Sparks Fly

Chapter 30

No. No, no, no, no, no.

"Peeta!" I cry. I shake him harder, even resort to slapping his face, but it's no use. His heart, which has always beat so steadily for me, has stopped. And as I scream his name, begging for him to come back to me, it feels like mine has, too. "Peeta!"

Each call of his name that comes out of my mouth becomes more urgent, more strangled with every shriek of my voice as it becomes thick with tears. This isn't real. This can't be happening.

Finnick props Mags against a tree and pushes me firmly, but gently out of the way. "Let me." His fingers touch points at Peeta's neck, run over the bones in his ribs and spine. Then he pinches Peeta's nostrils shut.

"No!" I yell, hurling myself at Finnick, for surely he intends to make certain that Peeta's dead, to keep any hope of life from returning to him. Finnick's hand comes up and hits me so hard, so squarely in the chest that I go flying back into a nearby tree trunk. I'm stunned for a moment, by the pain, by trying to regain my wind, as I see Finnick close off Peeta's nose again. From where I sit, I pull an arrow, whip the notch into place, and am about to let it fly when I'm stopped by the sight of Finnick kissing Peeta. And it's so bizarre, even for Finnick, that I stay my hand. No, he's not kissing him. He's got Peeta's nose blocked off but his mouth tilted open, and he's blowing air into his lungs. I can see this, I can actually see Peeta's chest rising and falling. Then Finnick unzips the top of Peeta's jumpsuit and begins to pump the spot over his heart with the heels of his hands. Now that I've gotten through my shock, I understand what he's trying to do.

Once in a blue moon, I've seen my mother try something similar, but not often. If your heart fails in District 12, it's unlikely your family could get you to my mother in time, anyway. So her usual patients are burned or wounded or ill. Or starving, of course.

But Finnick's world is different. Whatever he's doing, he's done it before – he's trying to help Peeta, not harm him. There's a very set rhythm and method, and I know I'll only get in the way if I try to get involved. I find the tip of my arrow sinking to the ground as I drop to my knees and begin to sob, watching desperately for some sign of success. As tremors and tears pass through my body, I brace one hand against the soft, spongy earth while my other hand settles on my slightly protruding belly – the only living part I have left of Peeta to hold on to.

I've been starved. Nearly killed by dehydration. By hypothermia. Traumatized by tribute wolf-mutts. Broken bones. Been burned. Stabbed. Whipped. Stung by tracker jackers. And if all of that pain were to manifest into one great agony, it would be a mere fraction of the pain that courses through my veins at the sight of my husband's lifeless body. At some point Mags crawls over to me to rest her hand comfortingly on my shoulder, but it only makes me cry harder. Every minute that passes is another knife in my heart as my hope begins to diminish. Could this be it? No, it can't be. Because a world without Peeta Mellark in it is one that I don't want to live in. The flowers wouldn't bloom. The birds wouldn't sing. Everything good in the world would cease to exist. The sun itself would stop shining, and shadowy tendrils would creep out from the darkest depths of the earth to strangle me. The nightmares that haunt my dreams would take on corporeal forms and torture me through all my days. I would walk the land, a shriveled husk of a human being. And I would deserve it. Because just like his traitorous heart when shocked by the force field, I, too, have failed him.

Too much time has passed, too many minutes have gone by since I've heard his voice, saw the rise and fall of his chest, and I'm coming to the realization that it's too late. That Peeta's dead, moved on, unreachable forever. But I hear a sharp intake of air, see Finnick move to the side, and all the color returns to my world.

I leave my weapons in the dirt as I fling myself at him. "Peeta?" I say softly. I brush the damp blond strands of hair back from his forehead, find the pulse drumming against my fingers at his neck.