A.N/ I don't own the Hunger Games.
Everything was silent, even the cool breeze that traveled off of the ocean had disappeared. There wasn't any sound and there needn't be.
But there was one, one hidden with the back of a young woman's throat.
The young woman was 25 years of age and wore a loose fitting, sundress. The dress was a light blue grey colour and looked like the sky on a cloudy day. Her wavy hair hung down to her waist and her green eyes stared into the distance.
She stood on a raised platform next to 3 other people. An extremely good looking young man, the elderly figure of a woman, shorter than the rest seeing as she sat upon a chair, and an older woman of about 45.
Each person on the stage was different. Each person on the stage had different hopes, different dreams, different lives, but in that moment they were viewed as the same. In that moment they all felt the same; they felt the memories resurfacing and the nightmares that only came out at night surging forward. Yes, they all had every right to scream, but only one did.
The young women put her delicate hands over her ears and screamed.
The scream disrupted the silence and pierced through the veil of slight relief that hung over the crowd. The scream added guilt to those who felt that relief when they found out that they would be asked to sacrifice nothing. The scream added horror to the crowd as they realized that the ones whom they looked up to, the ones whom they strived to be like, the ones whom had given everything for them, the people, would be expected to give more.
These were the victors. They were the only ones who were considered safe. Yet that safety had come in the price of slavery for the capital, never ending nightmares, memories, guilt, the loose of mind and even, the loose of sanity. But at least it had been over, now even the ending, the completion, the knowledge that they were out, that they survived had been taken from them.
There was nothing to be said.
There were no gestures that could be made.
Nothing could be said to comfort neither their fears nor their thoughts. Because the worst, the absolute worst thoughts weren't that, they weren't thoughts or nightmares, they were reality … they were the games.
There was silence in the crowd and a scream in the air as the people of district four watched their heroes crumble, watched them begin to be blown out to sea. They watched, their background symphony nothing more than a scream as their comforting grandmother figure let tears run down her face, their motherly protector smothered sobs against her hand, as their cool and charming older brother let his façade fall enough for them to see a little boy underneath as he clutched the waist of the woman, their delicate, sweet older sister whose scream rung in their ears.
She screamed, and screamed, and screamed, staring at the large screen that had been brought into the center of the town, the screen that showed the frozen face of President Snow, as she stared at the screen that brought her the news that everything was over.
What can you say to the news that everything was over?
No one knew.
So, they let her scream, and scream, and scream.
They let her scream until she sunk to the ground in the young man's arms. They let her scream until she stopped, simply staring at them with haunted green eyes, filled with a type of pain they'd never understand. They let the mad Annie Cresta scream until she realized, soon there wouldn't be anything to scream for and went silent, clutching the thing that would soon be taken from her, Finnick Odair.
A.N/ Please review, I love feedback.