A Dangerous Game (A Hunger Games Fan Fiction)

6. Living a Lie

6. Living a Lie

       I really didn’t fare any better the second time I fell back asleep. There was no nightmare, but there was no dream either. All I remembered was seeing nothing but black, a dreamless sleep. It was sort of a step up from a nightmare, because I never saw anything.

Sometimes it’s better to see nothing at all than something you’d never want to see.

            I was the first to rise in the morning. Peeta had his back to me, lightly snoring. He looked so peaceful. I gave a tiny smile. At least he could have good dreams compared to me, because to him, Katniss was still with him, and everything was right in his world when really, not everything in his world was right.

Of course, in reality, Katniss was in the hands of the Capitol and here I was, taking her place to protect Peeta from himself. I really wanted to play Katniss well, because Peeta seemed like too sweet a guy to get caught up in what Gale and I were currently throwing ourselves into. He had survived two Hunger Games and a battle against the Capitol; it was time Peeta deserved a long break from any dangerous situations involving lives at stake.

            I slipped off the bed and went into the kitchen. My stomach rumbled immediately. I knew for a fact I wasn’t going to wait for Peeta to make me food. That gave me an idea. Since he probably cooked for Katniss all the time, why not cook for him? I honestly didn’t consider myself a good cook, but I felt like I owed it to Peeta to take it easy today and let me do all the work.

            With that mindset, I took to the refrigerator, carefully scanning to see what I could possibly make. There were all kinds of things I could make, but I wanted to make something that sounded good and would be easy to make. A lot of stuff I knew I couldn’t make, so finding something easy to do was limited.

            I finally thought that making an omelet would be easiest, so I grabbed all I’d need: eggs (obviously), some cheese, and a few peppers and spices. The spices and whatnot would be for Peeta’s omelet, not mine.

            Since my breakfast was simpler to make, I fried that up first in a pan. The sizzling was music to my ears, the smell was intoxicating. If it weren’t for the fact that it was scorching hot and still cooking, I would have eaten the omelet right then and there. Once I thought it looked good enough, I slid it onto a plate, let it cool, and went to work on Peeta’s omelet.

            I hummed a random tune as I cooked. I was so focused and used to hearing the sizzling of the omelet that I didn’t hear Peeta come behind me. I jumped a little bit when he coiled his arms around me, resting his chin on my left shoulder.

            “You finally got up,” I sang.

            “I could smell the food from the bedroom,” he explained. “Since when do you want to try and cook? I thought it was always me that had to do that.”

            “Not today. You’ve done it for me every day, I’m in the mood to try and do the same for you every now and again.” I shrugged.

            “You really are trying your hardest to feel better, aren’t you?” he chuckled. “First showing an eagerness about painting, and now here you are cooking breakfast.”

            “Don’t forget making lunch and dinner. You’re not going to cook at all today.”

            “I think I can live with that,” he considered. “You weren’t up at five in the morning drawing again?”