Always: A Hunger Games Fanfiction

Chapter 141

Katniss

I jolt awake at the sound of the front door to my house opening and closing. At first, my mind races through the thoughts of all of the things that could be happening. Someone could be here to kill us or take us. Someone could try to hurt Willow. They could be breaking in. Something awful might have happened and someone was sent to tell us about it. 

I take a deep breath and shut my eyes. I'm being paranoid. It's just my mother coming to say goodbye before she leaves for District 1. I'll be honest, I'm worried that she's leaving. Not only am I worried that something will happen and no one will be here to take care of Willow, but I'm scared that if she leaves now, I'll never see her again. She's almost 60, which isn't necessarily old. She's healthy and happy. I know I'm being irrational, but after all that has happened I just can't help it. Every time Peeta walks out the door of our house to go to work, a part of me worries he isn't coming back. I guess two Hunger Games and a war does that to a person. 

I kiss Peeta's cheek when he begins to stir. He rubs his eyes and turns to look at me. Just as he's about to speak, the silence that surrounds us is shattered with a piercing scream. A scream that could have only come from my mother. I push myself up and jump out of bed. "Mom?" I call, tears brimming my eyelids. Peeta pushes the door open and bounds down the stairway. About halfway down, he stops dead in his tracks. 

"Oh god. . ." he whispers turning to face me. I shake my head and furrow my brows. I peer over his shoulder to see my mother standing on the opposite side of the room with her hands folded over her mouth. 

"Peeta? What-" I push my way past him and immediately wish I hadn't. It's as if someone has sucked the air out of my lungs. I feel as though some sort of weight has dropped in my stomach. My mouth opens, as if I'm preparing to scream but I can't. Buttercup lies at the bottom of the stairs. Even from here I know he's not breathing. He's dead. The stupid old cat is dead. He's gone. The last thing that I had left of Prim is gone. 

A strangled cry escapes my lips as I turn away from him. Peeta pulls me into a tight embrace and I feel my knees begin to buckle. It's as if the room has started to spin. I hug Peeta's neck and rest my chin on his shoulder, trying desperately to rid my mind of the image of Buttercup lying several feet from me. After the first tear falls, the rest come in a steady stream of pain. I clench my fists and try to catch my breath. It feels like my lungs are on fire. I briefly wonder if this is what suffocation feels like. 

I choke back a sob and close my eyes tightly, attempting to control my breathing. I feel as though I'm at war with my own body. I desperately want to calm down. I don't want to cry. I don't want to hurt. I can't go through this again, but it feels as though I'm losing Prim all over again. She loved that cat so much. Loved him enough to risk her life to save him. It's as if all of the memories of Prim and Buttercup that I've stored in my head all of these years come flooding back in a massive wave. I am overcome with grief yet again. 

"Come on, Katniss. We should go back upstairs, yeah?" Peeta whispers, rubbing circles on my back. I nod my head weakly and clutch his arm as he leads me back up to our bedroom. I don't know what makes me do it, but I glance back over my shoulder. I have to see him one last time. In the seconds that I have to look at him, I try my best to memorize him; his mashed in nose, the muddy yellow color of his fur, his crooked ears. And then I'm gently pulled into my room again. 

I practically collapse onto the bed and pull my knees up to my chest. Peeta wraps a soft white blanket around me and pushes the hair away from my face. He brushes away a tear on my cheek with his thumb and kisses the top of my head. "I'll be right back," he whispers. After he leaves, all I hear is the sound of my own blood pounding in my ears. I press my face into my pillow and let out a sob. I picture Prim and how devastated she would have been if she were still here. I remember the day Prim brought him home and cried until our mother let her keep him as a pet. I can still see the hatred in his squash-colored eyes he looked at me with when I tried to drown him. And most of all, I can still hear the sound of him purring. After Prim died, he would find his way into my room and weasel his way into my arms and he purred whenever I held him.