𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 ᐅ 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙞𝙧

𝙁𝙄𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙀𝙉

⌌⊱⇱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊰⌍
That makes you
a hero
⌎⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⇲⊰⌏

Thoughts were cruel things; so relentless in their grasping a person could barely register where they were, or even who they were with. The world was blurred. Loading. Refusing to phase back into sight.

If there was someone holding my hand, I could not tell — the soft pressure of fingers interlocking with my own was overshadowed by the burning gash running down the side of my neck, and I wouldn't, couldn't bring myself to leave the swarm of nightmares to see who it was trying to bring me back into full consciousness. The dark recedes of my mind were all-consuming.

I'd ruined everything. Completely endangered Finnick... What sort of hell would he be exposed to now? Was that even worth it? Saving someone's life only to condemn another to a fate only escapable by death? Was it worse to die or to live a life in pain?

My chest heaved. Was I even breathing?

I was certainly moving somewhere. 

It took a while for me to calm down. I had no guesses for the amount of time I sat silently in the lounge carriage of the train, staring through sea green eyes and into a void of nothing. Well, no. Not nothing. Thoughts were certainly something. But not something I wished to dwell on.

Thoughts were their own Hunger Games, it seemed. Each one fighting and killing for a spot in your mind. One died and another surfaced. One almost won yet another overtook. Except the only difference is that there were unlimited tributes... all killing me instead of each other. It was a dark thought. But I'd had my fair share of darkness.

Today was no different.

The metallic smell lingering under my nose had been replaced with chemicals. Voices faded in and out, but I could only focus on one, who happened to be the last person I wanted to see. And as soon as my eyes met his, I was drowned in guilt. Remorse. For what I did or the outcome? I didn't know. But as soon as he practically shoved my team out of the carriage, my lungs filled with the air I'd been missing.

Finnick said nothing.

Why couldn't he just say something? If he said something I could pretend I didn't hear, or shout at him for talking when I didn't want to talk... but nothing. He always knew what I needed. And I prayed to whoever would listen that he didn't know the one thing I really needed. His mouth was clamped shut, eyes scanning over my neck before finally, slowly dragging his eyes to meet mine.

"You're mad."

He snapped. "I wonder why." 

And for some reason, I flinched. Finnick had never been mad at me, not really, but the thought that he was almost made me run from the room. That thought was more unsettling than the feelings I had for him — those were natural. This anger was not.

He exhaled deeply, and his voice was much more subdued now. "No, no, I'm not mad at you, Lynx."

"I'm not sorry," I concluded.

"I know you aren't."

I didn't relax into the sofa. Finnick immediately sprung to his feet, muttering about how he had to shove 'stupid people' from the room and so he didn't have time to add a gauze over the wound. Why didn't he just call a medic? Who was I kidding, he probably felt responsible. I cursed myself. And him. I'd just tarnished his life by my recklessness and he was the one who thought he could have stopped me? Hell, I couldn't even stop me. Would he have to follow through with what Snow wanted? Would I have to?