"Sitting on the dock of the bay, watching the tide roll away, I'm just sitting on the dock of the bay, wasting time."

I always find myself sitting on the pier when the sun sets. Every day I tell myself that I should break out of the routine, find something else to do. But my feet carry me along the same old dusty path, and my nose follows the salty smell of the ocean. And every evening I sit there and watch as the sky stains slowly red.

It isn't the red I see every night though – the one that brings thoughts of death, and agony along with it. The colour that makes me scream until my throat feels raw, and bury my head in my hands. The colour that, most of all, makes me wish that he was here to take away the pain.

No, this red makes me feel hopeful. It makes me curl my fingers softly against my stomach, and be glad that at least a piece of him is still with me. As though I can feel the life within me, and it gives me a reason to keep breathing, even through the nightmares.

I dangle my feet into the sea, feeling the waves lap around my ankles and I breathe in deeply, the salt in the air tingling my nose and reminding me of countless days spent on my father's fishing boat when I was younger.

I watch for a moment as the sea sloshes softly against my ankles, and I hear the squawk of a bird just over my head.

And then I close my eyes and, just for a moment, I disobey the orders of my doctor and let myself remember.

I think back to the moment I was reaped, of the doom that had settled into my heart and convinced me that I would never again feel the salty spray of the ocean against my cheeks, or the lull of the waves beneath a boat.

I see those same sea green eyes that always haunt the darkness. The desperation in them as he told me that I had to make it out of there alive. The tight grasp of his hands on my arms that forced a promise from my lips. I had hooked my little finger through his, sealing the promise just as we did when we were younger, and only saw the good in the world.

I don't really want to remember what comes next – being in the arena. The memories make me want to screw my eyes up tightly, and scream at the top of my lungs to block them out.

The look on that boy's face as he had sliced through Delmar's neck. The way that his head had-

I cut myself off quickly; I should know better than to follow those bad thoughts by now. They only take me to a dangerous place, and I can't do that anymore. Now that there is no one here to look after me when the blackness falls. Now that I have to be responsible for someone else.

But I am still allowed to remember the good things. The things that don't make me want to cry for days on end. Those memories that keeps me going even when the world seems to fill up with hopelessness and despair.

I am allowed to remember the look on his face when he came to see me that first day in hospital after I had won. Everything hurt, and I didn't want him to see me, not when I had felt so broken. But his smile.

I feel my own lips curve upwards in response to this memory, to the life-affirming joy that had used to seep out of him, to the way he had always made me smile even when there was nothing to smile about.

I am allowed to remember the first time he had told me that he loved me as we sat on the beach one night. The feel of his arms around me, or his lips against my own. I can remember the promises he made me – how he had sworn that one day all of the bad stuff would be over, and we would be free to love each other just as we were supposed to. The way he looked on our wedding day.

I am allowed to let each one of these memories wash over me, and I can submerge myself into them for a little while, because it's easier than having to face reality without him.

But I am not allowed to remember Delmar, or the arena; the water that had surged around me and the way that my feet had kept paddling, even when I had really just wanted to give up and let myself sink.

I'm not allowed to remember the white coats of the doctors, constantly flittering in and out of my room. The way the pills burned my throat as they had forced them into me. The pitiful glances they had flashed at me from behind their masks.

I am not allowed to remember the screams that echoed around the cell, the realisation that it was me who was making that noise, or the pain that had burned along my body.

I won't remember the look on my doctor's face when he told me what had happened. That I would never see his smile again.

I shouldn't think about the past anymore.

My doctor says I have to focus on the present, and what I want in the future. But the word future seems so meaningless now that I can't share it with him.

Sometimes the days flicker past in the blink of an eye. Those are the easy days, the days when I can pretend to myself that nothing bad happens anymore and that I am safe, and content with my life.

Sometimes the days are never ending, and it's so hard to fill up all of that empty time.

Sometimes I clatter around the house, making noise with pots and pans, just trying to distract myself.

But the walls grow too oppressive, and I feel as though they're closing in on me, trapping me in. So I walk – I stare towards the sea for hours on end, just watching as the waves climb higher and higher onto the sand.

Occasionally I walk into town, ducking my head so that I don't have to meet anyone's eyes. But sometimes I feel the pressure of someone's touch against my arm, or my hand, and it's nice to know that they'd be there if ever I needed them.

I rest my fingertips softly on the surface of the water and watch as the ripples grow.

There are days when I think about moving, because he always loved the sea so much and I can't look at it anymore without seeing his face as well. But I know that I'll never be able to tear myself away from the ocean, not when I can imagine that the caress of a soft sea breeze against my hair is his fingertips or that the whistle of the wind is his voice.

Sometimes I lie in bed, regretting the past, wishing that we'd had more time.

Because even though we won, I've never felt as though I did.

But then I feel the baby stirring deep inside of me, almost as though he's trying to comfort me, just as his father would be doing if he was here. I reel through a list of names in my head, trying to decide if it feels more like a girl or a boy, and I imagine holding it in my arms. Looking down and seeing both of us, in the same person, and I hope that the baby will have the same green eyes.

And I think that just maybe, maybe, everything could be alright.

I don't own the Hunger Games, or the characters used within this story. Nor do I own the song 'Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay.' It just gave me a bit of inspiration.