HI GUYS!

So I wanted to get this Chapter up sooner, but I've been busy working over the summer, and I experienced a bit of writer's block when I tried to sit down to write this for the first time. But here's Chapter 11. It's one in the morning and I couldn't fall asleep earlier because I have a tendency to watch shows about serial killers that I know will freak me out later, but I watch them anyways (hence why I was up at one a.m.). And that's what happened tonight, so of course instead of sleeping I finally decided to work through the problems I had writing this Chapter and finish it. I know it's a little bit on the shorter side, but I thought it ended at a fitting place. Hopefully next chapter is longer and will make up for it.

YAY! I'm so excited for what's to come and to finally delve into the more complicated relationship of Annie and Finnick's that begins when they get back to District 4.

Also, thank you to buggerkid , your comment convinced me to sit down and get this chapter finished. So thanks J You're the best.

THANK YOU to the people who have been reviewing! That means more than you will ever know. So if you like this story, be sure to let me know by leaving a review or just saying hi. I really love hearing what you guys have to say.

Disclaimer: You know I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters. Do I wish I'd been that clever to come up with something amazing like this? Yes. Am I? Ehhh… probably not. Enjoy though J

Chapter 11: Illusion

I don't register what happens to me.

There's a loud, blaring noise, an ear-piercing screech that makes my head pound and limbs feel even weaker. I'm ready to give up.

I want to.

My family has always been and always will be right: I'm as fragile as glass. I'm too breakable, too weak, for these kinds of Games. It's mere luck and terrible circumstance that has allowed me to come this far in these Games. I'm like my delicate, white shells that I loved to string into beaded bracelets and necklaces and hair pieces back home. Maybe to some in the Capitol I am beautiful, but underneath it all, I'm simply a seventeen year old girl, that's too frail to handle any of this.

Another noise now. Impossibly loud, louder than that first, strange screeching. I'm not sure what to make of my surroundings, and it frightens me. I'm still in the arena, still facing death, still trying to protect myself from the watchful, vengeful gazes of the Careers; that much I know. But what's happening to me? It seems like water is clogging my ears and filling up my lungs, as images of Rye's dismantled head attack my sanity. Rye, the impossibly kind boy who risked everything for me, lying still and cold, headless. The jagged skin where the ax had severed his neck, the blood laying on that grayish-purple rock and seeping into my very pores, permeating the air with a metallic stench…. I give up now and succumb to the terrible vision, forgetting everything else about myself, the family I have back home that's willing me to survive, the salty ocean air that will always beckon to me, and my best friend, who hasn't been able to be with me at home in far too long. My tired limbs feel heavy as my mind shuts down, and I ache all over as I continue to tread water, moving like jelly as I swim in someone's blood, most likely the unidentifiable boy next to me. His head is gashed open, and the red liquid spewing from his wounds seeps into my skin, attaches to my throat, invades my remaining sense of sanity with a final pull. The little progress I've made securing my sanity ever since Rye's death is now brutally and suddenly wiped away in one, clean flash. I feel like before, sitting and staring and never wanting to move again. I'm losing my mind, I can tell. The world around me blurs and my body gives out as I'm sinking down, down, down, into the water, away from the harsh, bright light of this arena, into a deep, dark abyss. I don't like the feeling of being submerged into the unknown, but it's so much better than staying afloat.

Right as I'm sinking, losing myself in this scary ocean of pain and darkness and stifled lungs gasping for air, something jolts me out of the water, freezing me into space. It lifts me up higher and higher until I'm greeted by strange hands masked in white gloves and bright lights and unfamiliar faces. I blanch. I shut down. I don't know what's happening.

There's a strange ripping sensation in my lower stomach, and it takes me minutes, maybe hours, to decipher that I'm sobbing. And then, just as I'm about to finally succumb to darkness, a shiny, thin needle is prodded into my skin by a frustrated doctor. After that, the light goes out.

XXXXXXX

Drip, drip, drip… Water everywhere.

Drip, drip, drip… Swimming in blood, choking on it, gasping for air….

Drip, drip, drip. Rye, kind and brave and warm, dead. Chopped into an unnatural deformity, gone forever.

Is it just my imagination, or is the dripping getting louder? The wet, uncomfortable sound presses on my ears and suffocates me. My head feels ready to implode like an expanding balloon. I'm confused, I'm scared, and I have no idea where I am. What happened to the water? What happened to that stormy yet eerily bright light that filled the arena as it flooded? Are those masked people that somehow received my body going to hurt me, finally pity me enough to kill me? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know. And that fact makes my head hurt.

I don't feel like myself anymore. I can't remember any reasons that could possibly motivate me to gather any strength I can muster and leave this room to go on with my life. My home back in District 4, with my family and friends, seems like a distant memory. After all that I've witnessed, I can't imagine going back home and things ever being the same again. It makes me sad in a sort of manic, panicked way that causes my breathing to accelerate and my hands to tremble. After that, I can't stop shaking. I'm vaguely aware of the masked faces, robed in white garments, whispering and reaching and tugging as strange-looking machines beep out different numbers that I'm assuming let them know how my body is adjusting and if I'm going to live or not. Considering I have no major injuries, I think the only problem is that I nearly drowned, and my lungs are filled with water. I can feel my labored breaths, the uncomfortable weight of the blood-ridden water clogging my throat. It makes me feel sick.

And abruptly, I feel so sick, sick down to the very beats of my heart, to the very core of my body, that I am here right now and twenty three other people aren't. It doesn't matter that I didn't kill anyone. It doesn't matter that before all of this I was considered a fragile, sweet, innocent girl. It doesn't matter anymore because I'm none of those things. I won the Hunger Games, and I took away the futures of so many of those other people that deserved it just as much as I did.

The vomit bubbles up my throat as I'm violently sick, but I don't even register the doctor's reactions above me as suddenly, I find myself, for what feels like the millionth time today, drifting into a misty, fading blackness as my eyes shut and the world falls away. If it didn't feel so foreign and dark and unknown, I might like this strange notion of falling asleep just to be able to escape reality.

XXX

I'm on the riverbank, hunkering down into the long, swaying grass as a subtle breeze whispers across the landscape of the arena. I'm safe for now, and that thought propels me to reach into my pack, the same orange pack that belongs to Rye and I, to eat some of the food he has been gathering. He's across the river, catching water fowl in order to roast a proper dinner for us, something that I haven't really had at all in the arena. And my body is clearly making that known—I can feel the weakness of my limbs, the unwillingness of their movements.

I'm looking at Rye as he bends down, to spear another fowl I think, when suddenly, he's no longer bending over. He's crumpled on the soft, muddy earth, a spear twice the size of the one he was using lodged into his neck. He's gone. The cannon fires. I can't force myself to look away, even when the boy from One callously tosses Rye's body to the side and hauls his ax pointedly at the same neck wound, severing the head of the boy who was nothing but good to me.

I can't tell if they see me. I'm not even paying attention to see for myself.

All I see black.

I start awake with a loud gasp.

There's no relief.

My dream still burns behind my lids, the images causing a churning to begin mounting in my stomach as I fight back the bile that threatens to rise, despite the fact that I haven't really been eating anything. Unless of course, these doctors have decided to start feeding me through a tube, which is probably the case.

I shudder. Needles. My hands go to my ears.

Only when I finally focus on the flickering, too-bright light of the ceiling and remove my hands from my ears do I notice there is an older man standing at the foot of a sterile, white bed, holding an official-looking clipboard while also scanning some scattered papers sprawled across his lap.

"Hello," the man says in a friendly voice, once he realizes I've noticed his presence. "I'm Dr. Hans. I'll be staying with you for a while while you get better. First, just let me assure you, you are completely safe here. I'm not going to hurt you. I want to help you so you can home, to your family and friends, like you want. Now, let's start off with something basic. What's your favorite thing about home, Annie? Could you start off with happy things about your life that you remember? Maybe a childhood memory, a hobby, a friend? Anything?"

I don't respond. I don't want to think of my old life. Don't want to live when so many others haven't. Home will never be the same for me.

I watch the man's lips moving, and somewhere, my consciousness tries to reason with me that despite being an extremely wealthy doctor from the Capitol, this man seems nice enough, but all too soon, that tiny voice of rationality disintegrates, just like salt into water.

I see his mouth moving, but I don't hear the words.

We are in this bright room, with white walls and white beds and white lights and white outfits and it's all too much. So different than the soft, pearly white of my seashells. It feels too artificial, too unreal, and I don't feel rooted in reality anymore. I almost think that I might start screaming, but I'm not sure. Eventually, the doctor simply stands and leaves, as I lose all thought, all feeling, all conscious effort to go on fighting. I let myself succumb to sleep, to the nightmares that I know will plague my mind.

I think I wake up a few times, but I'm not sure. Every time, I wake up, I'm feeling better rested and less hungry, but despite my physical improvement, I know I'm not getting better. It's even more frustrating and confusing and terrifying because I know I'm losing my mind: I can feel it. I can feel the beat of my pulse in my own ears, I can feel the frantic, shallow breaths escaping my lungs, and I even notice that the thin, off-white hospital gown I'm wearing has multiple tears in it from wear my fingernails must have clenched too hard during a nightmare. I register all of these things and realize that I'm not well off. It's been however many days, and I still don't hear the world that goes on around me. It's like cotton has been stuffed into my ears, into my eyes, shutting out all access to anything that might allow me to finally recognize the world around me and give some brief respite.

I want the suffocating feeling to go away, but it won't.

Time seems to stretch as I lay in this soft, plush bed. Little things come to my attention: my skin is unbelievably shiny and smooth, probably thanks to the Capitol, but it has turned a sickly pale color instead of the ever present golden-brown tan that was a part of living next to the ocean in 4. I haven't seen any sunlight or been able to breathe any hints of fresh air that weren't diluted with a strong, bleach-smelling antiseptic. After a while though, I notice that the windows are left open in my room to chase out the invasive smells, and a bright, hot light is configured above my bed to mimic the sun, allowing my tan to return and my body to absorb the health benefactors of the exposure. A nurse comes in to check my vitals, as I'm still hooked up to a machine, but I can't make sense of anything. I don't know where I am, where the arena is, why I haven't died. Face after unfamiliar face comes into my room, sympathetic smiles are shared, and one white-gloved woman even brushes my dark hair back into a braid for me so that it stops sticking to the sweat off my face that always seems to be there after a particularly bad night.

I don't sleep anymore either.

I see Rye. I see water. I see drowning. I see blood. I see everything I don't want to see when I go to bed. And even now, in wakefulness, I see those memories like a flashing burn of hurt against my lids. Nothing I do can relieve me. I can't listen to anyone, and I can barely focus on the world around me to notice my surroundings. The people who I can't seem to hear continue to talk, and the place in which I don't know or recognize as anything but my room slowly becomes familiar, even though I still have no idea where I am. After that first doctor came in, Dr. Hans, I've grown to realize that he is probably the man in charge because he often comes in to check on me, more than anyone else. Time passes in uneven lulls as I wait for the next foreign face to appear in my line of sight. Despite the exhaustion, I fight the heavy pressure of my lids so that I won't succumb to my alternate reality of dreams.

This Dreamland, my Dreamland, where murder and darkness and loneliness are all crucial themes, is so different from the one I was told about as a child.

And that's when I remember.

Dreamland.

Childhood stories.

Told by Finnick.

I'm screaming. I'm screaming at the top of my lungs, my raw throat rubbing my tonsils, as I wail his name. Finnick, who wrote me that scrawled, messy note in the arena. Who most likely saved my life by winning me sponsors.

It all makes sense now.

I'm alive, and I'm in the Capitol. I've won the Hunger Games, probably thanks to Finnick and his sponsors. I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm alive. And after these days of feeling so utterly dead, that small, insignificant phrase suddenly becomes anything but unimportant. It is the very life which I cling to.

I'm alive.

I'm alive.

I'm alive.

I shouldn't be, but I am.

And that means I get to see Finnick.

He kept me alive.

I think I'm yelling his name now.

I feel the vibrations of my screams in the pit of my stomach, and when Dr. Hans rushes into my room, which now seems to be flooding with a strange sense of not belonging, I can finally hear.

I hear his quiet confusion, for the first time in what feels like forever.

"Annie? It's me, Dr. Hans. It's me. Answer me, please. Is it Mr. Odair? Are you wondering about your mentor? Because if so, he's still in the Capitol with us. He's waiting for you so that our lovely Capitolites can see your final interview. You have to get better for that to happen, Annie. You want to get better, don't you?"

Interview. Final interview. My stomach drops, and I'm still screaming, but for other reasons now too.

"Get him now," a low voice commands. It's not Dr. Hans's low and raspy tone, and abruptly I'm confused. Who are they talking about? Snow? Rye? My heart squeezes in fear and then anguish. Rye isn't alive. I don't know what's happening. I'm confused, I'm confused, and I just want to sleep.

My room is flooded with so many unfamiliar faces it makes my head ache, and I'm just about to slip under into the safety of black unconsciousness when a disheveled, panting figure slams to a stop in the doorway. There's a seemingly loud argument as doctors try to push the man at the door back, but he clearly isn't having that. He struggles against them and finally pushes through their line of safety, but only when he receives a seemingly nod of approval from Dr. Hans. This must be the man my doctor requested for.

A smaller, strict-looking woman dressed in white, rubbery-looking scrubs steels her eyes in the direction of the doorway. "You know this isn't what President Snow requested, Hans," she spits. "Leave him out of this. The girl is unstable."

They mean me. Right? Am I unstable? I feel like I am. Maybe. I don't know.

"There's no time for that now, Lissy," Dr. Hans bites back. "She has to be ready for this interview soon, and if this is what it takes, then dammit this is what it will be."

I'm still so confused. But looking through the doorway at the man seems to clear my head a bit, strangely enough. So I study him, wondering who Dr. Hans could have possibly asked for in the midst of my screaming and the other doctor's confused mumblings.

There are large circles under the man's eyes that look so blue and sagged and exhausted against the bronze of his skin. The messy mop of hair on top of his head matches the color of his skin, bronze and glowing. Even his bright, stunningly liquid ocean eyes glow with a soft light; it's almost like they come alive with a hint of recognition or acknowledgment. And that's when I realize it: he knows me. That's why his eyes have lit up the way they have. I know him, too.

And for the first time since I've returned from the arena, I don't see things that aren't there. At least I think. What I'm seeing is something real and something, someone, that holds more meaning than anything else ever could.

It's not an illusion.

It's Finnick.