Author's Note: This is just a little one-shot inspiration that struck me in the middle of the night while I should have been working on another story entirely. So enjoy the product of my procrastination.

I don't own the Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins does.

Addiction
by: SmurfLuvsCookies

It's a device I haven't touched in exactly five years, since my own Hunger Games. No one has ever forced me to use it, and I had no inclination of doing so. I always knew how it would turn out: me freaking out, going into shock, disappearing into what everybody calls Annieland behind my back. I wonder if that's going to happen to me now, if - when - I turn it on.

The television.

I glance at the ticking round clock hanging on the wall. It's almost time for the preliminary interviews. Almost time for the first publicized step in the Hunger Games. Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock...

I turn back to the television and puff out my cheeks, letting the breath go slowly. It doesn't help the anxiety in my stomach, which has been ever present since I watched the train carry Finnick and Mags to the Capitol for the Quarter Quell. I wonder if Mags will ever come back to brush my hair behind my ear, or if I will ever feel Finnick's hot lips on my forehead again. The truth is, either of those things happening is unlikely. But I've always been a hopeful creature. Ambitious, some people say. Others call me a fool.

The television's blank screen mocks me, daring me to press the button that will bring it to life. I've already missed the scores because I was too scared to press that little plastic button, made in District Three just like all the other parts of the television. I wonder how they got it to District Four from District Three. Was it by train? Or perhaps they delivered it by silver parachute, just like everything else Hunger Games-related?

Focus!

Just press the button. It's fine. It's just the interviews.

But I know better. There's no way I can convince myself that it's just the interviews. The Hunger Games has a way of enrapturing the viewer with the grotesque violence, the transfixing suspense, the pitiful struggle for survival that is twenty-four people trying to live for just a little bit longer. It traps you like a fly in a web, and the more you struggle, the more engrossed you are.

The real question is, am I prepared to see all those people die? The answer to that is definitely no. I've seen enough death for three lifetimes, and I don't want to bare witness to any more. But I know all of these people. When someone dies, I want to know. I need to know.

If Mags -

If Finnick -

I need to know.

The television shocks my forehead when I lay it on the flat screen. My hand crawls toward the button like a spider, until my middle finger is poised before the button. All I have to do is apply a little bit of pressure. All I have to do is press ON.

Do it.

What would Finnick tell me to do if he were here?

Don't do it.

But it's exactly because Finnick is not here that I must do it. I have to know. I need to know.

Can I handle it?

No.

Then why am I doing it?

Because I need to know.

Know what?

What do I need to know?

"Whatever you do, Annie, don't watch."

Finnick. He said those words to me when we said our goodbyes. Those were the last words he said to me. No, the second-to-last words. The last words he said were "I love you."

Whatever you do, Annie, don't watch.

Don't watch.

Watch.

And electricity brings the television to life. I sit back and watch, my eyes wide, as the first of the tributes for the 75th Hunger Games steps on stage. I sit back and watch, knowing that Finnick will be very mad at me for it, knowing that it will probably destroy what little foundation of groundedness I have built up over the years. But it doesn't matter. I know I'm going to watch it all, every last minute, just like he knew I would.

Because the destructive things are always the most addicting.

And there is nothing more destructive than the Hunger Games.