"That fucker," my lungs burn as I scream through the tears, "the fucking bastard", I don't know where this anger is coming from but it doesn't seem to want to subside.
My feelings for Gale have never been the same since the revolution, partly because of blaming him in some ways for Prims death, partly because he left so soon after without even so much of as a goodbye when I needed a friend.
Peeta might have come back to me but he still wasn't mine, I needed someone who I could talk to, who didn't have bursts of wanting to kill me 20 times a day, but he was hundreds of miles away in a different district, I don't know when the pining turned to hatred, but slowly it did and now it won't break away.
It take a good 10 minutes of controlled breathing to stop my hands shaking, another 10 for my flailing arms to stop hitting the wall, Peeta knows to stay away from me when I'm like this so he goes and starts work on some bakery deliveries, before I know it I'm waking up covered in soft blankets, I must have fallen asleep.
I look at Peeta who has laid himself next to me on the floor, his bad hand resting on a pillow and his good one wrapped around my waist, his gentle breathing lulling me back to sleep, I don't know how much longer we lay for.
after a four more weeks returning to the hob is mandatory, Peeta's hand has healed and is ready for the stitches to be removed, he claims that he could go on his own but his shaking hands tell me otherwise.
It only takes two steps outside before the familiar burning feeling rises in my throat, my stomach turns and I run back in the house, vomiting into the sink, this is the first time Peeta has been in to witness it but the same thing has been going on a week now, 'it's just a stomach bug, I'm fine, c'mon we need to go", I try and reassure myself with this diagnosis, yes a stomach bug, nothing else.