Sparks Fly

Chapter 20

I awake in my bed with a pounding headache, parched mouth, and boiling stomach. There's a rumpled blanket in a chair near my bed, and I think Peeta must've slept there, but it's empty now.

My hair is clean and dry, and I'm in a fresh set of underclothes. My hands sting, and that's when I notice the stitches, small and even, across one palm and up the side of the other hand. Vaguely I remember breaking that glass window last night. I try to stand up, and my stomach turns. I run for the toilet, vomiting up what little food and drink is left in my body, though it does little to quell my nausea.

I go back to bed and climb under the blankets, sure this is what it must feel like to be poisoned. The footsteps on the stairs renew my panic from last night. I'm not ready to see my mother and Prim. I have to pull myself together to be calm and reassuring, the way I was when we said our good-byes the day of the last reaping. I have to be strong. I must protect them from the fear I feel, just as I've always protected them. I push myself weakly into an upright position and brace myself. They appear in the doorway, holding a glass of water and toast, their faces filled with concern. I open my mouth, planning to start off with some kind of joke, and burst into tears.

So much for being strong.

My mother sits on the side of the bed and Prim crawls right up next to me and they hold me, making quiet soothing sounds, until I am mostly cried out. Then Prim gets a brush and combs out the knots in my hair while my mother coaxes small bites of toast into me.

Finally, Prim asks, "It's going to be harder this time, isn't it? Because of him?"

I nod, and fresh tears slide down my face. "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you, Prim. We just thought it would be safer for everyone."

"It's okay," she says, starting to expertly weave my hair in its usual braid. Then, softer, she says, "For what it's worth, I think he's perfect for you."

More tears prick my eyes as I turn to my mother. "You knew."

"I had my suspicions," she confirms. "It wasn't until you asked for the ring that I was certain." She hesitates. "He stayed with you all night, you know. Only left when he heard you waking up."

I don't respond. I can't. Not without bursting into full-blown sobs. So instead, I let them dress me in warm pajamas and layer more blankets on me, and I drift off again.

I can tell by the light it's late afternoon when I come round again. There's a glass of water on my bedside table and I gulp it down thirstily. My head feels a lot better, but the nausea is still prominent. I rise and dress myself in soft, stretchy trousers and a warm sweater. I pause at the top of the stairs, feeling slightly embarrassed about the way I've handled the news of the Quarter Quell. My erratic flight, drinking with Haymitch, weeping. And that's just the stuff I remember. There are dark spots in my memories from last night where I no doubt did much worse. I'm hit with a wave of guilt at when I think of what Peeta has gone through in the past twenty-four hours. Being told there's a 50/50 chance of him returning to the arena, the place of living nightmares. Begging Haymitch to allow him to go back in order to protect me. Forced to take care of his blacked-out wife, who would rather drink herself into a stupor than face the reality of the Quell. In my defense, given the circumstances, I guess I deserve one day of indulgence. But that doesn't excuse my behavior.

Downstairs, my mother and Prim embrace me again, but they're not overly emotional. I know they're holding things in to make it easier on me. Looking at Prim's face, it's hard to imagine she's the same frail little girl I left behind on reaping day nine months ago. The combination of that ordeal and all that has followed—the cruelty in the district, the parade of sick and wounded that she often treats by herself now if my mother's hands are too full — these things have aged her years. She's grown quite a bit, too; we're practically the same height now, but that isn't what makes her seem so much older.