Disclaimer: The original characters and plot are the property of the Suzanne Collins. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners.

This was written for Starvation's monthly one-shot contest. The prompt was 'Perfection'. Enjoy, and remember to review!

Annie's POV

Then the world turns black.

I wake up with a start form another nightmare. The scene keeps playing over and over in my head, playing again and again in my ears, like every night, every nightmare. I cover my ears with my hands trying to keep out the terrifying sounds of the memories that creep into my dreams every night. I'm too terrified to even cry.

Pictures of darkness flash through my mind. Pictures of swords, a head without a body, or shall I say a body without a head. Pictures of the earth, trembling in fear, like us, the tributes that were left. Pictures of the breaking dam, and the immense amount of water rushing towards me.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder if I should cover my eyes rather than my ears, to block out the sights, but then I decide that the sounds are worse. The sights mean so much less without the sounds, but if I cover my eyes, the sounds bring back the memories of the sights.

I take deep breaths like Finnick taught me. In, out, in out.

It's morning already. Golden yellow early fall sunlight streams in through the glass of the open window. I can feel a cool breeze drifting in. I slowly uncover my ears, like Finnick taught me. I try hard not to listen to the horrible sounds; instead I listen to the seagulls hunting for their breakfast, the waves crashing on the beach, the night fisherman bringing in their haul for the morning.

I turn my head to look over at Finnick. He is lying splayed out on the bed, slightly snoring. I often wonder why he can't hear the horrible sounds I do. They are so loud and clear in my ears, the sword whizzing through the air, the rumbling of the earth, the rushing water. The deadly sounds.

Is he deaf? I often wonder this. I just cannot seem to grasp the concept as to why he doesn't hear what I do.

I sit up in the bed and cross my legs. I look at him in the sunlight, which falls on half his face. The other half it leave in darkness, in shadow.

I begin to trace him absentmindedly. My finger wanders along the lines on his palm. Finnick.

Up the veins on his wrist and up the side of his arm. Finnick.

My finger travels along his collarbone, dips into the hollow of his neck and climbs over the bump on his throat. It's an odd thing, none of the girls have on. An Adam's something, I think it's called, but I don't remember. Finnick.

Then it travels along the set line of his jaw, around his lips and his nose and eyes. Finnick.

I stare at him, thinking, feeling his soft skin under my fingertips. Finnick, Finnick, Fininck.

Eventually I get tired of just sitting there, looking at his sleeping figure. I abruptly move my fingertips away from his face. Then I tickle him in his armpit.

Finnick wakes up with a jolt, bolting up to sitting position, already completely alert.

"Finnick," I say, solemnly, "You're perfect."

I giggle and jump off the bed, promptly skipping down the hall and leaving him confused in the bed behind me.

"Perfect," I say under my breath, "Finnick's perfect,"

Finnick's POV

So I'm perfect now? What the hell is Annie talking about?

I sigh. Oh, Annie. Poor, sweet, beautiful, innocent Annie.

Me, perfect. I can't understand why she thinks that. Me, a trident, a tribute in the arena… Killing. Murdering. Perfect? Far from it.

So who is the picture of perfection?

That's right. Not me, but Annie.