WHO: Peeta Mellark and OPEN WHAT: Leaving work and having his first episode in Madison Valley WHEN: Saturday afternoon WHERE: Near Horst's Little Bakery Haus WARNINGS: TBD STATUS: Open/Ongoing!
Peeta hadn't been in this town long, but he'd already managed to find himself a job. He didn't really understand why everyone was so up-in-arms over the blood tests - it was a normal and completely typical way to do such things in Panem, and it hadn't seemed like much of a hurdle to get past. It had only been a little prick, and it had opened a huge number of doors for him in town. Like getting his job.
The baker had seemed quite pleased to find him, especially after hearing his background and experience in the field, and had hired him on the spot. He'd be working 4-12:30, with a half hour break for lunch, Monday through Friday, for $10 an hour. Peeta didn't know if that was much...he didn't really understand the money here at all, but it was money, and any income was better than none. Especially since he was legally taking care of Katniss, too, and he wasn't about to let her go without anything.
Peeta had been among the upper classes in District 12, but that hadn't really translated to anything outside of District 12. It had meant that he'd had a place to stay, clean clothes, a roof over his head, and never went hungry. It had also meant he hadn't been forced to sell himself for tesserae, like Katniss and Gale Hawthorne had. It hadn't meant that he'd had everything he could possibly want, or that he'd lived a life of plenty. There were plenty of meals he'd had nothing more than some watery soup and stale bread. Still, for District 12, eating every meal was riches indeed.
This place reminded him more of the Capitol than anything else. The way they wasted their food. The way they seemed to think that resources were unending, and that everything that existed was for their entertainment. The way they put so much emphasis on the clothes they wore, and the way they decorated themselves. A lot of the girls here were pretty, in an exotic sort of way, it was true. Their clothes and their style were strangely attractive. But they failed to stir the warm desire in him that Katniss did, with her simple style and inner beauty that had made him effectively her prisoner since he was five years old.
And she came from the Quell. She didn't remember Thirteen, didn't remember anything that had happened to him. He'd done a good job of controlling his episodes so far, but he couldn't control them forever. The doctor had told him that he'd never get rid of them entirely, although he'd come to understand when he was having one, and at least be able to keep that much grip on reality. It was something. He'd have to tell her everything eventually, and he dreaded that conversation. He didn't want to tell her all the terrible things he'd done, how he didn't even come close to deserving her anymore. He'd hurt her, and he'd never forgive himself for that. Not ever.
Grabbing a sack of day-old bread as he left work, he headed down to Jefferson Street, and the Farmer's Market that was held there on Saturday mornings. The fruits and vegetables that were there were simply amazing to him; he couldn't even identify half of them by sight. He knew apples - they'd been expensive in 12, but they'd had them - and he purchased a few, just enough to make the tart he was going to fix tonight for Katniss. He'd start the crust when he got home, and once that was done, it would be simple to put it all together.
After that, he headed down to the river, his favorite way to head back to the apartments, only to take a deep breath and gasp a bit at the giant dog being walked down the street towards him. Granted, it was on a leash, and was making no aggressive moves towards him whatsoever, but before he could stop it, his mind flashed back to the end of the 74th games, and the harmless pet before him transformed into a mutt, hellbent on ripping his flesh from his bones. He blinked, and he was there again, in the arena. His heart began to race as he felt the adrenaline kick in, and he darted across the road, in front of a car that skidded to a stop just in time to do nothing more than bump him off his feet, throwing his bag onto the ground and scatter the apples across the street.