Today I will see him again.
I will be able to touch him. Hear his laugh. See his smile.
I pace in front of the door, my fingers slipping through the holes in the lace that I'm clutching. I know the fabric like the back of my hand. In the weeks that Finnick's been gone, I've worked until it was finished. That was last night.
This lace is me, but it is not me. The open spaces and knots are my life and the Games that I can't bear to think about. Dreaming is enough, and more often than not, the nightmares follow me into the waking world. They try to destroy me. Several times, I think they have succeeded.
But I know the memories are losing. They must be, because the fabric is me, but in its entirety, it is not me. The lace forms two delicate, tiny stockings. Much too small for me. Baby slippers.
I knew what was coming the day after Finnick left. I wanted to tell him but of course, because of the war, we couldn't risk communicating. So for the past month and a half, I've waited and waited to let him know that he has a child.
I hear voices in the hall. They must be back. I open the door and hurtle out, past the approaching soldiers. "Ms. Cresta-" one calls. I ignore him. I have to get to Finnick.
In the small room off of the hovercraft dock, I run up to an officer. Demand his attention. "Where's Soldier Finnick Odair?" The man looks bewildered but his eyes betray him by glancing to another door. That's enough for me.
Inside, I find a corridor of white walls and glass. The doors here are thick, but at last, there are no locks. The wounded soldiers are being treated behind windows. In one room I see a woman with a shaved and tattooed head being moved from a stretcher to a bed. In another, a man with a red beard lies unmoving, bandaged so only part of his face shows.
The rest of the rooms are empty.
No matter, I tell myself, Finnick could still be on the hovercraft. I think about going to find him, but I decide upon surprising him. He would like that, I think. But a sickening feeling has begun deep inside of me and I'm worried.
After a few minutes, a doctor comes over looking frustrated. He's young. I don't think I've seen him here before. "I'm sorry, ma'm, but if you aren't visiting, then I have to ask you to leave."
"Oh, I'm waiting for one of the soldiers. Finnick Odair? Is he in another section of the hospital?" I search the doctor's face.
"Finnick Odair…" he scans his clipboard. "He's not listed."
Not listed.
"Pardon?" My voice is high and strained. Not mine.
"Finnick Odair is not listed as a patient."
"Are you sure? He's not there? You're positive?" I can't understand what he's saying. Finnick must be here, must be all right.
A nurse approaches, her blonde hair cropped at her ears. Her nametag reads R. Everdeen.
"Are you Annie Cresta?" I nod and her eyes, already red-rimmed with purple bags, become deep pools of sorrow. I don't want to hear what she's telling me. I cover my ears with my hands, but the words find their way into my brain as if I hadn't.
"He didn't survive."
The mace swings toward me, accompanied by a scream that doesn't end. I follow its motion with my eyes and try to move away, but I can't. I'm stuck here as the mace buries itself deep in my chest. The boy with dark hair yanks it back and, as I fall, brings it down again. And again. And again. Still the screaming continues. It will never end.
"Miss? Are you all right?" The doctor bends over and I recoil, cringing against the wall that I am huddled against. My hands are still clamped over my ears and I cannot move them, cannot find any reason why I should. They do nothing to block out the screams that I realize are coming from my own lips.
Then the needle plunges into my arm, and the world fades away, taking none of the horror with it.