An Everlark One-Shots Collection

~4~

Painful lines run across my knuckles like a spider's web, bright red and ugly from the constant hot soapy water I scrub them with. Since I've been back home from the Capitol, all I can force myself to do is scrub my hands - my whole body, really - until there's almost nothing left. But the feeling of dried blood and black dirt beneath my fingernails is always there. The sensation of being covered in crimson stains that don't belong to me never leave. I don't think it ever will. All I can do is scour every inch of my skin with boiling water and old soap until my muscles ache too much to continue. 

Steam rises from the sink in my kitchen, filled with soap that swirls like stars. I gaze out the window above it - at nothing in particular. Peeta's house is right next door. He has a window in his kitchen too, a twin to mine, and I just make out the gloomy shadows of chairs and a table that I'm sure have been untouched since he got home. What's the point of having a table and chairs if you have no one else to sit with? 

A painful clattering jerks me from my muddy daze and I can't help but scan my surroundings to find the source of the noise. A shadow - Peeta's shadow - quickly passes the kitchen window, slightly ajar. I know it must have come from him. A part of me, an old part of me I can't force away, worries for him. No matter how hard I try, I think that part of me will always care about him. We've been through too much together to forget. 

I slowly turn the dial of the trickling sink, listening carefully for any more sounds of alarm. Nothing comes. I almost make myself forget about it. He's probably alright. But I lose control of the part of me that can't help but want to protect him. 

I drain the remainder of the soap and water from the sink and timidly falter out my front door and down the stone steps before my house. The air outside is brisk and warm toned leaves crunch beneath the tall leather boots that pinch my toes. Peeta's house is identical to mine. Both of our yards have become overgrown and dull. If I didn't know better, I would think that no one lives here. I'm not quite sure why we came back to these houses. Maybe it was because there was nothing else left. Maybe because neither of us have ever known anything else. I wonder what it would be like to start over - somewhere far off where no one knows who I am or what I've done. Maybe I'd be able to really live again. Maybe I wouldn't. The burdens I carry might be too strong for even that. 

I hesitate before knocking on Peeta's door. I hate that I falter. I hate that I've lost the sense of comfort I once felt with him. I never used to hesitate with him. He was the only constant that I had, other than maybe my sister. But even she couldn't fully understand what I was going through. Only Peeta could do that. And now I've lost him too. 

The boy who opens the door in front of me is somehow not that constant. He is like a shadow of the Peeta I once knew - the one I once loved. The first thing I notice are his eyes. They seem much more gray than blue and they've lost their sparkle of kindness. It was the one thing I thought Peeta could never lose. 

"Hello," I say, a ghost of a whisper. He looks at me like I'm a stranger. It makes my entire body ache with grief. It's like I've lost him all over again. 

In an instant, I notice his hand. There's a thin line across his palm, dripping with deep red blood. "Peeta, your hand," I say, instinctively reaching out for him. He recoils from me and it's like my heart cracks inside my chest. I've lost him. I know that. But it doesn't hurt any less. I wish that I could forget him. I wish I could rid myself of this overwhelming grief that courses through my bones. But I'm not sure I ever truly will. He'll always be there. The boy with the bread, my first kiss, my first real love. The boy who is unreachable. 

"Why are you here?" he asks.

"I just. . ." I trail off, avoiding his eyes that I know are trained on me. I don't really know why I'm here. I should leave, but for some reason I can't make myself turn around and retreat back into isolation. I can't. "I need to look at your hand. You might need stitches."