Its funny how quickly the nausea and vomiting sets in after pregnancy begins. My stomach rolls against and I press my cheek against the cold seat of the metal toilet. Finnick is gone off on a rebel mission so I find myself spending more and more time in my compartment buried deep below the surface of the world. There isn't anyone here I really want to talk to anyway… so I just spend my time here, hunched over the toilet, wondering what this little spawn could possibly be doing inside of me to cause so much sickness.

Some days are harder than others. Pregnancy has really taken a toll on my mentality on life. The days I used to want to curl up in a ball and die have gone, but have left a guilty conscious in their wake. I can't feel numb anymore because my body is constantly moving, changing. My pale thinned skin has been replaced by a tough round bump where a malnourished stomach used to sink inwards. The president has doubled my rations, ensuring that I see a doctor every week to make sure I am giving the baby proper nutrition, and that my mental state hasn't further deteriorated.

I find myself mumbling to the baby when I am stressed. When I become stretched too thin I talk to it as if it were Finny himself. I tell the baby all of my worries about his or her future, about the way the new capital will be if we succeed in this war. I feel more hope than I have in years when I talk to the baby. I spend days wondering why I was ever scared to bring life into this world.

But then there are the bad days… days when I hate myself for bringing life into the unpredictable future ahead of us. Oh and the pressure! There is so much pressure to reproduce over and over again to repopulate a dwindling world, especially since there are so many sterile people in District 13. Finnick would joke and say "Gladly!" and touch my stomach.

He once called it a vessel of perfection. The intimate moments of silence and staring we would share in the days where we showered together still ring true in my memories. He caressed my stomach, my chest, my lips. I touched every scar that remained from the Hunger Games. I willed myself to reach beyond the surface of his skin and caress the mental scars that could never be erased. I wished more than anything I could kiss away the nightmares that plagued us both. I find solace in his deep sea green eyes, and he found paradise tangled up with me, skin to skin.

I finally pull myself up off the tile floor of the sterile white bathroom, wipe my mouth off with my sleeve and brush my teeth. I look down at the schedule on my arm, 1800 dinner. The thought of food makes my stomach roll again, and before my brain can trick me into getting sick, I remove myself from the compartment I share with my husband and walk down the hall to the elevators that carry the residents of District 13 to the cafeteria.

The room is abuzz with the news of the rebel front's efforts against the Capital and Peacekeepers. I hear a whisper of people dying as my tray is loaded up with rice and a sloppy almost grey-like bean stew. Delicious…

"Didn't you hear? They called Peeta to the capitol!" One woman says as I walk past her.

"No! Didn't he try to kill the Mockingjay? Why would they send him to fight beside her?" a young man responds to the woman. I find myself staring at them, frozen in time. I can feel the frustration at the people behind me. I'm holding up the line, but I can't stop listening.

"Yes, one of the Leeg twins was killed, they needed a replacement. It sounds like a bloodbath… I hope they get Snow quickly before more of our own die." The woman's voice breaks at the word 'bloodbath' and I find myself giggling.

Shit! Giggling… I'm slipping. My stupid, stupid brain.

I hear gasps behind me, I'm panicking. My hands fly to my ears, my tray dropping to the floor. "No, no, no." I know wasting food is violently punishable in District 13 making my panic sour through the roof. "I can't breathe!" I'm shouting, gasping for air. The floodwaters of the 70th Hunger Games are rushing in on me again, but I can't swim. I feel arms around me, carrying me out. "Finnick! Finnick please! Help me, please! Don't let them take me again!" And I succumb to the tranquiller shot into my shoulder.

"Annie?" I open my eyes to a sterile white medical center, my doctor hovering over my. I feel my hands strapped down, my feet as well. "I… I have some news."

"How many days have I been out?" I gasp, groggy, restless.

"Two, we had to make sure you were stable… for the baby, you know?" He cuts me a half hearted smile. Something is very, very wrong.

"What's going on?" I jerk my arms against the restraints, feeling them dig into my wrists, "Where is Finnick?"

"About that." The doctor sighs pinching his brow, "Hes-"

"No, don't…. No. Finnick?!" I start screaming for him, my husband with the beautiful face and the smile that fixes everything. The oxygen to my constant drowning. The gravity to my outerspace. I'm hysterical, tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I keep jerking my legs and arms against these damn restraits. I want to run, I need air, I'm struggling to breathe.

"Annie, please calm down. You will hurt the baby! Think of what Finnick would want." The doctor is pushing on my chest and my body stills, save for the body rocking sobs and moans that have replaced my screaming.

"He died for a good cause Annie. He has given his child a future." The doctor is pulling liquid into a needle, a medical approach to stilling my distressed brain and body.

"No, no, no, no…" I'm begging him not to do it. "Tell me what happened, please!" The doctor shakes his head no and injects the sleepy serum into my thigh.

"For my one true love, I want you to know, that if I die in the arena, my last thought will be of your lips."