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appleblossomgirl0305 · 8 years

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Chapter 16 of Holiday is posted here and on AO3.

Aloha! So we've finally reached the end of this Holiday. I hope you've enjoyed reading it half as much I've enjoyed writing it. I want to express my gratitude to the @d12drabbles moderators who inspired this story with their weekly prompts and for creating a platform for new and experienced writers alike. And to @xerxia31, I owe you more than I can ever adequately express for your time, your incredible support, your excellent humor and genius assistance. And most of all for your friendship.

I've never finished a WIP before, so I'm pretty nervous about this chapter. Comments and feedback would be greatly appreciated. Seeds have been planted for an epilogue, proving that even when I finish something, I don't actually finish it. *Sigh*.

Thank you for reading and joining me on this Holiday!

After placing the cake carefully on the passenger seat, I jumped into the driver’s seat and tried to jam the key into the ignition several times before it finally slid in. I couldn’t get the damn seat belt on either and realized that I was essentially fighting against every inanimate object I came in contact with because my hands were shaking so hard. I beat my palms against the steering wheel in abject frustration before giving up and resting my forehead against it. I slumped against the wheel and let the full impact of how much I'd blown it settle around me. I had exposed the fragile soufflé of our relationship to a drafty room, the delicate bud of our love to a hard frost, the spun-sugar confection of us to enough pressure for it to crumble and slide through my fingers. Whatever cheesy metaphor you chose, I had totally fucked up.

I forced myself to take several deep breaths. Being a total wreck wasn’t going to help me right now, I needed to get a grip before I got to Katniss’ house. I took a moment to hate myself for letting the evening go so tragically downhill. For not standing up for her in the way I should have. For letting her believe for even a single second that she wasn’t perfect.

I fought back my mother’s voice telling me I was a lost cause, that I should just tuck my tail between my legs and crawl back inside before I embarrassed myself further. But whether it was a lost cause or not, Katniss deserved to be fought for. So I sat up, started my car and drove to her apartment.

I had never been in her building before. The Seam was on the border between town and the forest. The woods were privately owned by an international logging company, so not many people had reason to go there. Though over the years, I had heard snippets of Katniss and Gale’s conversations about hunting trips beyond the fence. Imagined her there, walking silently among the trees, arrow notched, but bow loose at her side. There were so many things to learn and discover about Katniss, I needed more time. Hell, I needed a lifetime.

The light on the front of the building was out and the dark street felt perilous. I hated the idea of Katniss and Prim having to feel unsafe, particularly at their own house. I grabbed the cake and double-checked that the car doors were locked. The entrance buzzer didn’t seem to work, but an older lady weighed down with plastic handle-bags pushed her way through the front door with a grunt and I grabbed it and held it open for her. She eyed me suspiciously as she passed, and asked in a voice raspy with disuse, “Cake?”

I nodded, holding it in front of me for her inspection and she nodded, apparently deciding that a guy holding a cake didn’t pose enough concern to warrant further discussion. I nudged through the door, feeling like I’d make it through the first trial of my quest. I made my way to Katniss’ ground-floor apartment, wondering if the old lady would have let me in if she knew that the only reason I had Katniss' address at all was from surreptitiously peeking at her paychecks.

I took a moment as I stood at her front door and ran my free hand through my hair, hoping it wasn’t too messy. Taking a deep breath and making a quick prayer to Clementia, the goddess of forgiveness and redemption, I knocked.

I heard footsteps approach the door and stop at the threshold, presumably to peer out the peephole. I held my breath, hoping Katniss would let me in, let me explain. My heart was in my throat as the door swung open and I was met with Prim’s blue eyes instead.

“Hi Prim, is Katniss home?” I asked, brandishing the cake in offering.

“Hi Peeta, she’s not. Would you like to come in?” She sounded apologetic and I tried not to look disappointed.

I walked in feeling like a deflated balloon. I hadn’t really stopped to consider that she might not be home.

“I’m not sure when she’ll be back. She’s at the Hawthorne’s.” My expression must have shown my devastation as visions of Gale’s hands undressing Katniss, his lips sliding over her neck or worse, him whispering soft comforts into her ear as he wrapped her in his arms, made me feel faint. “To see Hazelle,” Prim added hurriedly. “She’s kind of a second mother to us.”

I nodded, unable to trust my voice and knowing that this information was still somehow a check in the Gale column of the imaginary ledger I assumed Katniss kept. A lovely mother was not something I had to offer. It was difficult to imagine that Hazelle Hawthorne would counsel Katniss to give me another chance. The realization that I could really lose her, maybe had already lost her, slammed into me so hard I nearly staggered backwards.

Prim reached out and took the cake from my hands and placed it on the kitchen counter. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”

I cleared my throat and nodded, “Yes, thank you.”

As she prepared the tea, I took a moment to take in the apartment. Katniss’ description had not been wrong. It was shabby and small and I could detect a slight smell of damp, but it was tidy and homey. It was also a treasure trove of Katniss-related information. There was a small bookshelf populated with various field guides (mushrooms, native plants, birds), some outdated medical textbooks that I assumed were Prim’s, a couple of cookbooks as well as a number of paperbacks by Whitman, Thoreau, Cather, Dostoevsky, Atwood, and Krakauer. I wanted to touch each one, run my fingers over the dog-eared pages and broken spines, to worship any object that had captured her attention and imagination.

The formica countertop that divided the living room from the tiny, dark kitchen was a horrible pink-beige with several prominent cracks scarring the surface. I couldn’t help wondering how many times Katniss had run her fingernail along those cracks as she scarfed down some insubstantial meal standing at the counter. I peeked down the dark hallway carpeted in dingy gray carpet that I assumed must lead to the bedrooms.

Prim slid a steaming mug of mint tea across the countertop to me. “Do you take anything in your tea?” she asked.

I shook my head and thanked her before blurting out, “I’m so sorry for what my brother said tonight. He didn’t mean it like it sounded, but I can’t believe I let you both leave thinking it did. I’m so sorry.” I had meant the apology for Katniss, but owed it equally to Prim.

“I know, Peeta. And I think Katniss does too, deep down. He just said exactly what she was afraid your family would think.” She shook her head giving me a small smile. “I’m having trouble figuring out what to say. Katniss is such a private person, I don’t want to say anything that will upset her.”

I nodded, completely understanding her conundrum, but desperate for anything, any crumbs of insight or information she could offer me on what Katniss might be thinking. I blew into my cup and waited while she sorted it out.

“I don’t know how much you know about us, but Katniss is a survivor. She kept our family alive, literally, after our dad died and our mom succumbed to depression. She hasn’t given herself much room to enjoy life. I don’t think it is a betrayal to tell you that she has trouble trusting anything good.” She grinned up at me over the rim of her cup as she added, “And you, Peeta Mellark, seem too good to be true.”

I sputtered out an incredulous laugh and she shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “If I hadn’t spent years watching you stare at Katniss from afar looking utterly smitten every time, I’d be skeptical too. Did I mention that Katniss is also completely blind to the obvious?”

Despite still feeling sick with worry that I’d blown it, I found myself smiling back at Prim. She really was as sweet and lovely as Katniss said she was.

“So what can I do?” I asked, feeling like the entire world rested in Prim’s response.

She shrugged and took a tentative sip of her tea. “You give her some space. You leave her messages letting her know how you feel, but not pushing her to respond until she’s ready. You leave her that amazing-smelling cake, minus a piece for her sister.” She winked at me, then continued, “I know it sucks, but a lifetime of living with Katniss has taught me that giving her time to sort out her feelings is the only way. She processes her emotions at a glacial pace, but she usually comes to the right decision for what she needs. And I honestly think that you're what she needs, Peeta. I hope she allows herself to give things with you a chance. I think you’re just what the doctor ordered.”

I took several scalding gulps of tea to keep myself from begging Prim for the Hawthornes’ address and tracking Katniss down to plead her forgiveness and her favor. But I knew Prim was right and that I was lucky to have gotten her advice.

She picked up my empty cup and placed it in the sink before turning and adding, “I’m sure she would hate that I’m telling you this, but I’ve never seen her like this before, Peeta. I’ve caught her scrolling through pictures of you two on vacation more than once. She’s talked about your adventures and your friends and you practically nonstop, which is unprecedented.”

Relief and hope coursed through me and I offered Prim a shaky smile as I assured her, “I promise not to tell. And I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m heading back to school tomorrow. Just give Katniss a couple of days to sort through things at her own frustratingly slow pace.” She squeezed my arm, before adding, “I promise I’ll put in as many good words for you as I can. It might not seem like she listens to me, but I swear she does sometimes.”

“Are you kidding,” I asked grinning, realizing that maybe even Prim didn’t know all of Katniss’ feelings, “You’re her very favorite person in the world.”

She laughed, “It’s a pretty short list, but I’d wager that you’re near the top too.”

Impulsively, I leaned over and hugged her, feeling a thousand times better than I had an hour ago. “Have a safe trip back to school, Prim. Promise to come into the bakery next time you’re home, I owe you big.” She laughed and promised she would.

Walking back out to my car, I couldn't help wondering what my life would have been like if I’d had a sister as wonderful as Prim.

When I got home, I texted Katniss that I was desperately sorry about how our night had gone, and that I hoped she’d give me a chance to explain. And that I missed her and wanted to see her whenever and wherever she would allow. I stared at my phone, gripped tightly in my fist, willing it to light up with a response from her. It didn’t. Sighing heavily, I plugged it in to charge and closed my eyes.

Despite my exhaustion, I knew sleep would be elusive tonight. I followed my exhausted brain down into the depths of my worst fears and anxieties. All the dark, dank chasms with slimy walls and perilous pitfalls that assured me that I would never be happy, never be able to make anyone else happy, that I would always be alone. I knew these labyrinthine tunnels by heart, but there was no way out until the sun came up. So I tossed and turned until morning, extraordinarily grateful for first gray rays of morning light.

There was still no response from Katniss the following morning. After the twentieth time I had obsessively checked my phone, Rye asked, “Did you talk to her?”

I shook my head miserably.

“So it’s not over, you may still be able to fix it?” he asked.

I shot him a withering look, expecting to find his signature cocky smirk, but finding a cautiously hopeful one instead. I didn’t trust him, but I could feel myself wanting to, wishing that I could. I shrugged and he clapped me on the shoulder as he pushed past me into the walk-in.

There was still nothing from Katniss as my shift ended. The thought of hanging out in the apartment made me feel like the walls would crush me. Despite my exhaustion, I pulled on my running shoes and headed out for some fresh air. The relief once I got outside was immense and immediate. I took several deep breaths, feeling the constriction in my chest lessen as I took the first few jogging steps.

I started out on my usual route, past Katniss’ building, with equal parts hope and worry that I would run into her. I knew I couldn’t force things between us, and that she would likely attribute a chance encounter in front of her building as more stalking than fate. So instead of turning east to stay within the boundary of the town, I kept going north towards the meadow.

As my feet rhythmically slapped the pavement, I felt my muscles relax into movement and the tight knot of my thoughts untangle a bit. The burn of my lungs was demanding enough to pull my attention from the repetitive cycle of anxious thoughts. As my feet marked the transition from the taut slap of the pavement to the quiet thud of the packed earth of the park trail that snaked through the meadow on the border of the woods, the one thought that I worked so hard to suppress came bubbling up out of nowhere. Okay, not nowhere, from that deep, dark place where every insecure, self-loathing thought dwelt. And that shameful truth was this: No one had ever truly loved me. And even worse, maybe no one ever would.

I realized something I had always known but never consciously acknowledged, I had always hoped that if Katniss, the epitome of strength and beauty and self-sufficiency and defiance could love me, it would override all of the other loves I'd been denied: my mother's kindness, my father's loyalty, my brothers' kinship. It would make those missing pieces matter less. It would redeem me.

But the truth was, the lack of all of those things sucked. Their absence had stunted me, deprived me of a sense of security my entire life. But I didn't have to keep letting it. A light went on somewhere deep inside me. It was small and dim, but it illuminated a place where some of my nightmares lived and it wasn't as dark and ghoulish as I would have thought. I wasn't irredeemable and Katniss wasn't my savior. I still wanted her more than anything in this world, but even if she didn't want me, I wasn't worthless. Maybe this just wasn't our time yet, maybe I just needed to give her the space I had promised, but never really understood the need for.

And while it was true that no one had ever truly loved me, for the first time in my life I realized how fucked up that was. Everyone deserved to be loved. I deserved to be loved. I looked out over one of my favorite views, over the misty pond and woods beyond, and let that sink in. I realized that’s what it must feel like to love yourself. To be outraged on your own behalf for the unfairness of your life, to feel a blazing recognition that you deserve more.

I slowed my pace to a walk, hands on hips, breathing hard. I stood at the fence line and stared into forest beyond. As my heart rate slowed and my breathing evened out, I let my eyes blur the riot of green and imagine the Hawaiian forest speeding by Finnick’s car window. I closed my eyes and imagined the perfume of overripe earth, of tropical blossoms, of the sea. I let the memories wash over me - the silkiness of Katniss’ hair as it slid through my fingers, the throaty sound of her laughter, the exact color of her eyes with the technicolor sunset reflected in them. I pulled up the picture of her on my phone that I had taken at the airport on our last day, that incredible orchid tucked behind her ear, her eyes luminous as a small smile played on her lips. I clutched the screen to my chest letting all of those precious memories overwhelm me. I would've given anything to have any one of those days back. Her smile, her sun-kissed skin, her eyes like wisps of smoke. I wanted to fall head first into the past. But even as that hypnotic pull of the gilded past beckoned, I recognized it for the trap it was. It was time to fight for a future.

I took a deep breath and allowed the smell of pine forest and sweetgrass flood my senses. Those experiences had existed, we had shared them. And whatever came next, good or bad, they had meant something. But we were here now and as much as I wanted to give up and crawl under the covers and daydream horrific punishments for my brothers’ behavior, this wasn’t hopeless. The fat lady had yet to sing and I still had time to become the man Katniss Everdeen deserved.

Maybe it was the runner’s high and the sunshine or the infusion of hope, but I felt some of those raw, empty places inside of me fill up and heal over. I felt a foreign resilience flood through me. Certainty was its own kind of strength. I loved her. I’d be here, waiting for her when she was ready. But I would live my life the best I could until then.

I jogged home, feeling fortified and knowing what I would do when I got there. I would do the things that made me feel like my best self. I would paint. I would experiment in the bakery and take whatever I baked to the Boys and Girls Club for their after school program. I would hold on to this hopeful feeling with both hands for as long as I possibly could. Because, after all is said and done, hope is all any of us really have.

I spent the afternoon making various types of cheese buns. The one with the swirl of pesto was the most promising one. I imagined that this would be a perfect morning treat to try out on Katniss given her preference for savory breakfasts. I loaded up the truck and headed over to the Boys and Girls Club to drop off my the best batches.

Vic, Gale’s youngest brother worked there and was shooting hoops with a bunch of kids as I pulled the trays out of the truck. He broke off and grabbed a couple of the older kids to come over and help me unload.

“Hey, Peeta, it’s been awhile. What’d ya bring us?” he asked, inhaling deeply over a tray that a tall, dark-haired girl had grabbed from me.

“Hey, Vic, good to see you. I hope you guys like cheese buns.” I handed the next tray to him. Despite my initial aversion to him due to the uncanny resemblance all of the Hawthorne brothers shared, Vic had always been a good guy. And if anyone understood about not being judged by their brothers’ actions, it should be me.

“If they taste anywhere near as good as they smell, I do now!” He handed the tray over to another one of his charges before grabbing a bun and shoving it into his mouth. He let out an exaggerated, “Mmmm,” shaking his head in appreciation. My heart swelled.

I grabbed a box of day-old bread to leave for any of the families that needed it, and Vic and I walked in side by side.

He finished chewing and said, “I heard you and Katniss had a really good time in Hawaii.”

I nodded, not sure what to say. “It was an amazing trip.”

He nodded, clearing his throat, “Yeah, Prim told me.” I glanced over at him and caught the flush in his cheeks at the mention of her name. I knew that look. I knew it very well. It was surprisingly companionable to see Vic visibly smitten. Seemed I was in good company.

I bumped his arm lightly with my shoulder and said conspiratorially, “Those Everdeen sisters are something else.”

He shot me an equally sly half smile and said, “Yeah, they sure are.”

I stuck around long enough to see the kids devour the cheese buns in a delighted feeding frenzy. It felt good. There were very few things that were more satisfying than feeding a throng of ravenous teenagers. My mind flashed back to Katniss throwing her arm around Konani’s shoulder and comparing her appetite to that of a teenage boy’s. Before my mood could turn wistful, I grabbed the empty trays and headed out.

Walking back to the truck, I glanced up and saw Marvel across the street. Though we’d texted a couple of times, it was the first time I’d laid eyes on him since the night I’d helped him into his town car and accepted the tickets that would change everything. As I raised my hand to wave to him, a gorgeous dark-haired woman stepped out from behind him. I watched, my hand frozen mid-wave as he leaned over and kissed her before slapping her ass and ducking into a waiting town car.

I don’t know why I was so surprised. Glimmer had been the worst fiancee imaginable, running off with Marvel’s best man was beyond shitty. She didn’t deserve mourning or wasted regret. But I couldn’t help the indignant shock that he could have moved on so quickly, not to mention looked so carefree about having done so. I thought about how you can stand next to someone, you can share experiences with them, hold their hand through parts of their lives, letting them skim across the surface of your heart without really sinking in, and then change partners and start over. That’s how most people lived their lives.

Every relationship I had ever been in before I left for Hawaii had been like that, temporary and insubstantial. But I understood in that moment, or maybe I’d always known, that I wasn’t really built like that. I had just been booking time until Katniss noticed me. A life with Katniss was my only real option. Now that I understood how good it was possible to feel with the right person, how complete I could be with her, there was no going back. She had germinated in my heart that fateful kindergarten day and her love had grown like Maleficent’s thicket of thorns around my heart. I had tended those thorn bushes, weeding, watering, sharpening their thorns. There were no other choices now. I would have to figure out how to make this work or accept a lifetime alone.

Despite the nagging exhaustion from my bad night that made my limbs feel leaden and clumsy, I loaded a ladder on the truck and headed back over to Katniss’ building. I worked fast to change the lightbulb over the front entrance. I had a sneaking suspicion that Katniss would consider this overstepping my bounds. The old lady from last night sauntered by with her plastic bags and gave me a nod of approval. I couldn’t do anything about the streetlight, other than put in a call to the City, but I felt better knowing that I had chased away at least a little of the darkness in Katniss’ life.

The sun set on my drive home, coloring the sky a soft peachy-orange amidst the wisps of gray clouds. A pale imitation of a sunset by Hawaiian standards, it was lovely all the same. I fought the creeping anxiety that set in as the sky darkened into night.

I couldn’t bring myself to eat the leftover lasagna for dinner, so I scrambled a couple of eggs and ate them with one of the pesto cheese buns I’d made that afternoon. It was good, but I had to force myself to taste it. My incessant yawning announced that this long day was coming to an end, and despite the fact that I had kept busy enough all day stay a few steps ahead of the despair that was licking at my heels, I was dreading the moment when I would run out of road and have to be still with my thoughts. When I would have to go to bed alone.

There was still no word from Katniss at bedtime, so I sent her another text wishing her sweet dreams and begging her to call me. Despite being nearly incapacitated by fatigue, I dreaded closing my eyes. I tried to take some deep breaths, to assure myself that I was being ridiculous, that maybe tonight would be better. But I couldn’t help worrying about what was awaiting me in the depths of my subconscious.

Bolting upright, I found myself momentarily blinded by the sharp glare of the sun reflecting off of the water. I quelled the panic surging into my throat. As the world came into undulating focus, I understood that I was suspended over the water by some sort of platform. Some twenty yards away there was a metal walkway leading to a metallic sculpture where a battle was raging.

Katniss! I knew she was there, but couldn’t see her. Terror ripped through me when I took in the mayhem unfolding around me and realized I couldn’t find her. Spotting her on the walkway, I was overcome with relief that she appeared to be safe and intact. Finnick was swimming out to me and I went limp as he towed me to Katniss. She kissed me and handed me an arsenal of weapons I wasn’t sure what to do with, but that I tucked into my belt.

Once we reached the beach, I just wanted to collapse into the sand and hold Katniss until this mayhem stopped. But I knew we couldn’t, we weren’t safe, the only option being to head into the jungle. The foliage was thick and the earth beneath our feet black and spongy. Despite the tree cover, the heat was relentless and I was drenched in sweat as we climbed.

Monkeys appeared as if from nowhere, a shrieking mass of orange fur that converged on us, fangs bared, hackles raised, claws shooting out like switch blades. I hacked and slashed, trying to reach Katniss.

But she was lying on the ground, an unbreakable glass wall between us as she screamed and writhed, tormented by winged demons disguised as birds. I slid down the wall, pressed my face next to hers and prayed for it to end.

I woke up sweating and shaking, the sheets balled in my clenched fists, her name lodged in my throat. I was in agony without her. I missed her terribly, achingly. I said a prayer into the darkness that she was alright, that she’d talk to me today. I grabbed my phone off the floor beside the bed and sent her a quick text telling her so. It was all I could do right now.

Feeling completely wrung out, I forced myself out of bed. I groped my way down the hall in complete darkness. I was used to starting my day in the dark, but this was early even for baker’s hours. After a long, hot shower that made me feel at least halfway human, I dressed quickly and headed down to the bakery to get a headstart on the morning chores. I preheated the ovens, turned out the dough that had proofed overnight and began to knead it. The warmth from the ovens and the rote activity loosened my mind and muscles and I felt a little better. I loved these peaceful moments when I had the bakery to myself. Maybe someday I’d open my own bakery and do something I loved in a place that wasn’t built on a foundation of pain and bad memories.

My mind began to run with ideas about how to get myself unstuck. I needed to move out. It was so obvious, I was shocked I hadn’t realized it earlier. I would probably need to take on another night at Abernathy’s to afford it, so I added talking to Haymitch to my mental to do list. Before I knew it, I’d formulated a plan and had several sheets of cheese buns that I slid into the hot oven to bake. Maybe if I just went ahead and got my life together, then by the time Katniss was ready to talk with me I’d be ready to share it with her.

Trudging out to the dumpster in the predawn light, I almost walked right past her. She was huddled on the bench outside the bakery peering out at me from under a knit cap. She looked so adorable and so miserable, I instantly wanted to pull her into my arms.

As soon as I had convinced my sleep-deprived brain that she was not a mirage, I ran the few steps that separated us, reaching for, but not actually grasping her shoulders as I knelt in front of her, afraid of what could have brought her here at this ungodly hour of the morning. “Katniss, what are you doing out here? What’s wrong?”

I took in her messy braid snaking out from under her hat, the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes. I ran my thumbs over her cheeks and asked softly, “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

She tipped her head forward, pressing her cold nose into my neck before mumbling, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I’m sorry.” I said, meaning so many apologies at once. I waited for her to continue but she just sighed into my skin. Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I added, “And I’m so happy to see you.”

Though mostly healed, the the cut on my knee hurt as the sidewalk asphalt dug into it, so I pulled away to sit on the bench next to her. I could feel the frustration rolling off of her in waves and wasn’t sure what she needed from me. I reached for her hand and asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She let me take her hand, but didn’t look at me or say anything. I took the opportunity to say what had been eating at me since she stood up from my dining table. "Katniss, I'm so sorry about dinner. My brothers were horrible. And I was a coward and an idiot. I should have fought for you while you were there. I was so shocked, I just froze. I don't even know what to say." I hung my head, too ashamed of my failings to meet her eyes.

She shook her head dismissively, like that wasn't what she wanted to talk about, but she said absently, “I've seen your mother, her pinched face and mean words, I always figured she was the worst of it."

"Oh, she is. My brothers aren't the best, but... Let's just say we were forged by the same hammer."

"Your dad?" She looked so perplexed.

"He's an incredibly kind man. He's just never really been able to stand up to her."

"So he's never stood up for you."

"Ah, no, not really." I cleared my throat, willing my voice not to crack. No one had ever talked to me about this before. And as humiliating as it was on the one hand, the relief of Katniss caring was almost overwhelming.

"And both those big brothers who should have protected you, not only didn't, but made things worse." She wasn't asking and I was too choked up to answer. The whole sorry story of my life was laid out before her. How each of my family members had appraised me and found me wanting. Worthless.

"You've been let down by so many people." She wove her fingers with mine. "And yet, you're so kind."

I looked over at her, tears of relief gathering in my eyes, making the world shimmer. That she didn't lump me in with them, that she could see me differently, that she was holding my hand. My heart felt as if it was trying to reach her too, and would beat through my chest if necessary.

She shook her head. "I always figured you had it so easy. But really, we just had it hard in different ways."

"Makes your apartment seem like less of a big deal, right?" I tried for levity, but the tears were still blurring my vision and my voice fell flat.

"It certainly puts it in a different perspective,” she said ruefully. “I've always known your mother was awful. But even though my mother was awful in a different way, I've always had Prim. We're a unit. She's the cornerstone of my family. Having her has made everything else bearable. Worthwhile, even. It kills me to think about how alone you've been."

The lump in my throat kept me from responding, but I squeezed her hand. She continued, “I’ve had depend on myself for most of my life. I’ve had Prim, and she’s great, but that isn’t really what I mean…” She huffed out a frustrated breath, then continued, “And I figured I always would be. Alone. It’s safer that way. I’ve figured out how to keep my head above water and that was the best I could hope for. But since I’ve gotten to know you.... Well, I’ve started to hope for more. I can’t seem to help myself. I want to be with you.”

I was stunned, afraid to move and shatter the perfection of this moment. The perfection of her saying these words to me. She glanced up at me, searching my eyes, looking for all the world like she was worried about how I’d feel about this confession.

In that moment, I had never been more grateful or loved anyone more. I couldn't help myself, I pulled her into my arms. I felt like every conversation, for the rest of our lives, should happen with my arms encircling her and her head resting on my chest, so she could hear my heart as plainly as my words. She scooted up tightly against me and allowed herself to be swallowed in my embrace before pulling back slightly. She met my eyes and there was still a question in hers.

“I gotta be honest, I’m not really seeing a problem here,” I offered, sniffing a little and clearing my throat. “That’s actually kinda the best news I’ve ever heard.”

Scowling, she stared at our clasped hands. “The problem is, I can’t sleep without you. I miss your arms, your warmth, your heartbeat, your,” she huffed out a breath and gestured towards me, “You.” She looked upset as she finally met my eyes and said defeatedly, “I miss you.”

My heart felt like a sparrow caught in the rafters and I wanted to spring off this bench and break into song, but she still looked so miserable. Instead I asked, “Why is that a bad thing?” I couldn’t keep the joy exploding within me off of my face much longer, my eyes felt squinty with the effort to keep from grinning like a manic fool.

“I hate wanting things.” She scowled and my heart sang.

“You really want me?” I asked teasingly, nudging her with my nose.

“It isn’t funny, Peeta,” she murmured, her scowl deepening.

"I'm not laughing. Honest." But I couldn't keep the grin off my face. “These,” I held out my arms to her, “are yours anytime you want them.”

“You can’t promise that.” She looked so sad and uncomfortable, I was dying to gather her to me and hold her forever just to prove how possible it was. But I took a deep breath and tried to quell some of the elation that was filling my chest at the knowledge that Katniss missed me, had wanted me when I wasn’t there. At the possibility that she would want me tonight. She pushed me back a few inches and looked straight into my eyes. "What if you change your mind. What if you leave."

I barked out a laugh, I couldn't help it, it was such a preposterous proposition. "That's impossible."

She pulled away, scowling. Not understanding that I was as serious as a heart attack.

I grabbed her hand to keep her facing me. Running my fingers down the length of her braid, I whispered, "Katniss, It’s not like that for me…” How could I explain this to her? Simply seemed best. I shrugged and continued, “I'm here for as long as you'll have me."

“I’m not easy. I’m grouchy and demanding and solitary in my ways,” she warned.

“I don’t want easy.” Taking my life in my hands, because she still looked as prickly as a porcupine, I kissed her nose. “I just want you. Snarling wildebeest and all.”

She sighed, "You say that now..."

"I don't know what to say to make you believe it, but I want this. I want you. Always."

"How can you know that?" she demanded, looking upset.

"Because I know” I said, shrugging. “I've always known. I guess you're just going to have to trust me."

"I'm scared." It was almost a whisper. I tipped her head up so she'd meet my eyes.

"I'm gonna do everything I can to make you understand every day just how much I'm not leaving." It was all I could say right now, all she was ready to hear. I couldn't keep the stupid grin off my face.

"You're ridiculous, you know that right?" Her mouth was still trying to scowl, but her eyes were smiling.

"Yeah. I can't help myself around you. You're just gonna have to get used to being adored." I shrugged, it really was out of my hands. “And while you’re right, I don’t know what the future has in store exactly, what I do know is that I just want to spend every last minute of the rest of my life with you.”

Her eyes softened as she looked up at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She fell into my arms and pressed against my chest. Nothing had ever felt better than her arms wrapping around my back as I pulled her snugly to me. I buried my nose in her hair, inhaling the heavenly scent of her.

“So,” I asked, trying to keep the naked hope out of my voice, “your place or mine tonight?”

“Mine,” she mumbled into my shirt, “less brothers.”

“Good point. See I knew you were more than just a pretty face.” She pulled away to shoot me a scowl before burrowing back into my neck and inhaling deeply. “If only you were good with a bow, you’d be the whole package,” I joked.

She pushed away from me before pulling my arm back around her. “Don’t make me show you my bow skills, Mellark.”

I chuckled and kissed the top of her head. I was literally on the verge of tap dancing. And I had no idea how to tap dance.

I heard the relentless chime of the timer from inside as if it were a mile away. Finally, my mind grasped the meaning of the incessant noise and I cringed.

“What?” she asked, concern etched around her tired eyes.

“Oven timer,” I groaned, hating to move a muscle for fear I would break the magical spell that had allowed me to dream this up this reality. “The cheese buns will burn.”

Her stomach growled audibly. “Can we go in?” she asked, her eyes sleepy. “I’m cold and tired. And now I’m hungry.”

“Absolutely. That’s one of the perks of dating a baker. And since we generally fall asleep by 8:30 at night and get weirdly competitive about baked goods, you have to take advantage of whatever perks you can.” I waited to see what she would say about me casually slipping in a dating reference like it was no big deal.

She stood up and grabbed my hand, leading me back toward the alley door, “Speaking of falling asleep early, what movie do you want to watch?”

I squeezed her hand, “Whatever you want.”

As if on cue, the sun lit the sky and the first pink rays of morning light streaked across the sky, echoing off the gray clouds and gilding her in a golden glow. As she reached for the door, I stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. She glanced up at me, her eyes like silver mirrors reflecting the rosy blush of sunlight.

"Let me get that," I said, clearing my throat to cover the rasp in my voice. I reached around her, grasping the door handle in one hand and lacing my fingers through hers with the other.

"Okay." Her smile was small and a little shy, but it was mine. It was passion fruit cocktails and technicolor sunsets and Narnia all rolled into that magnificent quirk of her lips. And I was willing to work for another one every day for the rest of my life.

She stopped just before she stepped through the door, her eyes luminous as they met mine. “So we’re really gonna do this?”

“Yes,” I said, “we really are.”

~Fin~

#last-ish chapter #working on an epilogue #whew endings are hard!#Holiday

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: A Performance Overwhelms the Audience with Racism in an Attempt to Heal

Khiry Walker in 3/Fifths at 3-Legged Dog Art & Technology Center (all photos by Skye Morse-Hodgson)

I don’t think I’ve ever attended a performance in which the word “nigger” was said so often or so lustily. The “interactive carnival and cabaret” — as writer and producer James Scruggs describes it — that is 3/Fifths is an evening-length performance that makes the corrosive effects of racism relentlessly felt through a variety of storytelling vehicles, the most painful being humor.

The performance began with a relatively innocent query. A woman sitting in a chair, wearing dark glasses and holding a walking stick, essentially posing as blind (later I would see her easily negotiate her way around a semicircular stage, so I know it was a ruse), asked everyone in front of me as they entered the theater whether they were black or white. We had to choose one or the other — I saw someone try to identify as “other,” and she wasn’t allowed. After we answered, everyone was marked with either a single black line or two parallel white lines on our foreheads, and we were each given a number of “supremacy” dollars. Some people clearly identified as they chose, not as they are; I saw some black lines on very light-toned skin. Something about this felt like the insertion of a knife between the ribs: I identified myself and was thus encouraged to see the degradation that was to follow (much of which was aimed at black people, though there were some insults only self-identified whites were allowed to experience, such as the “fragility nurses” who walked around offering who knows what) as somewhat of an extension of my own decision. However, the rest of the three-hour performance didn’t leave much room for personal choice.

Matthew Brown managing the “Scene of the Crime”

The immersion in the indignity that ratcheted up throughout most of the performance began in a long hallway filled with videos projections, including embarrassingly racist cartoons and white men demonstrating how to use a wooden baton in self-defense. Then the host, a woman in a fairly obvious long blonde wig and a red gown with a Confederate flag stitched onto the back, welcomed us to “Supremacy Land” where, among other attractions, “we can see the nigger in his natural habitat: jail.” The “nigger”s flow fast and hard after that. I was so uncomfortable I started planning to leave. I had only been there for 20 minutes.

Lauren White playing the host

After the introduction, we were led into a fairground space, the “Atrocity Carnival,” where we could play various games, like “Lynching Wheel of Fortune,” “Ask a Black Man,” and “Rough Ride,” which played off the Freddie Gray story, allowing guests to shake up a toy police transport van while a corresponding electronic onscreen avatar tumbled all over and a meter recorded how much damage was being done to the character. I played “Scene of the Crime,” in which I was told by a grinning white actor that a man of color had been spotted in the neighborhood and that I could do my civic duty by reporting him as either a gang member, a drug dealer, or a sexual predator. Then, with eyes closed, I was spun around and asked to throw beanbag weights shaped like handguns onto a chalked outline of a body on the ground. My accuracy was rewarded with more “supremacy” dollars. I also played “Lynching Wheel of Fortune,” in which the operator spun a wheel partitioned into categories corresponding to decades in the 20th century or sums of money. When a decade was landed on, participants were quizzed about what would have gotten a black man lynched at that time (the right answer, no matter how ridiculous the reasons sounded, was always “D: All of the above”).

David Roberts and William Delaney as prison workers in “Supremacy Land”

Later on, the cabaret portion took place in another section of the theater, to which we were led by a black woman in bright stage makeup walking on stilts beneath a wash of colorful fabric. She sang and chanted songs that seemed African and tribal. This interlude started out well, but quickly went south. There was a “welcome” home, pitting the white actors, who were singing a patriotic song, against the black actors, who sang their own songs and engaged in a kind of rhythmic, flowing dance that was likely West African–inspired. It all became cacophony.

Then there was a section that seemed to go on forever, in which two black men wearing blackface (blacker face?) the color of shoe polish acted out stereotypes of black people in a movie theater: loudly declaiming their business while varied clips played on the back of the proscenium. They received phone calls, conducted loud arguments, yelled their critiques of the movies — it came close to being unbearable. Finally the section closed with a kind of dystopian drama in which all the black actors played prisoners/employees in a scheme combining the spectacles of West World, Black Mirror, and Oz. This section did end on an upbeat note: Following a crisis, the characters asserted their recognition of their humanity and decided to fight back.

L-R: Ken Straus and William Delaney as the General and a prison worker in “Supremacy Land”

However, for me, the crux of the show occurred earlier, during the carnival section. At one point, a black man in a motley outfit of striped trousers, beige tailcoat, and black top hat, who, like the other actors, had a ruthless grin plastered on his face, walked into the center ring, climbed onto a dais, and began to tell terrible racist jokes — most of which featured the word “nigger” as the punchline. What do you call a black man with an education? Nigger. What’s a black man once he leaves the room? Nigger. Then a seemingly nervous white man posing as an audience member requested and was given the barker’s microphone, and he proceeded to start telling his own racist jokes. How do you keep niggers from going out? Add more gasoline. What do you do if you find a nigger sunk in cement up to his neck? Get more cement. Eventually the barker took back the microphone, and the black man finally switched tracks to tell a joke in which a white man is the butt of it. On hearing yet another “nigger” joke in reply, the barker began to get angry and moved toward the white man, who had by then fully embraced his racism and was exulting in being able to display it publicly. Another actor stepped in to defuse things.

Natalie Chapman as the attendant of the “Lynching Wheel of Fortune”

This scene was the most crucial for me because it got directly at what 3/Fifths (a reference to the Three-Fifths Compromise that effectively enshrined the dehumanization of black people in the Constitution) is doing. Those jokes felt like a bloodletting, like a bevy of long knives inserted into every audience member. It’s as if the body politic today is so sick from collective disease that remains hidden under the patina of polite conversation, unethical legal compromises, historical amnesia, and obscurantist rhetoric, that the word “nigger” is the only thing strong and sharp enough to pierce the swollen skin and let the pus flow out. The patient (the nation) is so ill that the show’s creators believe they must resort to the most barbaric form of intervention: bleeding the patient. In a way, it worked: I felt cut every time the word “nigger” was deployed with strategic glee.

But I wonder — to bring the metaphor to its conclusion — whether the patient is too far gone to save.

Perhaps because I have been watching American Crime Story: The People v. O.J. Simpson, the moment when the barker approached the white man to do him harm felt like the lead-up to a riot. It seems like uprisings and riots are another way to bleed the patient. To be violent, verbally or physically, is to take a slash-and-burn approach to waking up our collective consciousness, which makes for a difficult performance to participate in. The ambitions of 3/Fifths are worthwhile, but leaving the theater, I didn’t feel cured. Would anyone be? After we’ve been cut to pieces by all that vileness served with a smile, what are the chances of recovery?

3/Fifths continues at 3-Legged Dog Art and Technology Center (80 Greenwich Street, Financial District) through May 28.

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