Author's Note: So this was originally meant to be a drabble ... I got carried away, and a little sidetracked for the prompt (which was "lurking," by the way). Anyway, R&R? Criticism would be amazing. : D Btw, I don't own the Hunger Games. Js.
Trip's saying something funny – and laughing in the arena is the last thing I ever expected to do, but here I am. I grin at him and I'm about to reply when his eyes go wide and he lunges in front of me with a weapon.
Is he attacking me? Did he try to trick me? Trip … I whip around, knife almost ready but not quite – and I drop the knife.
The girl from District One, the Career, I can't remember her name, but she's got an axe and Trip's shielding me from her axe, and she swings it –
Blood splatters onto my cheek as Trip's head rolls into a bush and then someone's screaming. Someone's screaming as if their head has been cut off and it's strangled as my stomach rolls. Distantly, I realize that I'm the one screaming.
The girl is so startled because the noise I make is inhuman and all I see is the blood, the blood all over and Trip's head and his body and it's disfigured and I'm taking to heart the phrase "screaming bloody murder," and –
Annie's breathing is shallow and she screaming (again). It's a bad day. Annie has bad days more often than not since her return home. It's been half a year and the fact that she has to go back to the Capitol in just a week for her Victory Tour is making it all the worse.
The knife is back in my hand and I don't know how it got there. I'm staring down at the corpse of the District One girl and I don't remember killing her. Why can't I remember? It was me that killed her, wasn't it? Where's –
My stomach rolls and I remember and nononono and I'm screaming again, because thegirlcutoffhishead and ikilledthisgirl and I stabbed her and the knife is bloody and I drop it and where can I run to, the blood is everywhere …
She doesn't know how to make her demons go away. They lurk around the corner, alwaysalways. Annie presses her hands over her ears and squeezes her eyes shut tightly, and the blankets once on her bed are tossed haphazardly around her room.
I don't remember how I got here again. I'm in a tree and the sun is high in the sky unlike earlier when –
I remember and I feel myself unhinging again, going away even further -
"Annie? Annie, are you in there?"
She vaguely recognizes the voice. Who is it again? It's so far away, as if they're speaking underwater.
There's a loud boom and then a crack and then I hear water rushing but I don't see anything – I haven't moved or so much as looked up in hours. But the next thing I realize is that water is steadily rising higher and higher, creeping up towards my feet. Cannons fire occasionally and I flinch when they do because… because the last time I heard the cannons was when …
The water reaches me and I let go. I let go of the tree branch and of all thought. Kick, paddle, kick, paddle – I'm a better swimmer than anyone I know, even at home. District Four tributes always have the best swimmers. Kick, paddle, kick, paddle, kick, and I'm floating on my back. I'm at home, where's my brother? Finnick? Kick, paddle. The movements are natural and sort of calming but I realize with dread that this water isn't District Four again. This water is tinted with dirt and mud and bodies, tributes accented with cannon fires and blood and blood and Trip …
A voice from above.
"The winner of the 70th Hunger Games is Annie Cresta!"
"Annie," Finnick sighs. He surveys the situation distantly, picks up the blankets. He carefully kneels on the edge of her bed. "Annie, honey, do you know who I am?"
"… no," she says, hesitantly. "Trip?" She knows that isn't right. He's not Trip. Where is he? No, this isn't him… but he's very familiar as well. Distracted momentarily, the flashbacks are halted – this boy…
"Finnick…? Fin," Annie sighs, relief tinted in her voice. He takes her hand. She looks around. "…How bad … was it this time?" Finnick shrugs.
For the moment, Annie's back in the present. Her memories abruptly cut short, and go back to lurking in the back of her mind.
Not quite gone, never. But almost.