It was the two week anniversary of having no nightmares last night. But not all anniversaries are great.
The flowers. Oh, the flowers. They're dripping blood. Small little droplets of the innocent. You wonder how such a beautiful place could bleed. But then Prim and Rue's face flare before your eyes. They were beautiful. And innocent. The blood is gushing now. Not just little drops of red down the face of white and pink and yellow, but gushing. From the stems. The faces. The petals. You try to move but you're stuck and blood is everywhere and the stench is too much. You can't breathe. You can't move. You can't even scream. You hear the mimicked screeches of the innocent as jabberjays swat around your head. One flies too close to you and just like that you're snatched from the nightmare.
Your throat burns and your screams echo in your ears. They're loud but hoarse has if you've been screaming the whole time. It's not for another moment before you even realize the strong and steady arms wrapped around you and the quiet voice that tries to block out the screaming. You stop and instead whimper and weep into his chest. Your hands clutch far too tightly onto the back of his shirt. He whispers that it's okay. That you are safe. He lays back down in the bed and you mold into him. Into your safety. Your comfort.
Hush baby, it's safe now.
It's midday when you wake again. He's gone and you don't hear him downstairs. You slide out of the bed carefully and move down the stairs slowly. Your hands are shaking still.
Today's the day he's gone and picked flowers. You see them on the table and soon you're screaming again.
You lash out and grab the vase, bringing it down against the floor. Hard. You're on your hands and knees grabbing at the flowers and tearing them into nothingness. You smack what is left them against the tiled floor. Your hands get cut. Blood drips from them. The droplets splatter into the water; the glass; they mix with the broken flowers. You sob so much and so loud. Your chest heaves and each dragged breath is painful. Your face is wet and you try blindly to wipe away the tears. You only create small, short cuts from the shreds of glass that peek through the flesh of your hand. You crawl into the corner barely able to breathe but not able to stop the hacking in your throat. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold yourself together.
"STOP!" you shriek over and over again into the empty house, their sweet, beautiful and innocent faces flashing before your eyes.
My sweet girl… you've gone mad.