AN: So this is the prologue for a new story I'm writing about the Hunger Games. It takes place after the Hunger Games, but before Catching Fire. I'm really excited for this, and I hope you all are too!
I wake crashing, gasping for breath as my eyes split open. The split between reality and fantasy is blurred, and my heart races as I rapidly scan the room.
There is nothing. Nothing dangerous to me, anyways.
But my breath still hitches as I sit up. I pull the blankets close to me as a sob begins to make its way through me. There is too much to fear.
The Careers. The mutts. The bloodbath. The death. The games. Each rotates through my dreams like a ticking clock of nightmares. My mind tells me that it's not real. Just an illusion of my innermost thoughts. But it's real. Of course, it's real.
My arms wrap around my knees, and I muffle my sobs by pushing my face into my legs. The crisp, blue sheets of my bed begin to change colour as salty tears pour down my face and onto them. They always soak through, and yet by the next morning, no evidence can be seen. As if nothing happened.
Slowly, very slowly, it becomes whimpers pouring from my throat instead of full out sobs, and then I am silent. My head pounds as I move my hand to my face and slide my palm down a tear stain. Almost completely dry.
Part of me wonders why Prim or my mother haven't been woken and rushed to console me. Shortly after I came home, I would wake screaming, balling my fists into the sheets as my little sister rushed in, her face filled to the brim with worry. She would stroke the hair on the crown of my head and shush me, her little voice strongly assuring me that the Games were gone, that I was at home, that I was safe. That we were all safe. Sometimes my mother would come, hand me a mug of some soft herbal tea, and sit on the edge of my bed.
It used to happen every night. And I hated feeling helpless to the thoughts in my head.
Maybe it's good that Prim hasn't come in tonight. Maybe I just need to learn to deal with everything by myself. My baby sister shouldn't have to be holding me.
I run a hand through my loose curls, exhaling against the will of my raw throat. I am not falling back to sleep tonight.
Sometimes I wonder if Peeta has nights like this. When the bed is drenched with sweat as you scream for help as you fight through the battle in your head. But I've barely talked to Peeta since the games. Sensibility says he hates me, and he would have every right to. I lied. I played the games in a dangerous, hurtful way, and it changed him. I don't think he even wants to acknowledge my presence when we accidentally appear in the same room. But he would smile at me, and politely ask how my day had been going. The chill in the atmosphere couldn't be felt any colder then moments like those.
But he's gone through the same things I have. He's seen horrible things, and that's a connection that not even the strongest element could tear.
AN: Let me know how you all like it! I'd love reviews and suggestions or things you'd like to see this story! Also, for those of you who've seen Catching Fire, how did you like it? I thought it was phenomenal, it was so well done!
Love you all,
xoxo,
J