white.
It'd been years since she was there herself, years upon years of blurring haze. Heartache too, she must admit, even though this withered thing inside her chest barely deserved the name 'heart'. Somewhere along the way she had found ways to shut herself out, and now the key has been lost for so long that she can't find her way back in again. She never signed up for this when she volunteered, all those decades ago. She never signed up to be broken.
In her mind those faces are blurred into a cloud of foggy denial. Those children (they could've been hers, had things been different) who walked in and out of her life in a few short weeks, leaving bruises where they had been. A few came back, of course, but perhaps it was easier remembering the innocent dead than the broken survivors. The thing is, she doesn't want to remember. It stirs something deep inside her, a kind of emotion that she'd learnt to quell before it burned all those she loved.
If only old age comes hand in hand with a promise of oblivion. But her mind, ever so stubborn, refuses to deteriorate. What wouldn't she give to forget it all, the things she did and the people she knew. Just to sit once again on the porch, with the salty wind on her lips, blissful.
As a child she had wanted to grow wings, large strong ones like those of the gulls. Other girls had laughed, asking her why she wanted such ugly wings when she could wish for the pure white ones of angels'. Those are much prettier, they had said, And they take you to heaven.
She knew, even then, that heaven didn't exist and that beauty results in nothing but horror. Goodness knows she'd seen her lovely sister abused enough to figure that one out. No, she didn't want those snowy wings. Just the strong white ones of seagulls, capable and enduring. Since heaven didn't exist, she might as well wish for something that will enable her to survive this earth. Or take her away from it.
Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, she could feel the rush of the ocean breeze against her fingertips, and hear the rolling waves from way below. White wings for freedom, after all.
"It's only a game," said the bronze-haired boy across from her, his voice confident.
She knew this attitude all too well, yet there was something about this handsome boy that struck her as different. Perhaps it was the light note in his voice, free of the burden of sinful thoughts and deeds. Perhaps it was the way his sea-green eyes reminded her of her childhood, of innocence and blissful ignorance. He was at least a head taller than her, this boy of fourteen. And muscles that roped his forearms so that they resembled those of a man rather than a teenager, but despite all that he is still so young. A boy bulked with training and enthusiasm, yet no taste of reality at all. Just like how she was all those years ago.
"Yes, it's only a game," she repeated, the words feeling all wrong in her mouth.
She didn't want to be the one crushing his innocence, not at that point in time and not ever. And it was only a little white lie. Those didn't hurt anyone. Did they?
He left a part of him in that place, just as she had lost most of herself there. His green eyes were no longer clear, his shoulders no longer proud. Such a fine boy, and such a broken man.
She took him down to the seaside after it all, after the horrid flurry of the Victory tour and the constant congratulations given to him for being such a great killer. He had taken twelve lives, a record for the Panem history book, and the toll was beginning to take him down.
"I can't do this, Mags," he confessed, his fingers feverishly knotting and unknotting a piece of netting, "I can't live with myself."
It had been years since District Four had a Victor, and she had forgotten how to comfort another broken survivor. Awkwardly she reached over to still his hand, her eyes still trained on the ocean in front of them. The waves were crashing violently, the winds picking up the salty sprays of water and taking them ashore. Snowy crests formed and fell, the foaming white disintegrating seconds after they were born. Just like his innocence, and hers. And those of the dozens that came before, after and in between.
Eventually she found her voice.
"You'll be okay, Finn," she said, trying to hide the quiver in her tone, "It's all over now."
Just another little white lie to tide them over, until the next hurricane came along.