Chapter Text
I don’t feel it at first.
Just the sound—the sickening crack of bone beneath wood—and then the silence after. Like the air’s been sucked out of the room. Like the world’s holding its breath.
I lift my hand slowly. Staring at it. Trembling.
It doesn’t look right. Not anymore. Two of my fingers are already starting to swell, the joints puffing up like they’re being filled from the inside. My pinky hangs crooked, bent at an angle it shouldn’t bend.
They’re broken.
My fingers are broken.
And somehow, that matters more than anything else. Not the bruises. Not the blood. Not the way I can’t stop shaking.
I look up at her.
Not because I expect an apology. I stopped expecting that a long time ago. But something in me—some broken instinct—still hopes for a flicker of guilt. Of recognition. Like maybe now, after this, she’ll realize she’s gone too far.
But there’s nothing.
No shock. No regret. Not even a flicker of hesitation. Just her, standing over me, chest rising and falling, eyes flat and hard. Like she’s already decided this is my fault. Like she’s waiting for me to cry again so she can roll her eyes and call it dramatics. So she can tell me I’m making her the villain, as if she didn’t just become one.
Her grip on the rolling pin loosens slightly. Not in apology. Just because she’s done with it.
She sees me cradling my hand. Sees the way I’m holding it close, my shoulders curled inward like a barrier. And still—nothing. No softening. No panic.
She’s not sorry.
She doesn’t care that my fingers are swelling, that one’s already turning purple. That I’ll need a doctor. That I’ll need help.
She steps closer, slow and unhurried, the rolling pin still dangling from her hand like an afterthought. Her expression hasn’t changed. No remorse. Just cool, steady eyes that drink in the sight of me—shaking, cradling my hand to my chest, barely holding myself upright.
Then she leans down, close enough that I can feel her breath against my cheek. Her voice comes low and even, with that practiced calm that’s always been more dangerous than yelling. “This was your last warning,” she says. “The final test.”
I don’t speak. I can’t. I just hold my broken hand tighter, fingers curling instinctively around the pain, trying to shield it from the air. From her. From everything.
“You don’t tell Rye,” she continues. “You don’t tell Peeta. You don’t tell anyone.”
Her tone drops further, soft enough that it could almost be mistaken for concern—if the words weren’t so sharp.
“Because if you do—if you even think about saying a word—I’ll make sure you never use that hand again.”
She straightens slowly, letting that threat hang in the air between us. There’s no need to raise her voice. No need to say it twice. The promise is clear.
And I believe her.
Because she’s never broken a bone before. Not until now. She’s always known better. Bruises fade. Cuts can be hidden. Even a busted lip can be brushed off as clumsy. But broken bones mean questions. They mean doctors. Splints and casts and things you can’t explain away.
I think that’s the only rule she’s ever followed. Never leave a mark she can’t lie about. And if she’s willing to cross that line once, I know she’ll do it again. Especially if I give her a reason.
She turns without another word, heels hitting the floor sharp and final as she storms into the office and slams the door behind her. The sound echoes through the kitchen like a thunderclap.
But I don’t move.
I stay exactly where I am—shoulders curled in, breath shaky, my broken hand cradled tight against my chest. The rolling pin is gone. She’s gone. The room is quiet now.
But I don’t trust it.
Because I don’t know if this is really over. I don’t know if I’m allowed to leave. If stepping away now would be one more mistake—one more reason for her to come back out and finish what she started. One more test I’m supposed to pass without being told.
So I stand there, locked in place, my whole body trembling. Waiting. Listening. Trying to figure out if I’m supposed to go or stay. Wondering if she’s watching through the crack in the door, waiting to see what I do next.
My fingers throb. I don’t even try to move them. I already know. They’re broken. Swollen. Useless.
But it’s not the pain keeping me still.
It’s the fear.
I don’t know how long I stand there—just that the room stays quiet, and the pain in my hand keeps getting louder. But eventually, something cuts through the fog.
Rye.
He’s coming back. He has to. He wouldn’t stay away too long—not with how things were. He probably thinks we just needed a few minutes. A calm talk. Time to settle whatever this was supposed to be.
Because that’s what I told him.
That I needed to talk to her. But it wasn’t a conversation. It never is with her.
And now every part of me is wishing I’d stayed behind him in that hallway. That I let him stand in front of me. Shield me. That I stayed right by his side for the rest of my life.
I should’ve known better. I should’ve known I couldn’t talk her down. That she doesn’t bend. She breaks things. And now she’s broken something in me—something I’m not sure I’ll get back.
But it’s done.
I blink slowly, still trembling, and peel myself away from the counter. My legs are unsteady, but they hold.
I need to move. I need to get upstairs before Rye walks through that door and sees me like this. I need to collect myself—catch my breath just long enough to think of a way to hide this. Because if he sees my hand, if he sees my face, if he hears even a sliver of the truth—Everything changes.
I make it to my room and finally let myself breathe. Just for a second. But when I glance down, my breath catches again. I’m still wearing Peeta’s pyjamas—the ones he gave me. The collar is stained now, dark and rust-colored, a splatter of blood from my lip dried into the fabric. My stomach twists.
She ruined them. I’ll never be able to wear them again. Not without being dragged straight back to this day. Maybe that was intentional too. I wouldn’t put it past her. She could’ve told me to change. Could’ve snapped that she didn’t want me wearing anything Peeta gave me in this house. But she didn’t. She let me keep them on. She wanted this.
I cross the room and open the closet, pulling out the bottom drawer—where I’ve stashed the few things I’ve kept of Peeta’s. Stray pieces I held onto after sleepovers. A shirt here, a pair of pants there. I dig until I find them: cotton sweatpants that will be too long, and a soft long-sleeved shirt that still smells faintly like him. I always save these for the worst nights. It’s not even dark yet. But I already know—this one will be worse than all of them.
I carry the clothes to the bathroom with one hand, the other cradled against my chest, already too swollen to use. The fabric drags behind me, but I don’t bother trying to fix it. When I reach the bathroom, I close the door quietly and drop the clothes onto the floor. Then I look up.
The mirror doesn’t soften anything.
My hair’s a mess—frizzy, half-escaped from the braid Peeta tied in it yesterday. You wouldn’t even know he touched it. My cheek is already swollen, purpling fast, the kind of bruise that’ll take days to fade. And there’s a crusted line of blood down my chin from my lip, dried and dark. I look like I lost a fight.
And I guess I did.
I fumble with the buttons on the pajama shirt, struggling to undo them with just my right hand. The other hovers uselessly beside it, like it remembers it’s supposed to help but can’t. Every time I brush against the fabric wrong, a bolt of pain shoots through my fingers. But I keep going. One button at a time.
When I finally get the last one undone, I let the shirt fall to the floor. It lands in a crumpled heap next to the clean clothes. And that’s when I see it.
A bruise already forming under my ribs—deep, red-purple, spreading slow and ugly across my side. I twist, carefully, and catch sight of my back in the mirror. The mess she made of it. The splotchy bruises along my spine. The angry red welt stretching across my shoulder blades.
And suddenly I can’t breathe. Not from the pain—but from the shame. From the quiet, unbearable truth that no matter how careful I was… none of it mattered. That it was never about me failing. She just wanted me broken.
I turn on the tap and let the cold water run over my right hand. Carefully, I lift that hand to my face, letting the water trickle down my cheek. I don’t try to wash away the blood—not really. The cold is for something else—a small relief, a sharp, numb reminder that I’m still here. I close my eyes and press my wet fingers against the bruise, willing the cold to chase away the ache, even if only for a moment.
I pull off the pajama pants, fingers clumsy and slow, and awkwardly try to step into Peeta’s sweatpants. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to do this with one hand. The fabric bunches, catches on my foot, and I nearly trip trying to keep my balance. But I manage—finally—get them up to my hips. And then I remember the drawstring.
They won’t stay up without it.
I try to tie it, fumbling with the ends, trying to hold one string still while looping the other. It doesn’t work. The knot slips, the waistband loosens, and the pants fall right back down to my ankles.
For a second, I almost break. My breath hitches, the sting behind my eyes sharp and fast—but I don’t let it happen. I won’t give her that. Not even now.
Instead, I bend down and grab the shirt from the floor. I scrunch up the left sleeve in my hand, shortening the opening so it’s easier to slide my arm through. It reminds me of when Peeta used to help me get into those itchy wool tights when I was little—how he’d bunch them up, guide my feet in gently, say something dumb to make me laugh when I wanted to complain.
I ease my right arm through the sleeve first, then lift my left—slowly, carefully—trying to guide it through without thinking too much. Even the lightest brush of fabric against my fingers makes me wince. It’s not a sharp pain—it’s deeper, dull and swollen and wrong. I grit my teeth and keep going, shifting the sleeve until the fabric covers the damage.
I don’t bother trying with the pants again. It’s not worth it. I’ll just stay in the shirt and my underwear. It hangs low enough anyway, past the tops of my thighs, and I’m too tired to care about anything else.
I glance back at the mirror and catch sight of the bruise on my cheek, already dark and swelling fast. It makes my stomach twist. I can’t let Rye see this—not like this. So I decide to try to cover it up.
I crouch in front of the sink, open the drawer with my good hand, and start digging around. My fingers fumble through combs, old floss containers, random pieces of junk until they finally close around the small compact case. I pull it out, flip open the lid, and set it down on the counter.
Then I go back in for the sponge. It takes a second longer than it should, but I find it, tucked in the back, stiff at the corners.
I glance down at the makeup pan. There’s barely anything left—just thin, cracked traces of beige clinging to the top of the silver base. I drag the sponge over the surface, collecting what I can, and lift it to my face.
The second it touches my cheek, I regret it. The pressure isn’t even firm—it’s barely a tap—but the pain shoots through me like a live wire, sudden and hot. I flinch back, biting down a sound that nearly escapes, and pull the sponge away.
There’s a faint smear of color on my cheek, but it doesn’t hide anything. It doesn’t help. If anything, it draws more attention to the swelling. Makes it look worse.
The anger breaks before I even know it’s coming.
It’s not enough.
The makeup, the sponge, the effort—it’s not enough to cover it. It never is.
Why can’t it ever be enough?
Before I can stop myself, I snatch the compact and the sponge off the counter and throw them straight into the garbage beside the sink. They clatter against the metal, sharp and final.
I scoop up the pants and the ruined shirt from the floor and storm out of the bathroom, heart pounding, throat burning. I toss the clothes into the corner of my room with the rest of the dirty laundry, like getting them out of sight might make me forget what happened in them.
But then—my eyes land on the guitar in the far corner of the room.
It’s covered in a thin film of dust. The strap’s twisted, strings probably out of tune. I haven’t touched it in so long—not since the Games.
When Peeta came home, everything was too loud, too fast, too full of people hugging and crying and delivering Capitol gifts. There wasn’t any quiet left for music.
And then, when he moved to the Victor’s Village, I learned quickly that we’re not exactly free to say whatever we want in those houses. Peeta never really explained it. Just said it was something Haymitch told him once, drunk and paranoid. I didn’t ask more. I figured whatever reason my Grandmother had for keeping our songs secret was probably the same reason Peeta didn’t want me playing over there.
So I stopped. I forgot about it.
Until now.
I stare at the guitar. And then down at my hand. My swollen, useless, broken hand. I can’t even move my fingers, let alone stretch them around the fretboard. I’ll never play again.
She told me I wasn’t allowed to say anything. Not to Rye. Not to Peeta. And she won’t take me to a doctor—she wouldn’t spend that kind of money.
So what happens now?
I remember something Prim said once, during lunch at school—how she helped someone in the Seam who had a broken arm. How it had to be set right away or it wouldn’t heal properly. And that’s what finally shatters something in me.
What if she lets me walk around like this for the rest of my life?
What if I never get to use my hand again?
Is that why she chose the left one? So I could still write. Still knead dough. Just enough to keep going—but not enough for anything else.
I stumble toward my bed, my vision swimming. The edges of everything blur, the corners of the room tilting like I might tip right over with them. I reach the edge of the mattress and collapse face-first onto the blanket, my whole body sinking.
But the moment my ribs hit the surface, pain spikes through my side and I jerk back with a sharp gasp. I twist to roll onto my back, but that’s worse—my spine screams where the rolling pin struck, and I can feel every raw patch where the skin’s already started to bruise.
I squeeze my eyes shut, breath catching, and try my left side instead. The pillow meets the swollen skin of my cheek and I flinch again, the dull throb of the split lip and bruised bone making my stomach turn.
Finally, I shift onto my right side. It still hurts. Everything hurts. But at least nothing’s pressed directly into the mattress. At least I can breathe without sobbing.
I curl my knees up slightly, trying not to shake. My hand rests uselessly near my chest, fingers already starting to stiffen. And I stay like that—quiet, still, clinging to the only position that doesn’t make me cry out. It’s not comfortable. It’s not relief. It’s just the best I can do.
And that’s when it breaks.
Not the kind of crying I can bite back or blink away. Not the quiet kind I’ve gotten good at hiding.
This time, I sob.
It rips out of me before I can stop it—sharp, broken, too loud for the room. My shoulders shake, my chest tightens, and my breath stutters between gasps that won’t settle. I press my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound, but it doesn’t help. It only makes the ache in my cheek worse.
I cry like I haven’t let myself cry in years.
Because I did everything right. I stayed quiet. I followed the rules. I tried.
And she still broke me.
My hand throbs with every beat of my heart, and all I can see is the way she looked at me afterward—cold, steady, unbothered. Like I deserved it. Like this was the proof I’d failed.
And maybe I have.
Because I’m here, aren’t I? Curled up in my bed like a child, shaking and crying and completely alone. And no one’s coming.
I catch my breath long enough to open my eyes, the tears still wet on my cheeks. The room is dim, the edges blurry—but the phone is there. Still hanging on the wall. Still within reach.
And I want to call him.
I want to call Peeta so bad it hurts.
I want to tell him everything—that she hit me, that she didn’t stop, that it wasn’t just a slap this time but something worse. I want to say you were right. That I should’ve gone with you when I had the chance. That I should’ve run the second she raised her voice.
He told me. He told me if she ever laid a hand on me again, I had to come straight to his house. That he’d fix it. That he’d protect me. And she did. She didn’t just lay a hand on me—she destroyed me. She took my voice, my hand, my music.
I want him to hold me. I want him to wrap his arms around me and tell me it’s going to be okay. That I didn’t fail. That I’m not weak. That I’m still enough.
But I can’t.
The second I pick up that phone, she’ll hear. She’ll storm in here and make everything worse. She’ll follow through on her threat. And even if—somehow—I made it out and found Peeta, I don’t know if I could even hear him right now. Not over the noise in my own head. Not over the part of me that still believes I deserved it.