Drabble Challenge

Day 5

"Sometime after Person A has tragically died, Person B sits alone and apologizes."

(I ignored the "sits alone" part)

It's unusual for me to mop, because Peeta typically takes over my stereotypical "housewife duties" and does it for me. But the darkness was especially heavy today, especially overwhelming and all-consuming, and Peeta isn't home yet to lighten it, and the floor looked dirty. So I'm mopping.

It's about a half hour, multiple chores, and one particularly stubborn stain later when Peeta walks through the door, humming a nameless tune and toting a bag of my favorite pastries. I feel the pressing weight in my chest lift just slightly, and I set down the dusty rag I'd just been using.

"What is this?" Peeta calls light-heartedly from the kitchen doorway. "My gorgeous wife, cleaning our-"

There's a cry and a loud crash, and Peeta's beautiful treats spill all over the floor. I'm moving to him in an instant, sailing through the living room into the kitchen to his form, lying motionless on the still-slippery tile.

When I see the pool of blood growing steadily beside his head, I'm suddenly about to vomit and pass out all at once. Despite my worst fears, I reach down and press my shaking fingers to that spot in his neck that my mother had told me years ago would hold a person's fluttering pulse.

Instead I find stillness.

Now shuddering violently, I lower my ear to his mouth, his nose, his chest, hoping beyond hope for some sign of life, some sign that my Peeta is well and breathing and alive.

I nearly jump out of my skin when I see his eyes are still open. Those eyes, so blue and clear and, moments ago, full of mirth and life.

I'll never get to see that again.

I glide my hands over his perfect face. His strong jaw. His full lips. His soft skin. I take my two trembling fingers, place a kiss upon them and press them to his mouth, then slide his eyelids closed with the same two digits.

An hour later I'm still rocking on the ground beside Peeta's lifeless body, the blood from the wound in his temple covering the knees of my pants and the edge of the counter where his head had caught it.

At one point I hear screaming, but I ignore it, knowing no one's pain but my own.

It's only when it doesn't stop a full minute later that I realize it's me. I accept it and wail until my throat is raw. Then I curl up beside Peeta and cry, wracking, full-body sobs, until I fall into a restless sleep.

X-X-X-X

"Mrs. Mellark? Perhaps you'd like to say a few words?"

I'm slowly drawn out of my haze and I blink to clear my head. Then I nod at the man in front of me and lift my aching body from the folding chair on the sand.

"Peeta's favorite color is- was- orange," I say once I reach the podium. "The color of the sunset. That's why we're at the beach today. I wanted him to see one last one before he had to go."

I close my eyes, trying to recall all the words I'd prepared for today. Somewhere between my brain and my mouth, the speech gets stuck and I'm left blubbering in front of all these people.

Haymitch, my neighbor and good friend, staring stonily into the sand at his feet, no glass in his hand- though I'm sure he's desperately in need of one today. But he went without it for me. For Peeta.

Johanna, my best friend since childhood, whose dark hair used to be cropped close to her scalp but now brushes her shoulders. She was never very close with Peeta; she's here today for me. Her chestnut eyes are watery as she meets mine, and she tries to give me a half-smile in reassurance. It slides off her face as quickly as it sprouted. No one is much in the mood for pleasantries today.

My mother, who is trying to stay strong for me, an arm wrapped around the shoulders of my little sister Prim, who is weeping openly. I want to shout at her because if she doesn't stop crying, soon I will start and that's no good, no good at all because then I'm admitting to myself that I'm not okay. And I've been telling myself just the opposite this whole time.

Finally my eyes land on Finnick and Annie, Peeta's and my former roommates, respectively, looking with glassy eyes at me and at the casket next to me holding Peeta's body.

Dead. He's dead.

Their four-year-old son is propped up between them, looking restless as usual, and I almost smile at his innocence and his blissful obliviousness of the mess around him.

Peeta wanted a child.

In my mind I swipe at the thought, willing it to go away, because this is all so overwhelming I can't stand it.

Before I realize it I'm at at the coffin, this gorgeous wooden box that holds him- no, not him, what used to be him, just the shell of him. I can feel the stares of all my friends and family following me, and I know without a doubt that most of them are worrying about what is going to happen next. To be honest, I am too.

Then I'm saying the words that have been slamming around in my mind since Peeta's head hit the counter and he fell to the ground, lifeless.

"Peeta, I'm sorry," I gasp. "Oh god, this is all my fault, I shouldn't have been mopping, this is all because of me, I can't- I don't-"

I whirl around, confronting the stares, a mix of confusion, dubiousness, and fear.

"I killed him!" I cry. "I killed my husband. I was mopping that day, and he came home and the floor was wet, and he fell and hit his head and oh god I've killed him."

I turn back towards the casket. "Peeta, I'm sorry, I should never have done this, I didn't- you know something? I'm an idiot. I didn't give you a baby, Peeta, I didn't give you the life you wanted, I'm so sorry. I'm a god damn fool, Peeta, Peeta..."

I'm sobbing now, cursing Prim for causing the tears even though I know they would have come no matter what.

At some point, someone- I'm pretty sure it's Johanna- grasps me by the shoulders and leads me down the shoreline, until the water kisses our feet and my cries are reduced to gasps and hiccups.

"You didn't do it, you know," she says eventually, her voice almost as raw as I'm sure mine is. "You didn't kill him. It wasn't your fault. If he was meant to go that day, he could have gone in any number of ways."

"But if I wouldn't have mopped that damn floor, he-"

"You have to stop blaming yourself, Katniss!" she says sharply. Then she softens. "You have to stop telling yourself you're responsible for these things. Shit happens, and it sucks ass, but that's just the way it goes, okay? You couldn't have helped it.

"I've been your best friend for years, Katniss, and I've lost count of how many times you've lost sleep over things you couldn't change, things that were just meant to be. This can't be one of those instances. I won't let you cave in on yourself this time."

I look up at her with puffy, red-rimmed eyes and swipe at my face, smearing tears and mascara onto my cheeks.

"Thanks, Jo."

She smiles lightly at me before tucking an arm around my waist, leading me for hours along the water.

That night, and for the rest of my life, my friends and family are by my side, watching over me, keeping me company on the loneliest days and maintaining the closest safe distance on the fiercest days.

I look forward to the day I can see Peeta in person again.