I do not own anything. All rights/characters/fictional universe belong to the original creator (in this case, Suzanne Collins).

Annie's POV:

I broke the surface, my head swimming. My body felt like rubber, and I was certain my very soul was about to break free of my body. The image of my fellow tribute being decapitated appeared everywhere. I closed my eyes, but the image still remained. No matter where I looked, I saw it—his blood, his fear, his lifeless eyes. He was the only one from District Four, so he was the closest thing to family I had here…and he was gone. Everyone was gone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner of the seventieth Hunger Games."

The announcer's words rang in my ears. I treaded in the water and felt something brush against my leg. Immediately, I pulled my legs up to my chest. What horror awaits me now? A body popped up to the surface. Fear coursed through me, as I desperately swam away. The hovercraft whirred above me, tossing my wet hair across my face. They said I was a Victor, but I didn't feel like it. They said I was wonderful, a role model; I knew I was one, but not how they said I was. I was not the Victor they made me to be. I was the one that managed to survive unscathed. Inside, I knew I was broken. Worse than that, I was broken and alone.

Finnick's POV:

I looked at her. I could see in her eyes her vulnerability, her fear, her disgust. I had done all I could for her. It was because of my insistent request that they flooded the Arena. I knew I had killed thirteen people to protect her, something I would have done anyway without regret.

I walked to the landing pad. The hovercraft landed. I heard Annie. She was screaming, crying. Then, a dead silence hung in the air, suffocating me.

The doors opened.

Annie sat inside, her body shaking, her hands covering her ears. A Capitol goon sat beside her, trying to calm her. Annoyed, I waved him off and knelt beside Annie.

"Hey," I whispered, gently taking her hands from her ears. She fought me, her eyes shut tightly. "Annie."

She stopped and looked at me, tears in her eyes. I knew she was too gentle, too innocent to bounce back from the games, or appear to bounce back, as I had. I saw she was trembling and she didn't know what to do. Embarrassment and vulnerability were in her eyes. I did what I thought she needed. I held her close to me.

"It's okay. You're okay," I whispered. I felt her relax. She sobbed into my chest. My heart broke for her. I knew what she felt. I knew the pain, the guilt, the trauma. What I did not know was the innocence. She had not killed anyone. I had. I'd watched the life seep out of them as their blood stained the ground, like wine on carpet.

I decided, then and there, I would protect her.

Annie's POV:

I shuddered in my bed. The darkness was smothering, but even in the dark, I could still see him—my fellow tribute, his eyes staring at me lifeless and void. Tears flowed as my breathing came in muffled, shuddering cries from my mouth, which I desperately tried to smother with my hands. I knew I would have to receive President Snow's crown and approval. All I wanted was to go back to how I was. That childhood innocence, that childish bliss I once knew so well. I could go through it, dance to their music, but I knew I could only push myself so far. I prayed and prayed, but no relief came to me.

I know I had fallen asleep, but when I awoke a scream was on my lips and darkness still met my eyes. Sobs escaped my mouth; something was happening to me. I normally did not allow myself to be as transparent or loud, but I found I could not—no matter how hard I tried—control it. I felt a fogginess descend upon me and I heard a voice screaming. When the fogginess lifted from my mind, I then realized the one screaming was me.

I heard footsteps running to my door. The door opened, and Finnick stood in the doorway, concern on his face.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice breathless.

I cried harder, my voice garbling in the back of my throat. What was my problem? I should be able to have a handle over myself, like I had before all this happened.

Finnick walked to the bed and sat down, wrapping his arms around me. His arms, though warm and strong, somehow felt hollow and distant. I inhaled in shuddering gasps, but found I was more calm now.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice quiet.

"Me too," he replied, his hand rhythmically stroking my hair.

"Thank you."

"For what?" I heard a smile in his voice.

"For coming." I moved away from him, then turned to look at him. "I, I'm going to get a drink."

He nodded. "I'll come with you."

We went to the kitchen. I grabbed a glass and filled it with water, licking my dry lips as I did. When I looked up I noticed Finnick was staring at me, an annoying smirk on his face.

"What?"

His eyes sparkled with mirth. "You just look pretty."

I smiled and looked away. Then, I went to the couch and sat down, my body feeling numb and void.

Finnick sat down beside me. "I know you're confused and you're suffering, but you aren't alone."

I feel all alone. When I looked up at him, I felt the tears rush back into my eyes. I set the glass on the table and pulled my knees to my chest nervously. I exhaled a shaky breath. "What do you do when you can't sleep?" Surely he had a trick or two.

"I walk around and try to ignore my own thoughts."

"What do I do tomorrow?"

"You pretend that you aren't close enough to President Snow to kill him." There was an edge in his voice I had never heard before—an anger that laced it.

I covered my mouth with my fingers, but laughs still escaped.

He smiled at me. "Try to ignore everything that happened while you're up there, and pretend it doesn't matter."

"But it does." I blinked away the tears blurring my vision. "It does matter." Lungs aching, I struggled to take a breath. "It does matter!" I heard a voice—my own—screech in the stillness. Tumbling off the couch, I landed hard on my side, my hip hitting the corner of the metal table as I went down. I scooted away when I saw Finnick standing up and moving towards me. When he crouched down to my level, fear's death-like grip clutched at my throat.

It was him. The tribute who had killed my comrade.

"No—o," I managed to choke out, my muscles not responding to me when I told them to move. "Please! Get away!" I clawed at the air with one hand, the other covering my head. I curled up in a ball, shutting my eyes from the terror. Even if I couldn't get away, I didn't have to watch him kill me.

Out of the emptiness, warm but calloused hands gripped my arms and gently pulled me up. I opened my eyes. Mags. She gently planted a kiss on my forehead, then cut her gaze back to Finnick.

Instinctively, I followed her gaze. A scream escaped me when I saw the one who murdered my fellow tribute. I scrambled up, the hem of my gown getting caught on my own feet. Darkness pressed in close around me, crushing me. I wanted to be free. So free.

Cold light shone through the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows, casting an eerie glow upon the room. I ran to it, hoping the light would somehow ease the weight that was crushing me. I pressed myself against the cool glass, relishing the feeling of the cold against my skin. It felt like the sea.

I stared down at the street below. With the darkness, it seemed blurry, murky—just like the sea. Oh, if I could just break the glass and dive into its watery depths…

"Annie?" a voice called softly.

I turned my head. Finnick stood there. His shoulders sagged and he looked embarrassed, like a little boy asking for permission to have his dessert before his dinner.

Mags came forward and gripped my hand, pulling slightly so I was coming away from my blessed window. I jerked my hand away, and took a step towards it, the beautiful empty freedom calling my name. My eyes darted from the window back to Mags, a question in my mind that my mouth, for some reason, refused to utter. Can't I just jump into the water?

"Annie, come away from the window," he said, eyes locked with mine, refusing to allow me to look anywhere else.

I swallowed, desperately wanting to break out of this glass prison and dive into the sea that was right there waiting for me. I took a step backwards and pressed myself against the glass, shaking my head.

His lips parted slightly, then tightened into a thin line. A look of desperation clouded his face, his gaze breaking from mine and turning to Mags.

Now that I was free, I turned to behold the ocean stretching out below me. My throat tightened. It wasn't an ocean—it was a street, busy and dangerous. The height dizzied me, making my knees weak. Stumbling backwards, I reached for the closest thing to me.

Finnick.

I crashed into him, clawing at him, trying to steady both myself and my mind. He gripped me by the shoulders, his arms clumsily wrapped around me. I stared up at him, tears of embarrassment stinging my eyes. "I'm—I—I'm sorry," I choked out. Glancing at Mags, I saw her smile, a kind look in her eyes.

She seemed to say, "I know. We both know. There's no need to be sorry." She came around to the other side of me, wrapping her fragile arms around me.

In the span of a breath, we all sank to the floor, arms tangled up in knots. There we stayed, three Victors, all a bit broken, but, I realized, no longer alone.