there's one thing about games,
once you're a player, there's no
way out. you're trapped.
-
in which the youngest victor in history comes back to compete in the quarter quell, coming out of a decades worth of hiding.
(I recommend listening to Places We Won't Walk by Bruno Major when reading this.)
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I COULDN'T SLEEP.
The image of that sword going right into Alexie's stomach was invading my mind. The blood slowly pouring out from the wound the sword was still in. His bright, beautiful crystal clear blue eyes staring at me and slowly becoming darker and losing life and color was replaying in my head like a song on repeat. The smell of death and blood was invading my mind.
My palms were sweating and it felt as if the world were crushing down on me as I sat on the burgundy colored sheets. No amount of beautiful bed sheets or delicious feasts could destroy the inevitability of the games.
I had been reliving Alexie's death in a loop in my brain since the interview... Seeing the capitol gathered all together, Cesar's face, the victors, all of the victors' words... It finally hit me that I was about to go in that arena.
The thought of waking up the next morning and having to put on that terrible bodysuit made me sick to my stomach. I couldn't handle the thought of it. And after Katniss and Peeta's lie about their pregnancy at the interviews, a part of me had hope that the capitol would believe it. They believed everything... I would know. But the games were still on.
I was on top of the sheets with the fan as fast as it could go and yet heat still overtook my body. A part of me was avoiding sleep. Anytime in the past few weeks of training and preparation that I got the privilege of sleep, I woke up screaming. I always thought about Alexie, but his death was something I'd managed to shove to the back of my mind until now.
I hadn't woken up screaming after nightmares in years, or bit my nails out of nervousness. I hadn't gotten anxiety or panic attacks since I hid away at Riff's. The past was rewriting itself.
"I can't do it," I shot up from the bed and stood violently. I couldn't handle the idea of having to go to the arena the next day. I knew everyone hated me there, and the capitol and game makers were not rooting for me. I was accepting the unwelcoming embrace of death.
I stared into the mirror that took up my entire wall on one side and kicked it aggressively. I hated the extravagant decoration in the stupid living quarters... I hated that they treated us like puppets in their games.
I kicked the mirror once more, and them again. I kicked harder with every thud I gave it, until it shattered. The bottom left corner of the mirror had a terrible shatter, but I was too panicked to care. So, I kicked the nightstand instead. Then I went to the TV in the front of the room and gave it the hardest punch I ever punched before... I thought of Finnick's analogy.
