lover/fighter - Finnick Odair

Chapter 41 - The face behind the mirror

The sun rises between the skyscrapers of the Capitol and the sky swaps its gloomy appearance for warm shades of yellow and blue. Only when life returns to the streets does Rhea decide to vacate her spot in the park, but only because she prefers the solitude of her own four walls right now. Basically, she would be happy anywhere as long as there is no one there to try and talk to her, and the only place she can be sure of avoiding that is her own apartment.

The initial shock wore off sometime during the night and instead she now feels a frightening emptiness. Perhaps it is simply because her mind is currently in a state of overwhelm and simply cannot decide on a single reaction. Is there an appropriate reaction to something like this? Should one be angry, or sad, or filled with pity and regret? Aren't these feelings perhaps reserved for those who are personally affected by the loss? Would it be appropriate or presumptuous for an outsider to show the same emotional response as the real victims, even if she is not one of them?

How does one know how to behave, what to feel? There is no manual or textbook for this, and yet you usually know how to behave according to the norms. The thing is, a situation where you watch strangers slaughtering each other in an arena or being killed in some other horrible way does not fit any norms that are usually taught. On the contrary, something like this is more likely to go against all the values that are inculcated in you. So how should anyone know just what to orient themselves towards?

Rhea hasn't found an answer to this when she arrives at her apartment, but the thousand questions keep buzzing through her head and prevent her from simply dropping into bed to catch up on some much-needed sleep. It feels like a punishment, even if she hasn't figured out what sin she must have committed to deserve it.

Instead, she fills her bathtub to get rid of the dirty feeling that seems to cling to her. Normally she prefers to shower, mainly for practical reasons, but today she is struggling to stay on her feet anyway.

When she puts her first foot in, the water is a little too hot for her, but she lets herself sink in completely without hesitation. The slight tingling of her irritated skin is anything but pleasant, but it distracts her from her otherwise numb sensations.

The water has a slight pink tinge from the half box of bath salts she had poured into it. She got it as a gift at some point, although she can't remember by whom, and it would probably be another year before she would be desperate enough to take the time for a bath again. Now she realizes that it smells pungently of roses. She should have read the label on the packaging. She can't stand the smell of roses. No matter on what or on whom, but especially on herself.

With a groan, she leans back and squints her eyes. The tension won't go away, and her head lies at an uncomfortable angle on the hard edge of the bathtub. She tries to reach for a towel to make it a little more comfortable but can't reach them. But getting up now just to walk through her bathroom soaking wet to get one is definitely out of the question.

She takes a deep breath and slides her head under the water. The strange rushing sound of the water in her ears is oddly soothing. It almost feels like silence, just not so empty. A filled silence, consisting only of background noise that drowns out everything else, but somehow doesn't really count itself. Her hair floats in the water and gently tickles her neck and shoulders.

Rhea counts the seconds as she holds her breath. At 40 seconds, she slowly realizes how the urge to gasp for air quickly becomes stronger. Shortly afterwards, she gives in before her eyes go dim. After all, she definitely has no intention of drowning herself in the bathtub now.

After her breathing has calmed down again, she leans back again and lets herself slide down just far enough so that her nose and eyes are still sticking out of the water. The moment of reflection clears her thoughts a little, like fog when the sun shines on it.