Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns The Hunger Games universe. I own only my perspective.
They say I'm mad. But what is this "madness"? It certainly doesn't affect my senses, because I still see the looks and hear the whispers. "The poor thing," a woman said to her daughter at the market, "It's like looking at an empty shell."
I am not an empty shell. I am the sea, calm and smooth and clear one moment, suddenly tumultuous the next. Waves crash, the riptide pulls me down…
I am drowning, fighting, spinning, it's in my eyes, my ears, my lungs. The ax, the blood, and-oh no, I can't-I can't-I gasp for air to scream, but there is only water, only water. I am cold, I am crushed, I am dying, I can't-I hear the rush of water, the roar of cannons, the thud of Cassio's ax-oh no, no, NO-I can't hear this, I can't see this, I am drowning, dying, spinning…
Suddenly everything comes back into focus. I am lying on my bed, in a cold sweat, shaking.
Perhaps I am mad. But only sometimes. When I was a child, I played tug-of-war with my friends. I am only mad when the madness wins the tug-of-war, when it knocks my mind, my will, my sanity askew.
Finnick doesn't think I'm mad. He told me that I'm sane; it's the rest of the world that's mad. It's the Capitol that's mad, forcing children to fight, to kill-
The ax, the blood, the horrible, sickening sound. Eric's-Eric's head-the horrible sound, oh, I hear it, I will always hear it. I will never stop hearing it. The sound overwhelms me, I am drowning, I am fighting, I am dying, maybe I really will die this time, maybe it will end, but it never ends, I fight, I breathe, I struggle, I hear-no, I can't hear, I won't hear, I WON'T.
My sanity regains the upper hand in this perpetual war, and I come back with a jolt. My hands are clamped on my ears, and my throat is raw. I must have been screaming again.
They tell me I scream often. Mostly at night. In the day, I sit in a trance, but when the nightmares come…
But Finnick is there when the nightmares come. He stays with me, and my sanity holds onto the rope for a little longer.
Finnick.
Finnick told me he loved me.
Finnick is admired all over Panem. He is loved, he is desired-and he says he loves me.
I am broken. I am the poor mad girl, and he loves me.
Finnick is broken too. Finnick is broken, and the face he shows to the cameras is not his real face.
I love Finnick. We are both broken, but together we are whole.
The world is broken. The Games are not broken. The Games work exactly the way in which they are supposed to work in this broken world. The Games are not broken, but the Games break the players.
I am not mad-I am not always mad. I am the sea. I love Finnick. Finnick loves me.
But how long can it last?