HURRICANE, finnick odair (hiatus)

xxvii. new life

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

NEW LIFE.

Rosalie Barton wasn't a key figure in the rebellion against the Capitol, in fact she was the one who lurked in the shadows. It wasn't because she didn't want to be involved, because she did, but she just simply couldn't bring herself to do anything. Most days she stares at the wall of her newly assigned bedroom, limbs weak and her eyes sore from crying.

People come by and check on her all the time, Finnick sticking his head in and making sure that she's still there and Katniss occasionally stopping by to bring her meals. She appreciates their care, but she cannot actually look at them, and sometimes she does wish they would leave her alone.

The one person who she has been able to have around more so, is Prim. There's just something about her, the innocent aura that radiates from her perhaps, that reminds her of Carter. He'd been like that when he was her age, sweet and gentle with his actions and words. It helps her clear her mind, their small conversations even managing to force a smile sometimes. There's her cat too, Buttercup, who is rather skittish but will allow Rosalie to hold him.

It helps to distract her, pull her away from the fact that her family is dead and that her only surviving relative, is currently in a coma. She still sees his tattered body every time she closes her eyes, hands slick with blood and dirt smudged into the surface of his skin. Even being in a deep sleep, he looked so terrified, so afraid.

It haunts her, taunts her.

Carter and Rosalie Barton, the only two left standing. It's a painful reminder of her past, that in order for her to live that other people have to die. Her parents and Asher, all three of them died because she didn't. If she'd died in those first games, they wouldn't have been a target to the Capitol. The four of them would be sitting in their District Four home with some old playing cards and reminiscing about the good days.

Instead it's her who is breathing, staring at a tattered old wall in the ruins of District Thirteen with blood on her hands. She may not have been the one to physically end their lives, but she may as well have shot the gun herself.

It's not just them either, images of Zachariah and Fallon swimming through her mind as well. The eyes of the boy from District One pleading, begging her to end his suffering. The slumped body of the District Two girl who had hunted her for days, who had tormented her, and yet she still cannot justify her death.

All these people, these innocent people, dead because she was too selfish to die herself.

A small cat cry causes her to look away from the peeling paint and towards the door, it opening slightly before the familiar cat slithers in. Buttercup jumps up on the bed, rubbing his head against her arm. Prim enters afterwards, holding a plate with some food on it, a particularly dry looking sandwich.

"Hey, I brought you some lunch," Prim's voice is soft, careful not to startle or upset the brunette who glances her way. "It's not the best but it's something,"

"Thank you," Rosalie croaks, her voice severely underused in the past few days.

Rosalie takes the plate from the blonde and begins to take small bites of the sandwich, some sort of jam spread in between the two pieces of bread. Despite its unappealing look, it doesn't taste too bad. Her mother used to be a big lover of jam, so she'd grown up eating it.

"I just wanted to check in and see if you were okay," Prim pats Buttercup as she speaks, not wanting to push Rosalie too far, too quickly. "They're worried about you,"

"I'm okay. Just need some more time," Rosalie responds, her tone almost lifeless.

"I think maybe you should leave the room for a while. Maybe go see Carter,"

The sound of his name causes her breath to hitch slightly, his scarred yet youthful face popping up in her mind. She hasn't been to see him since he was brought in. Her hand had clutched his tightly, the boy blinking at her slightly before falling back to sleep — he hasn't woken up since. Finnick had held her as she cried, whispering things that he didn't even were true in order to make her feel better. Then she'd fled to this, and hasn't left since.

"Is he awake?" There's almost an underlying sign of hope in her voice, but she manages to mask it pretty well.

"No, not yet," Prim responds.

"Then I don't need to see him,"

Prim looks away, biting her lip as if she's pondering something. Rosalie is well aware that the blonde is unhappy with her choice, but she also knows that she won't push her too much. It's then that the brunette notices the small bag in Prim's hands, holding something she can't quite see yet.

The younger girl opens it up and pulls out a sweater, one which Rosalie recognises almost instantly. She'd made this, knitted the wool to form something for her brother to wear. It's the one Carter had been wearing when he was brought in, his blood staining the fabric so harshly that she was sure it would never return to its previous state — and yet, here it is.

"Mum scrubbed and soaked it for a few days. She thought you might want it back," Prim states quietly, handing it over to the Victor.

A shaky breath leaves her lips as she holds it in her hands, the soft material brushing against her skin ever so lightly. Prim reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze before leaving, the cat following after her without a moment of hesitation.

Rosalie clutches the jumper to her chest and begins to sob, desperate to feel some sort of connection to her family. Images of her previous life flash before her eyes, her sitting on that stupid lounge chair and laughing as Asher continues to beat Carter at some silly card game. Her mother was in the kitchen at this time, humming a tune lightly as she made them lunch and her father would have been right there beside her.

A poorly stitched jumper, one that Carter had beamed at when he received it, is now one of the only things she has to remember those times. The seams are busting, the edges of the sleeves tattered, and yet everything thing about it is extremely comforting.

This is all she has left of her life before destruction, the only way she will be able to reminisce without having to look at the horrid state her brother is currently in.

This is it.

The door to her room opens up once again, and within moments she's wrapped up in a pair of arms. She presses closer, seeking his warmth as she cries. Finnick doesn't speak, he doesn't have to, his mere presence enough for her.

Her old life, it's gone, torn to shreds. Now as she cries in the arms of the man she loves, she has to come to terms with what this means — a new life.

A new life she would happily trade for the old one.