Generally, baking brought him comfort, solace even on the nights where he thought he might lose his mind. Nights when dreams would devour his thoughts, nightmares poisoning any chance of happiness he had. The games had truly damaged Peeta Mellark, and not just physically. Perhaps he hid it well, since no one seemed to notice. It was never him who got everyone's attention anyways. It didn't matter to him though, he still had baking.
Well, he DID have it on most days, but today the tremors that refused to leave his fingers caused his frosting to be sloppy. Peeta's eyebrows came together in frustration, a puff of air leaving his mouth in a sigh as he looked hopelessly out of the shop window. I have spent my entire life here, and here I am again. But I am not the same. He was pulled from his thoughts rather quickly by an agry sigh coming from a body he was used to hearing it from. Mother.
The woman always seemed to be angry, always miserable with the life she had been granted. She got ESPECIALLY angry when he messed something up, and he could sense her anger rising as she looked at the shaky lines of his frosting. The flowers he did were subpar at best, and he began to retreat back from her, only a few steps but enough to escape her hand if it decided to take a swing at him. Peeta watched as her electric eyes studied the cake, and then her voice sounded. Words spewed from her mouth and he attempted to defend himself. "I know.. I just... My hands... Mother.... I'm sorry... It wasn't-" He's cut off by her hand making contact with the skin of his left cheek. It stings so bad that he is silenced, his eyes looking towards the floor. Can I not fail her? Can I EVER make her happy? Will she ever L O V E me?
The shop door to the bakery opens, and he knows this due to the tinkle of a familiar bell, but he doesn't bother to look up. He's ashamed. Ashamed for not being strong enough, for not being able to do things right. He's ashamed he's not good enough and that no one, not ONE person needs him.
