Chapter Text
She was humming to herself softly, letting the old tune Finnick had taught her sing in the air. It was late, bordering a time where it was not acceptable to admit she was just only starting dinner. But it was better than not eating right? She hadn't eaten in three days.
Finnick was gone. In the Capitol. He'd be back in two days.
He'd be back.
So she was eating. Because she knew if he saw her looking a little bit too thin, he'd be hurt. And she didn't want to be the one to make his already harsh cuts, deeper.
Annie pulled the knife out from the wooden drawer and placed it next to the onion waiting for her on the cutting board. She didn't like cutting onions, they clouded her vision with tears. She always called Finnick to cut them for her.
But Finnick isn't here.
She held the handle of the knife securely in her hands, grabbing the fresh onion from the farmers market with her other. Carefully, she began to dice it, stopping once in a while to wipe her tears and allowing the burning sensation that swarmed her body to pass. The fresh fillet of salmon was cooking in a salty slab of butter behind her and she was about to do one final mince to make her onion chunks smaller. Nobody wants big onions in their salmon gravy. That's just too much.
She didn't notice the pain first. It was like a dull ache - seeping through her skin slowly and then seeping out of her skin slowly. Her eyes focused after being clouded by her burning tears and she felt her eyebrows narrow at the sight of red staining the cutting board and her onions.
Red?
Red...?
Red.
Her hands began to tremble as she stared at the cut that ran all the way down from her fingernail to the knuckle of her index finger. She backed away from the counter, gripping onto the knife because she might need it. Someone is going to come get her. Kill her.
(Dizzying sparkles began to swarm her vision, circling around her mind even with her eyes closed as they start to morph together and form big trees and huge, berry bushes. She's shaking, she knows she's shaking. Her eyes are shut but all she can see is her arena. The large forest like expanse that went on for miles. The gloomy sky and the huge oak trees that went farther than the eye could see. The damp forest floor covered in moist tress branches.)
No.
No.
No.
She's home in District 4, right? She can't be there. The smell of burning salmon bristles against her nose and she decides to latch onto that. She can smell the lime salt that she used to season the fillet - it was Finnick's favorite.
Finnick.
Where is Finnick? He is dead, right? He isn't here. He's probably in the arena with her. The arena.
Her eyes squeeze together tighter.
(The sound of branches being stomped and crushed on follows her. It rings in her ears. She's being followed, hunted down. It's because she's back in the games. Laughter rings in the air. Malicious laughter that only a cocky teenage boy could muster up. Her lungs are burning and the sensation sets her body on fire.
The laughter is too loud.
The branches snapping scares her.
There's blood running down her face. It's warm and sticky and it's her blood.)
She had brought her hands to cover her ears, trying to block the sounds of the arena and keep them in her past. Her hand still clutching the knife is cupping her ear and cheek. The knife is digging into the side of her face. Her eyes squeak open and she can see the silver glint of the blade from the corner of her eye. In a panic, she drops the knife, allowing the sharp blade to smoothly glide down the rest of her cheek and fall to the ground in a path that so happens to have her leg in it. The blade slides over the side of her calf and runs down until it hits her ankle before it clatters to the ground.
She's too shocked to move. Her whole body is warm and sticky and the right side of her body is covered in her blood. She feels dizzy - the kitchen around her is rotating. She looks farther out and sees the living room couch floating in the air.
She feels like a leaking time bomb. She's about to explode and all of her memories will just seep into the air and contaminate the world. So she grits her teeth and swallows the explosive scream that threatens to rip away from her body.
She's walking slowly out of the kitchen. She's aware there's blood dripping from her leg every time she takes a tentative step towards the downstairs bathroom. She's inching herself towards the dark hallway and she's so close to the light switch. Her right hand is pressed to the long cut on her cheek and the slow trickle of blood that slips through her fingers is sickening.
There's a knock on the front door that's directly behind her, just a few yards away. Her body stiffens, her back straightens and she feels a cold shiver run down her spine. As she goes to turn around, her eyes latch onto the grandfather clock at the corner of the living room.
11:50.
Her hand is clutching the wall that makes up the arch of the hallway. Her knuckles are sure to be white, she can feel the stress in her joints as the door knob rattles. She holds her breath and lets it burn her lungs as she waits for the door to open. Whoever it is is making it an agonizing process. If they want to kill her, they should just do it. She's already half dead. The blood leaking out of her and dripping to the floor is too much.
The door creaks open and she sees a shadow in the moonlight.
"Annie?"
Tall, toned and muscular build.
As he steps into the light, her eyes squint to focus on him. Bronze curls and wide eyes that scan her over. His mouth opens slowly and she sees a slight tremor overtaking his body. He steps closer slowly, but she moves back farther into the hallway. She doesn't bother switching on the lights. She wants to disappear from him anyways.
He stops when he sees her back away from him, his body frozen over in an "abouto-to-walk" stance.
Good, she thinks to herself. Stay away, Finnick. I'll only hurt you.