paintings and Effie has a
surprise for me. I outwardly hope it’s Avery, but she leads me to the small
barn. The door resists being opened at first, but gives way with only a little
complaining.
The floor of the barn is covered in pale hardwood with worn off finish from
years of use and neglect. The mirrors are dusty and the lights flicker and
buzz, but it’s a perfect little dance studio.
“Aerobic exercise helps take the mind off cravings,” Effie tells me. “We
checked - the sound system works and there’s a stack of CD’s by it. You’re free
to use this space between group meetings, during free time, even at night if
you see fit. Just be smart about it.”
I look up at the blonde who has helped me so much up to this point. I’m still
not sure how well I’ll fare once I step out of her life. “What do you mean?”
“This space is to be used for dance and exercise, nothing more.” She thinks
Peeta and I are going to come in here to fuck.
“Peeta’s just my friend, Miss Trinket. You don’t need to worry.”
Effie smiles and pats my cheek. “You’re doing remarkably well. Haymitch and I
are inclined to believe it’s your friendship with Peeta that’s aiding in your
quick recovery. We won’t intervene, unless you two start engaging in behaviors
that may increase either of your chances for relapse.”
The woman hugs me as if she’s proud of me. I’m not sure anyone’s been proud of
me in a while. “Just have fun in here - exercise, dance. Hell, if you want to
just come in here to escape the commotion of the house, do that too. Who knows?
When you get out of here, maybe you could become a professional dancer.”
I snort, “Please, I’m a used up whore… No one would think I’m pretty enough to
get through the doors of the audition. Plus, who knows whether I can still
dance?”
Effie tells me to make myself busy in here, that she’ll be right back. The door
moans as it closes again and I’m alone with only the buzzing lamps to keep me
company. Filling the space with music seems like the only sane option.
I slide a Katy Perry disc into the CD player and jump when the speakers crackle
to life. I keep the remote in my hand so I can start and stop as I see fit.
When I’m dead center in the room, I press play. It takes two listens of E.T. to
get fully into it, but sure enough, just like my mind awakened after my detox,
so does my body.
I forget everything that has ever held me down, every set back in my life and
just focus on the music as my feet carry me around the room.
I go through the song again and again, moving a new way each time. Sometimes I
stick to a slower pace, others I’m mostly on the floor, others I push myself to
the fastest tempo my body can manage and flop to the floor when the song is
over because my heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest.
Every inch of me tingles, and it’s back again, happiness.
There’s soft applause coming from the corner that I didn’t notice because of
the thumping of my own heartbeat. I pick myself off the wood floor and see
Effie and a man I’ve never met. He’s tall with dark skin and a shaved head, and
he’s approaching me.
I want to back away. Strangers are unpredictable, but Effie wouldn’t bring
someone here who would hurt me.
“Katniss Everdeen?” I nod slowly as I stand to greet him, “My name is Cinna.
Effie’s told me so much about you.” He holds out his hand to shake, his large,
warm one eclipsing mine. “Let’s take a walk.”
I expect to go outside, but he leads me right up to the wall of mirrors. “Miss
Trinket?” he asks in a teasing manner.
She waves him off and strides over, handing him a piece of paper which he
places in my hands. “Who is this?” he asks.
I stare at the woman in the picture. She’s in a grey camisole and jeans. Her
skin is covered in pick marks but they’re mostly on her chest and her arms. Her
skin seems to be the only thing hanging from her bony figure, as there’s no fat
or muscle on her bones. She has knotty brown hair and dull grey eyes with no
light in them. Her teeth have browned and chipped from smoking crank, maybe
even a little rotten. The woman is me the day I came to Panem.
“She’s me…”
Cinna shakes his head. “That woman is your past. She’s a piece you will carry
with you forever, but look in the mirror now.”
I haven’t really looked at my own reflection since getting here. I didn’t want
to see the person I had become during detox and then I just got used to
ignoring my reflection.
I have fat on my bones and even some muscle. My hair is no longer knotty,
though still long and wild from not being cut in over a year. The pick marks on
my skin are gone, or mostly gone and my face is significantly less blotchy. My
teeth are still bad, though.
I step forward and reach out, unsure whether or not the woman in the mirror
really is me. I touch my reflection and press my hand against hers. “I never
thought I could look so normal…”
“With the court’s permission, we’d like to release you into Cinna’s care. He’s
fought the same battles as you and Haymitch, and I believe he will be the
perfect sobriety sponsor for you. We also believe, no matter how unconventional
it may be, that the relationship you and Mr. Mellark have formed is essential
to both of your successes. At the end of both of your ninety days, we’d like to
send the two of you off with Cinna and his housemate, Portia, provided you come
back every Saturday for group and therapy.”
I stare at her in the mirror dumbfounded; she must be lying. “Will I be able to
contact my mother and see my daughter?”
Effie pauses, “While we recommend you keep your distance until you’re sure you
can handle it, we can’t keep you from contacting them. If you are up for it, we
would like to invite your mother and daughter out to visit sometime before your
treatment is finished and you are released.”
“But first, I think it’s important that we help you realize how much the person
you are today and every other day from this point on deserves love and respect.
I want you to find confidence again.” I nod, staring at my reflection again.
“So… to become the woman you want to become, what do you think needs to happen
first?”
I don’t even have to think. I pull my lips down, “My teeth…”
 
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
A few days after meeting Cinna, I’m told I’m being signed out for the day and
to wait on the front steps of the house. At eight o’clock sharp, a sleek black
car pulls up. If I was still hooking, he’d be a good customer. Money, most
likely clean, good fucking money.
Cinna steps out and walks up to the front porch. “I’ll just be a minute,” he
tells me. I nod and hug my coat tighter as I wait. Fall is coming, and so is
Avery’s birthday. Several minutes later, he comes back out the front door. “All
right, you’re signed out until eight o’clock tonight. Ready?”
I don’t know where I’m going, but I follow.
My day is full of the buzz of a dentist’s drill, Novocain shots, and bright
lights in my eyes. I try and sit still through the discomfort; I got myself
this far, surely I can survive this day.
The dentist tells me I’m fortunate. My teeth didn’t rot, they’re just
discolored and chipped in a few places so I won’t need another visit. After
what feels like five eternities, I’m pulled upright again and handed a mirror.
I don’t know how to feel about the thin pieces of porcelain on my teeth now,
but the telltale sign of my past addiction has been ground off my teeth and
covered.
The woman in the mirror doesn’t look like a drug addict, she looks like a woman
who hasn’t plucked her eyebrows in a while or bothered to do her hair.
The woman in the mirror looks like she could be successful with just a little
push. Cinna even drives me to Hallmark so I can pick up a card for my baby
girl’s birthday.
I love you so much. You are the air I breathe and I hope I can see you soon.
Love you forever, Mom.
I lick the yellow envelope and address it. Cinna says he’ll get it in the mail
so it reaches my mother’s by the second of September. I like Cinna, I decide.
Peeta’s the first person I show when I get back. “Look, look!” I start, barging
into his room unannounced. He’s on his bed with a sketch pad in his lap. Since
his mind became clear again, he’s found the desire to draw. Peeta looks
completely different from when we first got here. He’s no longer shaggy-
looking, but clean cut.
We’re doing it, we really are.
I pull my lips down so he can see the dentist’s work. “Are they dentures?” he
asks, leaning in.
I shake my head. “No, they’re on my teeth,” I explain, tapping them with my
nails.
He tilts his head, looking at them before hooking his finger under my chin. I
don’t freeze up as he leans in and presses his chapped lips to mine. At first
we’re completely still, waiting for someone to make the second move. I rest my
hands on his shoulders and lean in more, pushing him up against the headboard.
I feel something inside me stir, a strange tingling that starts between my legs
and radiates all throughout my body. I lean forward, trying to press my chest
to his, or any other inch of me that I can manage because that’s what my brain
is telling me I need - every inch of me against every inch of him.
I’ve never actually felt desire before, pure uninhibited desire. It’s a rush I
don’t even think meth could give me. It’s the hope that I’ll live to see
another sober day, the peace that will keep me away from my old master. It
gives me the strength to know I can do this. I can meet all of my goals.
I’m the one to pull away for fear of getting caught, but Peeta doesn’t let me
get very far. He just barely brushes his lips against my forehead.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for over a month…” he whispers as I sit down next
to him so my arm is touching his.
I hug my knees to my chest and rest my cheek on my kneecap. I can’t help but
grin. This is what happiness feels like. It’s freeing and I know that someday
it’ll fade a little before coming back depending on what the road brings, but
I’ll keep feeling it as long as I keep the pipe out of my life.
The kiss has derailed our entire night. I can’t stop grinning, Peeta can’t get
back to drawing. We don’t want to make a habit of it because we’re not sure how
they’ll react here…
“What were you drawing?” I ask, trying to peek at the book.
He picks the discarded book up off the bed and flips it open again to show me
the beautiful forest where our friendship started.  Close to the center is the
rough outline of two human forms, the only part that has been done in great
detail are the hands, held together at the pinkies.
“It’s going to be us,” he confesses.
“Why are we only holding pinkies?” I ask, pressing my fingers to the bark of a
tree, expecting to feel the rough texture.
“Holding hands seems more like you think the person is going to slip away.
Pinkies…” he reaches over and hooks mine with his, linking us together, “Is
like you know the person is going to come back to you and stay by your side no
matter what, but you still want a part of you touching them.”
I smile and kiss his smooth cheek. “When did you know that you liked me?” It
seems so juvenile to ask, but I need to know.
Peeta doesn’t hesitate. “I wasn’t lying when I said I remembered you sucking my
dick. I thought you were really cute, even while strung out. Though this is
better, so much better. I think if we’d partied together while we were on the
streets, we would have been poison to each other. Our memories of each other
would be about getting high. Instead, we’ve made memories of getting sober, of
helping each other through the pain. We’re making memories as we start our new
lives.”
I rest my head on his shoulder as he talks and his hand comes up to stroke the
braid I’ve been wearing since realizing my hair was making me look like a
banshee. He brings the tip of my braid up and rubs the underside of my lip with
the strands of dark hair, then tries to tickle my nose with it. “If you tickle
me, I’m not to blame for any teeth I knock out,” I threaten. I can’t control my
flailing limbs.
Peeta sighs, “Fine…” he tells me, extending the word. “But I knew I wanted to
kiss you, like really kiss you, when you checked on me after waking up on our
first day here. You didn’t know me from Adam; in fact, I stupidly pointed out
something you probably wanted kept secret and you still checked on me, helped
me out, and even sat with me.”
“You would have done the same for me,” I confess. I really do think he would
have.
Peeta nods slowly. “I kind of did. While you were crashed out, I checked on you
whenever I could get out of bed… so pretty much whenever I wasn’t vomiting.
I’ve seen people withdraw from meth on their own. They get suicidal really
quick.”
“To be honest,” I start, putting my hand on his thigh, “It was the first time
in a while where I didn’t want to die. And I’m sorry about the belt comment.”
Peeta pulls up his sleeves. “It’s fine. You couldn’t have found a good vein
even if you wanted to.” The inside of his elbow is a mess of track marks,
collapsed veins, and other scars. I’ve seen them before, but this is the first
time I’ve ever studied them. I pick my head up off his shoulder and cradle his
arm in my lap, mapping a trail of injection sites from his bicep to the spaces
between his fingers. “You should see them try and draw blood from me for
tests…”
I know his mother helped nurture a feeling of inadequacy into her son, which
made him want to shoot up that first time so he could try to be a better artist
and make money… but I still can’t imagine getting to that point where sticking
a needle in yourself is the better option. I have no room to talk, though – I
started smoking glass because coke wasn’t enough, plus it’s cheap as shit.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
My days become pretty routine, which is comforting. Wake up at seven am, brush
my teeth, use the toilet. I no longer get a pre-walk snack because I’m no
longer a ravenous dog 24/7. Even though it’s fall, we still walk through the
woods every single morning, rain or shine. I shower after the walk and come to
breakfast late so I can have the large table mostly to myself. I’ve discovered
that I love books. Not just books about sex, but about knights slaying dragons,
a lucky few overthrowing an evil empire; any small escape from the world is
enough for me. Peeta will usually join me after his shower and sit in the chair
next to me, close enough that our arms touch. He sketches, while I continue
reading. We go to group together, take our walk in the forest, and then part
ways to go to our individual therapy sessions.
Dr. Aurelius has been trying to teach me coping mechanisms for when things get
tough once I’m back on the outside. I like meditation the most; it’s like a nap
for part of your brain. After my session, I head back to my bedroom and nap,
but always wake up with Peeta curled up around my body. I like sleeping next to
him.
He takes the art supplies they bought for him into the barn with me where he
lays down an old sheet and I dance until my body wants to quit or dinner time
hits. After dinner, we watch TV with Effie, Haymitch, Finnick and Johanna. All
of the Careers, except for a blond ex-heroin addict named Cato, and the
morphine addicts are gone. Several left because they were sick of rehab, while
some left because they reached their 90 days and elected to not continue the
program.
Cinna visits me regularly and brings Portia with him so Peeta can get
comfortable with her. We’re almost like adoptive children - they have to get to
know us before they finally say yes and take us in. When Cinna visits me one
day, he brings a whole mess of hair shit. He cuts a lot of my hair off that is
apparently dead and dried out, and then asks me what I want him to do to the
rest.
It’s another thing I realize I have control over, my hair. I tell him I want a
red streak in it because fire is red and creates ashes, which phoenixes rise
from. It’s the kind of loopy connect-the-dot thinking that is hard for me to
do, but he follows me. What I get is mostly red with some orange and just a
touch of yellow in the middle layer of my hair, so it just kind of pops and
isn’t ‘in your face’.
I love it. Peeta says it looks like my hair is on fire when I dance.
Peeta and I are about to hit sixty days of sobriety, which is a miracle
considering what we were like when we arrived here.
Effie’s phone starts ringing halfway through Hell’s Kitchen and she excuses
herself just as Gordon Ramsay digs into someone. I go back to my book, which is
about a woman who lets a man whisk her away to an island in the North Sea when
she has no other options and she learns to be a protector for vampires. It’s
strange, but I like the character.
Effie comes back right after the episode ends. “Katniss, you will be having
visitors tomorrow. You’re going to be excused from your regular sessions, but
have a special one in the evening.”
The only noise in the room is my book crashing to the ground.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
I can’t sleep, so I share the joy with Peeta, who is still suffering from
insomnia. They say it could go away in a few months, a few years, or never.
He’s wide awake on his bed, sketching. “Hey you…” he whispers as I close the
door quietly behind me and make my way to the bed. He pulls the covers down for
me and hands me a pillow so I can snuggle up as close to him as possible.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks, reaching down to pet my head.
Now sober, his fingers are agile and weave through the mix of red and black
strands in my hair. “I’m going to see my baby tomorrow…” I move so my head is
in his lap, but I can’t sit still, so I sit up on my legs.
“She’s four now…” He listens intently as I tell him every little thing about
Avery that I thought I didn’t know.  The only foods allowed to touch on her
plate are peas and mashed potatoes, she’s afraid of thunderstorms, she’s
allergic to strawberries, and she’s very prone to ear infections.
It’s that moment when something in the air changes. Peeta’s fingers are laced
with mine and resting on the bed. He sets his sketchbook and pencils down on
the nightstand and finally stretches his legs out in front of him.
I lean in to kiss him slowly at first, but soon enough I’m straddling his lap,
holding onto his t-shirt as I try to taste every inch of his mouth. His hand
comes up to cup my breasts through my thin shirt, and as his thumb brushes
against my hardened nipple, I moan into his mouth. He’s clearly satisfied with
the reaction and does it again and again.
I’ve never had a man want to explore my body for both our pleasure. I know I
have to reward him for his efforts, or at least return the favor, but the
second I worm my hand under the elastic band of his boxers and just barely
brush the tips of my fingers against his velvety cock, he stops me.
“No, Katniss…” he mumbles against my lips.
My skin grows clammy. He doesn’t want me? I thought he wanted me. I made him
hard! How could he not want me?
I’m too embarrassed to move but I want to escape before the shameful tears of
rejection start. Peeta wraps his arms around me. “Please don’t cry…” he begs,
rocking me from side to side. I can still feel him hard against my thigh. “I
don’t want our first time together to be on a full sized bed in rehab because
you felt obligated once I took an interest in making you feel good.”
I worm my arms around his waist and squeeze, “You do realize I want you not
because you were a whore, but because you’re smart, and funny… You care so
much, and you’re incredibly strong,” he sighs contentedly. He actually cares,
he honestly likes me… I don’t know why I’m so surprised… Maybe I do deserve
love, or whatever this can turn out to be.
“Plus… needles. I’m a dead ringer for diseases.”
“And I was a whore…” I sigh dejectedly.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Though my mom and Avery aren’t getting here until close to lunch time, I still
get up to walk with everyone else. I go about my day and even go to group
because I’m starting to like sitting in a room talking about why I’m fucked up.
It’s humbling.
Peeta tells me he can’t walk with me after group, as he has something he needs
to get done. We’re in the final days of Indian Summer, so I don’t mind not
sweating like a pig.
I walk on the treadmill in the gym, but get turned away from my individual
session. Apparently, Dr. A prefers to talk to me and my mother together
tonight.
I get a quick shower, mostly to kill time, and dig through my closet for any
clothes that might be appropriate. The only thing I can hope is close to okay
is a powder blue spaghetti strap dress with lace coming up the bodice from the
elastic waistband.
I find a pair of dirty white sandals and determine that they need to be cleaned
up. I’m the only one in the bathroom, so I leave the door propped open. I don’t
know why, it just makes me feel less enclosed.
“Well, look at you! Got a hot date?” I hear Finnick ask as I scrub my shoe.
“I get to see my kid today,” I tell him happily.
“Still can’t believe you have a kid. You’re still a baby.”
“Katniss?” I hear Effie shout down the hall, “Your family is here!”
“I may be a baby to you, but my baby is waiting for me down the hall,” I tell
him while hurrying down the corridor, my half-cleaned shoes dangling from my
finger.
“Momma!” Avery screams once she sees me. I run to her and fall to my knees,
pulling her into a hug that I never want to let her out of. I kiss every inch
of her face, her hands, her arms. I’ve missed my baby so much…
 
===============================================================================
 
 
We walk around the farm most of the day, talking about my progress and what
they’re doing on the outside. Mom doesn’t believe how healthy I’m looking, or
how happy I seem.
When we sit down for lunch, Peeta joins us with a small chocolate cake he made
for my daughter’s birthday. I didn’t even know he could bake.
Avery likes him a lot, and that’s all that matters. My daughter likes the one
adult in the world I trust completely. Peeta even offers to watch Avery while I
have my therapy session with my mother, but I can’t let her go. Plus, I can’t
put that burden on him.
Much to my surprise, it’s not just Dr. A in there, but Effie, Haymitch, and
even Cinna. I feel like I’m in front of the firing squad.
“Katniss, we would like to congratulate you on the progress you have made up to
this point. It takes no shortage of courage to do what you have done.” I smile
into my daughter’s hair at the compliment. “But the hardest part comes next.
You’ve gotten yourself clean in a controlled environment, which means your next
step is to re-enter the outside world.”
My mother looks confused. “Where is she going to go? She can’t live with me…”
“Cinna here has offered to be her sobriety sponsor. He’ll give her support, a
place to live, and help finding a job. There will be a move, though. Cinna and
his friend Portia, who is taking in another one of our clients, live in New
York,” Effie tells her.
Mom gasps. “You’re taking Katniss away from her daughter and me, just when
she’s getting better?”
Effie nods in response. “Right now, distance is helping her. Being close to
where she could so easily get her hands on meth again could cause her to
relapse.”
I smile. “Mom, it’s… it’s an hour and a half or so train ride, and I’ll be able
to use the phone.” I didn’t know that the move was to New York, but I’m willing
to go wherever to keep myself sober. “It’ll be a good thing, I promise.”
I’m willing to do anything to get Avery back in my life, not to mention keeping
myself from the slammer. Once that’s settled, everyone but Dr. A. leaves. In my
individual session a few days before, I told Dr. A. that I wanted to tell my
Mom what happened while I was in foster care.
“Katniss?” he gives me the go ahead to spill my guts.
“Mom, there was something I never told you when I was a child. I never told
anyone, actually.”
Mom frowns, and I hug Avery for comfort. “What is it, honey?”
I don’t want Avery to hear, but I still can’t let her go, “When P-” her name
gets caught in my throat, “When Prim and I were in foster care, our foster
father would come into my room at night to have sex with me.”
Dr. A. doesn’t let my flaw in logic slide. “Katniss, sex is something two or
more people want to have with each other when they reach the age of consent,”
he reminds me.
I nod slowly. I’ll have to say the word, maybe it’ll feel freeing. “My foster
father raped me,” I state as Mom covers her mouth with her hands. “Several
times a week… but he never touched Prim. I would have killed him if he touched
Prim, Momma… And I blamed you for so long. From the moment you got out of the
hospital up until a few weeks ago, I blamed you.”
“Momma, don’t cry,” Avery scolds, putting her tiny hand on my cheek. I cover
her hand in my own.
“And I know it’s not your fault. You were doing what you needed to do to get
better. It wasn’t your fault he did that to me, it was his.”
Mom gets out of her chair and wraps me in a tight hug, sandwiching Avery
between us. “I’m so sorry, Katniss… I wish you’d have told me sooner.” I wrap
my arms around her small form, digging my fingers into the fabric of her shirt.
“I wish I did, too…” I admit.
Mom and Avery stay until the sun goes down. Peeta spends most of his evening
entertaining my daughter with his sketches.
“He’s cute,” Mom tells me out of Peeta’s earshot. He’s too busy using the
corners of every page of his sketchbook to make a little cartoon to entertain
my daughter.
“I know,” I tell her smugly. “He and I are going to live in the same house when
we get out. Our sobriety sponsors live together.”
“As long as you two are being safe.”
I sink down in my chair. “Mom…” I groan, “We aren’t having sex. We want to wait
until we’re both emotionally ready and out of here.”
Avery lets out a squeal of delight which lights up Peeta’s face. “He’s so good
with her…”
“I know,” I tell her, sighing contentedly.
***** Chapter 6 *****
More days go by with the same routine, though other people have visitors. A
short brunette woman for Finnick, who introduces herself as Annie; and the last
one I remember, a well-built guy for the remaining Career, Cato.
I don’t even know what month it is, or what date. I think it’s almost October.
“And make a fist…” Another day, another drug test. The needle stings as she
tries to find a good vein. “I hate needles,” I confess for the hundredth time
as tears start springing from my eyes. She’s failed the first time, and I prep
for the next.
“You have thin, deep veins,” the nurse tells me. “Make another fist.”
She gets it this time, and when I leave, Peeta’s next. “Make sure you don’t
flush the toilet, they’ve gotta dip their stick in it first.”
He smirks and I must imagine him pinching my butt on the way back.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“Are you ready for this?” Effie asks, putting the car in park.
I’m dressed nicely in a simple black suit that Effie is letting me borrow.
Today will be the first day since the trial that Gale and I will be in the same
room.
Peeta faced his demons, and now it’s my turn.
Gale is brought into a cold room in shackles. The only two people in the room
with us are Effie and the guard.
“Jesus fuck, who put you in a suit?” I ball up my fist; trying to stay calm
here is going to be hard. “Seriously, how much dick did you have to suck to get
that?”
“None, I’m borrowing it,” I tell him through my teeth. I want to strangle this
man, take the handcuffs from his hands and use the chain to cut off his air
supply as he writhes in my grasp. I want to feel him go lifeless in my arms.
“Gale, I recently went into rehab because of an incident involving me and
another woman.”
“Get caught fucking in the back of the grocery–”
“I broke her fucking nose with my fist and if you don’t shut the fuck up, I
will do the same to you,” I hiss.
“Katniss…” Effie cautions. I’m not sure what she expected by bringing me here.
This man killed my sister, talked me into whoring myself, and bought me meth
and my first pipe, telling me it would help me get loose.
“Fine…” I sigh, taking a few deep breaths. “Gale, I recently went into rehab
because I assaulted a woman, and the courts won’t give Avery back to me unless
I’m clean. Part of the program is facing the demons in my life. Mine just so
happen to be you.”
He puts up his hands. “Wait, you lost our daughter?” He sounds so judgmental,
like he’s asking how I could fail at the one thing my body is designed to do,
nurture a child. The urge to strangle him is growing.
Fortunately, I rehearsed what to say to him in the car. “Gale Hawthorne,” I say
loudly, “There are things that you brought into my life which changed it
forever. You took advantage of my age and my innocence and helped me down a
destructive road where I sold my body to pay for my addiction. Without those
experiences, I would never be the person I am today. I am getting clean and I
will be a better person because of it. Thank you, have a nice fucking life.” I
stand up and look Effie right in the eye. “Effie, I’m ready to go back now.”
Gale isn’t done, though. “I lost my brother, too, you know!” he shouts.
I spin around; happiness isn’t the only emotion that’s slowly coming back. Rage
is there, too, but unfortunately I don’t really remember how to handle it, so I
go off. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you fucking dare act like the victim here
because of Rory! Rory is dead because of you! You killed him when you killed
Prim!”
“The #5 bus killed your sister!”
“Because you were too high to tell what was going on and blew through a red
light! You don’t have my sympathy, Gale! I hope it eats you at night that your
brother killed himself! I really do! I hope he comes to you in your fucking
dreams!”
Gale shrinks back a little. “You. Do. Not. Have. My. Sympathy. Hazelle, Vick,
and Posy will never heal after what you did. They have my sympathy. You, on the
other hand, deserve every ounce of the pain you’re feeling and I hope you never
forget it.”
Gale has one more card up his sleeve. “I’m going to fight for custody of her
when I get out, Katniss.”
I slap my forehead. “You killed my little sister, Gale! The judge isn’t going
to overlook that because you might be her father!”
I turn to Effie. I have to leave, I can’t stand to be in this place. “Effie,
please take me back… I can’t-”
Effie nods, her eyes still wide. “Come on, honey…” I don’t care if Gale sees me
weak. I hurry into Effie’s open arms and let her guide me out of the prison
while I cry slow, leaky tears.
They continue the entire way home. Effie tells me that was a brave thing I did,
but we could have done without the yelling. Nothing sticks it to someone like
calm, hateful words, apparently.
Everyone’s at the dinner table when we get home. I look down at the ground and
hurry to my room. The second my face hits the pillow, I scream and scream and
sob. I cry so violently I think I may vomit.
My sister’s dead, my sweet baby sister. I was supposed to keep her safe and
she’s dead. I brought the man who killed her into her life.
This is it; this is the pain I buried away with the pipe.
I don’t know when it happens, but Peeta joins me in my grief. He doesn’t ask
any questions, and the snot that’s coming out of my face doesn’t gross him out.
He holds me until I pass out from my own exhaustion. I think he stays with me
the whole night.
Effie and Haymitch excuse me from group activities for two full days. During
that time, I don’t talk to anyone, I don’t eat, and I leave my bed a total of
three times to use the toilet.
The second night, my room lights up only for a brief moment. I think it’s
Peeta, but it’s actually Haymitch. “Sweetheart, everyone’s worried about you.
You have to come out sometime. The boy’s going nuts; hell, even Johanna is less
sarcastic.”
I snort, but continue staring at the wall. “I’ve never wanted to smoke more
than I do right now. I can’t handle this, Haymitch…”
He knows what I’m talking about, but asks anyway. “Handle what?”
A big part of my treatment is talking out the problems I want to bury. “I can’t
handle the fact that my sister is dead. I can’t handle that it was my boyfriend
who killed her, and that he thinks people should have sympathy for him because
his brother is dead. I can’t handle the two years of repressed emotions just
slamming at me while the almost eight years of numbness goes away.”
The bed sinks a little as Haymitch sits down. “Sweetheart, no one is born ready
to go through even half the shit you have. But tomorrow, you’re going to pull
yourself out of bed and live the day to its fullest, even if it’s just to spite
everyone who’s ever done you wrong.”
I look up at him, dumbfounded.
“I’ve been doing it for close to thirty years. I’m an expert at dicking people
over by living life to its fullest.”
I don’t know where I dig it out of, but I smile.
And Haymitch is right. I have no choice but to live each day to its fullest.
Prim would be beside herself if she knew I was locked away in a dark room.
I make it out just before dinner on the third day of my seclusion. I shower and
brush my teeth before putting on my softest pair of sweats and most comfortable
t-shirt. They’re just sitting down at the table when I take my seat.
It’s silent and awkward for a good fraction of a second.
“Oh, good, you’re back. Pass the salt?” Johanna asks. I hand her the shaker.
“Peeta’s shit at passing things. I swear, you ask him a question and it goes in
one ear and out the other.”
I drop one hand below the table just before Peeta does the same. I go to lace
my pinkie with his, but he intertwines his fingers with mine and gives my hand
a strong squeeze. Peeta thought he was going to lose me.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Holding off on sex with Peeta has started to become difficult. Especially late
at night after everyone’s gone to bed, when he has me pressed up against the
headboard, his arms on either side of me. So far all we’ve done is make out,
but every night, it gets harder and harder to say stop.
It’s next to impossible to say ‘No, we’re waiting’ when I’m pressed up against
a tree in the forest with his cold hands warming up in the cups of my bra.
And I’m sure it was hard for him to derail things when I decided I wanted to
watch him paint and ended up giving him a hand job through his ever tightening
jeans.
“Five more days…” he whispers against my lips. With the court’s blessing, I
have been granted permission to move in with Cinna and continue my quest for
sobriety with Peeta by my side. I don’t know if I’m ready, but honestly, I
don’t know that I’ll ever truly be.
I’m afraid of the outside world.
Finnick and Johanna were released a few weeks before us within a few days of
each other. Cato checked himself out and there’s a new cycle of addicts
detoxing as Peeta and I pack our bags.
“Ready?” a voice behind me asks.
I look up at Effie, who is sporting a bright green streak in her hair. As a
“congratulations for 90 days without meth” present, Effie and Haymitch
surprised both Peeta and myself with two large bags of clothes to start our new
life.
All Peeta had were torn up jeans, ratty t-shirts and a hoodie. I had sweats
with worn elastic, a few less than professional dresses, and a pair of
accidentally crotchless panties.
Peeta’s been giddy as fuck the last five days. He got a call from his sponsor,
Portia, and since then, he’s been bouncing off the fucking walls.
My exit from Panem is as quick as my entrance to group. There is no warming up
to the real world; it’s there, full of temptations.
Peeta and I hug Haymitch and Effie goodbye, or well, ‘see you later’. In
addition to going to NA meetings, we’ve agreed to come and visit, especially
when things get tough. Apparently, Cinna and Portia have been doing it for
years.
Peeta and I decide not to go back to Philadelphia, and make a silent agreement
to never return if possible. It’s the place where our addictions started, and
it has no purpose in our new, sober lives.
We don’t immediately stop at our new home, but at a small art gallery.
Peeta practically drags me inside like I dragged him to the woods on that first
morning. “Portia runs this place and…”
I’ve never actually paid attention to Peeta’s paintings. I know it’s horrible,
considering most of his work was done while I was in the room. I just figured
if he wanted me to see, he’d ask.
What I see first is the deepest pit of hopelessness anyone could ever dig for
him or herself. I’m looking at a bird’s-eye view of a tiny apartment. One twin
mattress on the floor, garbage everywhere, dirty dishes in the sink, and a
single man sitting in the corner with a spoon in one hand and a lighter in the
other.
The blonde tuft of hair poking out of the baseball cap he has on backwards
makes it blatantly obvious that this is Peeta; this is where he was living
before coming to rehab.
The second is a closer look at Peeta with a belt around his calf, two bloody
arms, a bloody hand, and bloody feet. It’s Peeta at his lowest. So deep in his
addiction that he can’t find a suitable vein.
The next painting is a turning point, a woman in a car wearing torn clothes and
a scowl on her face pressed up against a car door. Our first meeting, besides
the blowjob incident. Then there’s us eating a meal of crackers and ginger ale
on the bathroom floor.  Smaller canvases track Peeta’s road to sobriety with me
by his side. There are purposefully blurry ones of us in bed talking, maybe to
show my meth hangover. There’s me dancing while Peeta paints; then there’s
Finnick, Johanna, myself, Effie, Haymitch and Peeta at the dinner table.
Finnick’s stabbing food with his fork to emphasize his point, which was that
briefs are still a viable underwear option.
The last painting hanging in this small corner is a colored version of the
sketch Peeta was working on. Us holding hands, tied together only by our
pinkies. There’s no need to cling because we’ll come back to each other’s arms,
but a little contact is nice.
“How did you survive this?” I ask, teary-eyed. “Not just the… you know.” I
don’t know if I should say ‘drug use’ on the outside, or if Peeta’s okay with
it, “But reliving it to paint it.”
Peeta shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “It made me face the demons
inside me and accept them.”
“Come on, you two, it’s time to go home,” Cinna tells us, pulling me away from
Peeta’s tragically beautiful paintings.
I can’t even make myself stop grinning as we leave. Peeta wanted his art in a
gallery. And now he’s living his dream.
Cinna and Portia share a large apartment on the Upper West Side. It’s sterile-
looking, yet very modern with dark floors and white walls. The appliances in
the kitchen are stainless steel, the couches are black leather; it looks too
high class for two people who have only been sober for ninety days.
Portia is in the kitchen when we get home, humming to herself as she stirs
something that smells delicious cooking away on the stove.
“There they are!” She turns from her cooking and grins, “Sorry I couldn’t come
get you two. I figured someone should feed our little family.”
And I burst into tears. Uncontrollable, horrible, snotty tears. They came out
of nowhere, and I’m not even sad…
Peeta wraps his arms around me, cooing in my ear, trying to get me to calm
down. “I never thought I’d make it this far…” I sob into his chest.
Peeta kisses the top of my head. “Me either…” he finally tells me.
There are hands on me, but I don’t mind them. One rubs my back, another
squeezes my shoulder.
Being on the outside scares the ever loving shit out of me, but I’m just going
to have to jump in.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
After dinner, Peeta and I both try to clean up but Cinna practically shoves us
out of the kitchen, telling us to go find our rooms and unpack, or we can
choose to share a room. They don’t judge.
Peeta and I stare at the closed doors of the two vacant rooms. “Do we..?” I
start to ask.
Peeta shrugs. “You know I’m going to be coming over to your room anyway…”
He opens the door to the bedroom we’re going to be sharing and tries to carry
my bags in like a fucking gentleman, but the look I give him makes him put his
hands up defensively. “Or I won’t be nice…”
I drag my duffel bags into our room with a smug grin on my face.
We’re just about unpacked when Cinna and Portia come into our room. “See? I
told you they’d share. They’re just like us, except I think they kiss…” I blush
and look away at her words. “They most definitely kiss.”
Cinna rolls his eyes. “Are you going to embarrass them more or are we going to
get down to business?”
Portia sticks out her tongue. I like her. She’s a free spirit, but not so free
that she makes me want to back myself into a corner to let her have enough
space. “All right, a few ground rules. You two are invited to live with us for
as long as you need. No matter where we move to, as long as you two feel that
you need to be here, the door will always be open. There will always be a bed
and food for you. We do, though, reserve the right to evict you if either of
you start using again. Nothing illicit is to come through those doors except
for pornography.” Cinna snorts, and she looks confused.
“You mean explicit; illicit porn is nothing I want in my house.”
She nods slowly. She must have the same confusion that I do. Cause and effect
are difficult some days for me, as well as words that sound even remotely
alike. “You two are welcome to drink every now and then. A glass of wine at
dinner is perfectly okay, but none of us are at places in our lives, with what
we have in our pasts, where it is okay to get drunk. It will lead you straight
down the path of destruction and relapse.”
Portia blows out a deep breath through her closed lips. “Well, I have to get to
the gallery to set up some stuff. If there’s anything you need, just call… Oh!”
Portia leaves for a fraction of a second, and when returns, she hands each of
us a brand new cell phone.
“This is a big, confusing city. With these, you’ll be able to figure out the
subway, the streets, or get a hold of us.”
“Because we bought them, we do have the right to check on who you’re calling,”
Cinna adds. They want to make sure Peeta and I don’t make new connections to
our old lives.
“Just relax tonight, sleep, do whatever you want. Tomorrow, we’ll get down to
business.”
I fully expected to have sex with Peeta on our first night of freedom; instead,
we sit on our bed and I read while he sketches. We listen to music, and by
eleven I turn out the light by my bed, as Peeta fell asleep almost an hour
earlier.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“And you’re liking New York?” We’ve been here for a week, but Peeta and I still
haven’t left the apartment on our own. We’re both too scared. This is a new
city to us, but we could easily find a fix of our old masters in about ten
minutes.
“I love it… there’s so much to do, so many things to see. How’s Avery?”
Mom sighs. “She misses you. Had a fever the other night and just wanted you.
Have you found a job yet?”
“Cinna is going to let me work as a receptionist in his salon,” I tell her.
It’s the first honest job I’ve ever had so I don’t exactly know what to expect.
“He took me shopping for clothes.  Apparently they wear a lot of black. And
heels, I’m going to be in heels for like eight hours a day,” I pause and don’t
think before I speak next. “Good thing I’m used to walking the streets in
them!”
“Katniss!” my mother scolds.
“What? I accept that I was once a prostitute.” I look up at Peeta, who has all
but zoned out. His insomnia has been really bad this last week. I can still
sleep like the dead, but he’s back to tossing and turning. He takes walks
around the apartment and then comes back to bed. He’ll usually kiss my shoulder
and tell me how thankful he is to have me in his life.
He always thinks I’m asleep, but it’s damn near impossible for me to sleep when
he’s not in the bed with me. I’m too afraid of the outside world to relax.
“So how’s your boyfriend?” she asks teasingly.
I give a heavy sigh. “Well, he’s never asked me, so he’s not my boyfriend.”
Peeta sleepily raises a hand to point at me. “That’s a lie! I asked her, but
she was still half asleep. She went uh-huh.”
I roll my eyes at my apparent boyfriend’s silly antics.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
Peeta and I finally gather enough courage to leave our home without an escort.
It takes eight days.
Without drugs to numb the senses, the outside world is a loud place with a lot
of sudden movement that makes Peeta grip my arm so tightly that it may break.
Even though it’s fall, we head straight for Central Park, though most people
are retreating to indoor shops to hide from the chill.
It’s quieter here, but not much. Still, we relax, as Peeta moves to walk behind
me with his arms around my waist.
When I look down at his hands, I can still see the track marks. Part of me
hopes they vanish, while the other hopes that they stay so I’ll never forget
how lucky I am that he found his way into my life. Peeta could have very well
overdosed.
We’re a clumsy four-legged monster walking down a gravel path.
“Peeta, did you have your last hurrah?” I ask quietly.
He tenses. It’s a completely inappropriate question to ask, but I feel like I
need to know.
“Yeah… a speedball the morning Effie came to get me,” he says glumly. “Did
you…” he clears his throat nervously, “Do something similar?”
“Blacked out, smoked a blunt, smashed my pipe… does that count?” He kisses the
back of my head and doesn’t say anything.
We head back shortly after that. We’ve dipped our toes into the real world,
which is enough for us today.
Cinna and Portia are shocked when we tell them we left on our own.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
That night there’s something different about the both of us, something braver.
Instead of just sitting in bed barely touching, doing our own independent
tasks, I’m completely naked in Peeta’s lap. The only thing separating us is the
thin layer of latex from the condom we’re using.
We found them in the drawer of my nightstand. It would really be irresponsible
to go without one, considering I was a whore and Peeta shared needles on
occasion. One of us might have something.
I lean in to kiss a particularly bad looking scar on his neck as I slowly ride
him. This isn’t about money, meaning I can actually enjoy myself. And I do.
I rise off of him a little too much and he slips out of me. We laugh and he
shakes his head before he guides himself back in. I love touching every inch of
him.
Peeta doesn’t last very long; he’s embarrassed at first, but it goes away when
I let him play with my pussy until I’m squirming against him.
“You’re the first man to ever make me come,” I tell him.
Peeta pulls my sweaty body closer to his. “I should be proud, but I’m kind of
sorry…”
I look up into his bright blue eyes, full of life and can only hope mine share
the same light.
“It doesn’t matter now…”
Sobriety isn’t about learning how to be sober, it’s learning how to live again.
It’s learning how to handle the emotions drugs deleted from our lives. It’s
senses heightening, memories getting better, and it’s pain… so much pain.
It doesn’t exactly get easier to handle, we just learn to adapt.
I fall asleep to him drawing patterns on my back with the tips of his fingers.
 
***** Epilogue *****
Ten years later
“Be gentle, Logan…” I remind my son as he shakes my stomach, trying to excite
his younger sibling. My two year old looks up at me, confused. I’ve told him a
hundred times that the baby is safe inside me, so why can’t he shake it until
it kicks?
“That’s my brover…” he says, poking where we think the baby’s butt is, though
for all we know it could be a shoulder.
“That it is,” a voice says from behind us. “And he’s going to be very upset
when he comes out and you’ve been shaking him like a bowl of Jell-O.” Avery
scoops up her youngest sibling; I can’t believe she’s fourteen already.
“Where’s Hayden?” I ask. Though we live in a smaller apartment, my four-year-
old daughter Hayden is silent only when she’s doing something she shouldn’t be.
“Watching movies.” Avery shifts her brother so she’s cradling him, “All right,
let’s go, little monster. Time for your nap…”
I’m so proud of my baby girl. Without being asked, she’s stepped up to help
with the things I’m struggling with. This pregnancy hasn’t been an easy one,
and she’s always there to help.
“Ave, have you heard from your Dad?” I ask when she comes back to the couch to
join me.
Avery shakes her head. “Not yet.” She cranes her head to check the clock on the
wall. “It’s only three, Mom… he won’t leave you hanging.”
I have an important engagement tonight, one I refuse to do without my husband
by my side.
After rehab, Peeta chose to go to culinary school. He spent five years working
for other people and decided he wanted to open his own café. I, on the other
hand, found that I couldn’t handle school. The stress made me want to start
using again, so I dropped out after my first semester and decided I could
handle writing about my experiences. It turned out to be the perfect de-
stressor, especially when my ex decided he wanted to fight for custody over the
child we assumed was his.
Gale wanted partial custody, but a paternity test proved that he had no claim.
Peeta has raised Avery like his own child since day one.
Peeta gets home just as Logan gets up from his nap. “Can you change him?” I
ask, holding our son at arm’s length. I’m not sure how he pees out of his
diaper, but he manages to do so at least twice a week.
“Sure…” He takes the wet toddler from me and kisses my nose. “Were they good
today?” he asks, laying our son down on the changing table while I strip his
crib.
“Yeah, Hayden was quiet most of the day. I think she might be getting sick,” I
tell him as I carry the wet sheets to the washer.
As soon as I start putting the sheets in, I hear him yell, “Don’t roll away!
You’re still naked!”
Fatherhood wasn’t an easy thing for Peeta to adjust to. Yes, we’ve had Avery
since she was four and a half, but a five year old who’s about to start school
and an infant are two completely different monsters. Hayden’s first low grade
fever sent him into a panic the likes of which I’ve never seen before, and when
she was fussy because she was cutting teeth, he thought he broke her.
All that aside, he’s the best father I could have to help raise my children.
He’s much more patient than I am, never getting frustrated when Hayden asks him
a thousand questions about nothing in particular. He also gets up in the middle
of the night when Logan escapes his crib. Plus, the two kids we’ve already had
together are gorgeous… although Avery is genetically mine and mine alone, so it
might be me.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“My name is Katniss, and I am an addict. Ten years ago, that was one of the
hardest things for me to admit. Even as I was alone in a dirty apartment, sore
and bruised from a night of whoring myself on the streets with nothing but the
pipe to keep me company, I still couldn’t admit that I was an addict,” I sigh
and look at the crowd of people listening to me talk. They’re here for me and
only me. I turn the page; in front of me is a bit of the book I’m working on,
and I smile just thinking about it.
“It has become easier for me to call myself an addict - even though it’s been
ten years since I touched a pipe - because that is all I will ever be to
society. At thirty five years old, I go to PTA meetings, take my children to
ballet lessons, and clean the sheets in my son’s bed when he misses his diaper
twice a week. But once someone finds out about my past, that’s all I will ever
be to them, an addict.”
“After ninety days in rehab, ten years sober, one perfect marriage and three
perfect children later, I still hear whispers behind my back that the scars on
my face are from when I was strung out. Or that I’m using again; that my
husband was late picking up our daughter Avery from ballet class because he was
shooting up. This is what we, as humans, do. We focus on the one mistake that a
person perhaps couldn’t stop. Instead of helping them, we shame someone for
doing what their brain is telling them they can’t live without. We laugh at the
addict on the street instead of holding out our hand and making rehabilitation
programs accessible. We addicts know that we live on the fringes of society.
Don’t you think my husband knew what shame felt like, sitting alone in an empty
apartment with a twin mattress and a single sheet? We knew what we were doing
was dangerous; we knew it was bad, but our brains told us that it was either
our drugs of choice or immense pain, sometimes even death.”
I flip the page again, “Still, we will always be addicts. Peeta will never just
be the restaurateur who lives in SoHo with his wife and three children who
ruined our floors painting on his days off. I will never be the mother who
forgets weekly that we are drinking one percent milk instead of skim and that
our fourteen year old no longer eats fish.”
“I want to call for a change, but just like the addict knows nothing other than
his or her addiction, the world knows nothing other than to shame the addict.”
I look up from the papers in my hand. “That’s something I’m working on,” I tell
them after the quiet applause dies down.
“If you have any questions for me, I will be in the back,” I step away from the
podium and turn to the side. “I’ve gotta get off my feet or this little one
will keep pounding me in the kidney,” I tell them as I rub the swell of my
stomach. At thirty-eight weeks along, I could technically pop at any minute,
and with how uncomfortable I’ve been feeling the last week, I hope it’s soon.
Peeta is in the back waiting for me. After five years of marriage, he still
takes my breath away. The track marks have faded and only a few scars remain,
mostly on his neck and the crease of his elbow. He’s grown a goatee because the
full beard left my face and thighs uncomfortably raw.
He meets me halfway through the crowd and places his hand on my lower back.
“Easy there.”
The kids are probably destroying the high rise apartment that Cinna shares with
his husband and adoptive daughter, Audrey. Portia, on the other hand, has moved
to Paris to follow her heart and find love, or some cheesy bullshit. She sends
us some pretty interesting pictures. 
I hate spending nights away from our children, but it’s almost a must at this
point. The nights off from parenting are meant to be relaxing for the two of
us. Once every month or so, we just take a break; Peeta and I sit on the couch,
watch old movies, and eat a very quiet dinner. We even have very loud empty
house sex, which is where child number four came from. Even after ten years
sober, I still wake up at night, afraid that I won’t be able to survive in the
real world. On those days, I only get out of bed to use the toilet. I hate
putting the extra burden on Peeta, but he survives those days by throwing
himself into whatever needs to be done.  One of his bad days found us an
apartment to live in when it was finally time to leave Cinna and Portia behind.
I’m at the bookstore with my husband until close to eight, which any more is
late for me. In the city that never sleeps, Peeta and I can’t seem to get
enough of it. We don’t have the thriving social life that some people come to
New York for. We can’t go to nightclubs, even though the Big Apple is rotten
with them, though Peeta and I do enjoy a glass of wine with dinner every now
and then. 
We’re boring, and we love it that way.
“Let me get that for you,” Peeta offers as I wrestle with my messenger bag. I
refuse to leave the house without my laptop. Peeta knows he’s not allowed to
touch my computer ever since I trusted him with it and he left it on the
subway. I give him ‘the look’ and he backs away. “Or you can get it. That’s
good, too.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, if I don’t eat in the next five minutes, I’m literally
going to die,” I groan as Peeta tries to hail a cab. “I got this,” I offer. One
way or another, I’m getting home to the package of Oreos I have hidden from my
children.
 
===============================================================================
 
 
“You look exhausted,” Peeta tells me after helping me out of the cab.
I scowl, “Well, it’s your son’s big head!” We don’t know the gender yet; in
fact, we want it to be a surprise. I just assume that I’m having a boy because
Avery and Hayden were so much smaller than Logan. “Can’t he just hurry up and
come out?”
Peeta rolls his eyes and wraps his arm around my expanding waistline. “Hey, we
make perfect babies, and that takes at least nine months.”
“Nine months and nine days with Hayden. Nine months and five days with Logan.”
Peeta snorts, “I can’t believe you remember it. I just remember making myself
ill with excitement.”
It’s already taking me an extreme amount of motivation to climb up the stairs
to our apartment. “Our next place is going to have an elevator,” I moan.
“We’ll start looking tomorrow,” Peeta promises. This means he’ll probably start
looking online when he can’t sleep tonight, because after ten years, Peeta is
still plagued with insomnia but only while I’m pregnant. I know it’s his
nerves, what else could it be?
Peeta stays behind me on the stairs, his hands firmly on my backside
practically pushing me up into our home.
Once we’re inside and the dogs have been taken for their last walk of the
evening, we head to the kitchen to celebrate this precious anniversary. At our
next NA meeting, they’ll hand us coins in honor of our ten years of sobriety.
But tonight, it’s just us in our kitchen with a sleeve of Oreo’s and the gallon
of milk I refuse to not drink directly out of.
“When I was eight, I told my Mom that I’d eat Oreo’s morning, noon and night
when I was an adult,” I tell my husband. “Joke’s on you, Mom! I’m thirty-five
and eating Oreo’s with my husband celebrating ten years sober.” Now that I’m
clean and she’s not raising my child, Mom’s focusing on her own life. She even
remarried and moved to the suburbs. It’s good for her to be away from all those
bad memories.
“You’re living the dream of every six year old everywhere,” he tells me,
handing me an empty glass. If it wouldn’t make me vomit, I could kill this
gallon of milk without a second thought.
Peeta snatches it away from me and fills our glasses, “Cheers,” he tells me,
holding his own up.
“To ten years of sobriety,” I tap my glass against his.
“And many, many more…”
That night, the first night Peeta actually fell asleep with me, I end up having
to shake him awake so he could take me to the hospital.
Cinna gets the kids to the hospital by seven in the morning, two hours after
baby Estelle greeted the world.
“My brover?” Logan asks, looking down at his baby sister.
I shake my head as she nurses, “No, honey, your sister.”
Logan looks upset by this news. He wanted a brother so bad, not another sister.
He climbs down from the hospital bed in a huff as Hayden climbs up. “She’s all
wrinkly…” she tells us, “And pink.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta pick up our son. “See that, little
man? They’re our girls, and we have to do everything we can to keep them safe…”
I reach out my arm and pull Avery the rest of the way in. “Our apartment is
going to be so cramped…” she groans.
Peeta somehow dissolves Logan’s anger with logic. If he had a brother, he’d
have to share his toys. And like a switch, Logan’s on board with having a new
sister.
Later in the day, I hold Estelle while Logan takes a nap on my legs. Hayden
spends hours channel surfing, while Avery sits in the corner on her phone and
Peeta keeps a watchful eye on all of us. He’s been so strong these last ten
years, even after his almost relapse.
It was after my second miscarriage when I came home to find Peeta locked away
in our bathroom. Once I finally figured out how to unlock the door, I found him
sitting on the edge of the tub with a filled syringe in his fingers. He was so
stressed and upset about losing two children he never even met that in one
afternoon, he found another connection in New York City. That night was the
reason why I didn’t tell Peeta I was pregnant with Hayden until I was three
months along. It’s actually pretty easy when the father of your child leaves
hours before you wake up for the day and both of you rarely drink.
I know deep down that Peeta and I will always be branded as addicts, but the
family moments like these are the ones I wish we could be remembered for.
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