A dark light flickered over Gryffon's head, casting dappled black shadows over his face. Outlined beside him was a grey blade, one that seemed to gleam white around the edges and leaned out in a clean curve. As it bobbed a couple of times at his side, the darkness split and revealed a deep scarlet pool that bubbled up to his knees and exposed the dark indigo trees that created a barricade around him.

On his other side stood a person, one too faded and splotched with red spots to be identified. They had a long and jagged scar wrapped around their waist and was slowly curling itself over their back, causing the wound to pulse with blood with every inch it crossed. The small face turned up and locked its strained white eyes with Gryffon's, and a miserable smile curved over their reddened lips.

"Help," was all it choked out. The splitting wound began to curve around the person's collar bone and around their neck. Eyes clenched, a small moan escaped their lips and a shudder passed through their body. Before Gryffon could stop himself, the curved blade that he held was pressed against the person's throat, hovering right above the gash - the gash that continued to bleed and deepen the pool that started to rise above his thighs.

"I will . . . " His voice wasn't his; it was deeper, calmer, almost as if he were sleep-talking. A wild look entered his now-green glare and he pressed the large slab of metal closer against their neck, a wild rush of bloodlust engulfing Gryffon. He wanted to get closer, feel the liquid run down his arms and chest, bathe in it . . . "You were right, weren't you?" He leaned down closer, his lips brushing against their crimson colored hair and whispered against their ear, "Are you happy now?" Before the shake of their head could come, the blade was shoved through their throat. First the gurgling of the person choking sounded, but it quickly ceased and a splash followed the sudden silence. Gryffon chuckled and let the armed hand drop the weapon and slide down to the waist of the body. "Goodnight, dear." When he let go, Gryffon felt the torso brush down across his chest, the very stump of its neck leaving a trail of smeared blood over the dark shirt he had on before it finally dropped down into the red lake that had, by now, spread across the clearing.

* * *

Gryffon sighed and ran a hand through his softened and slightly damp hair. He glanced up at the large, wall-sized window before him that he had set to show the many neon and pastel lights of the Capitol. Beyond the several tall and dome buildings rose the mountains that surrounded the Capitol like inanimate guard dogs. They acted like protection, like a cage. Gryffon knew this but he didn't feel trapped. He felt more free here than at home where you couldn't walk ten feet without running into a Peacekeeper. Most of all Gryffon enjoyed the absence of his mother. He had grown used to her ignorance, and had started to find her silence toward him comforting - but could not stand her trying to talk to him. Trying to give him any sort of attention after all these years of hardly even looking at him; it aggravated him . . . So much.

"Gryff'?"

The tribute glanced over his shoulder and saw the outline of someone at the door. Both the hall and the room's lights were off and dark, making it difficult to identify who it was. The voice was too soft to even hear correctly . . . Let alone allow him to tell who it was. "Yeah . . ?"

Silence followed the hesitant answer, but he felt the bed shift behind his back as someone climbed over it to reach him. A cold hand was placed atop his bare shoulder and the bed finally settled. "Hey . . . "

Too soft . . . The voice was too soft and too slurred . . . The rancid scent of alcohol wafted toward him, and as his eyes narrowed at the smell, Gryffon pulled away from the hand and turned around so he could lean back against the window. "What do you want?" The mere scent of alcohol was revolting to him. Gryffon couldn't stand it - it made him want to pull away, to get rooms away. If he didn't, the scent would waft around him for hours, making him feel drunk just with its smell.

"To talk. Waaarn you," she giggled, crossing her arms in front of her chest before resting her chin over them. "You're a shiiiiilly boy, and shilly boysh need to be waaaaarned." Warned? Of what?

"You didn't look like the drinking type to me," he answered evasively, raising a brow at the dark-haired mentor. A year away from the smelly thing had been wonderful, why did she have to drink?

Her dark eyes flickered up to him and reflected the bit of light that filtered in from the Capitol through the window, seeming to make that analytical look of hers sharpen. "And you didn't seem like the inshomnia-typical type person to meee," Annabelle slurred, shaking her head as she laughed a bit, causing her black locks to fall over her eyes. "You need heeeelp." She pointed at him, and almost as if she were trying to reach out to him, spread her fingers. "C'mere." Gryffon shook his head slightly, merely staring back at her. No, he'd rather stay right where he was . . . For the time being all he needed to see was her face and arms . . . "C'mere! Now, Gryff' . . . "

"Don't call me that," he said firmly, not moving toward her small hand, which was still outstretched toward him.

"So c'meeeere! Gryff'! Gryff'! Gryff'! Gryff'! Gryff'-"

"Fuck, shut up," the tribute growled under his breath, inching forward so her fingertips brushed through his hair. "Better now?"

"No." Annabelle's fingers looped into his hair and she tugged at the locks a bit. "Closer. I-I need to tell yooou shomething!" Gryffon sighed and pushed her arm away, leaning away from her.

"You've got nothing to say, you're acting like a five-year old," the tribute snapped in a whisper, narrowing his eyes further.

"No! Gryffon!" she whined, pushing herself closer to the edge of the bed to reach him, but the widow was too far for her to manage to get him. "It's . . . It's impooortant . . . It makes me sooo saaad." He sighed again and allowed himself to move close enough so her hand could rest over his head.

"Go on . . . "

"You're sooo screwed," she started with a giggle, letting her hand trail down to his cheek, tilting his head up so Gryffon's eyes were forced to meet hers. "You're abusing shomething you don't knowww. You wanting to keep something you noooo way waaant. You don't even trust your wittle ittle self, do ya'?" Again Annabelle laughed and pulled him closer. "C'mere."

"I don't want to listen to your bull - " she cut him off by forcefully pulling his hair, repeating her demand for him to get closer, which he had no choice but to obey unless he wanted to get his hair pulled off. Her words were edged with giggles, and when he finally leaned against the bed, close enough to her that she could lay her head over his, he decided she had no idea what she was talking about. She was playing with her words and thoughts like his father had when he got drunk, only difference was that Annabelle seemed to get playful rather than hateful.

"Anything else you'd like to say to brighten up my night?" Gryffon asked tiredly and sarcastically, not looking at his mentor. But even that seemed like a chore. She was right there, after all.

"I have a question actually," Annabelle purred, nuzzling into his messy array of hair. "Are you gonna leave me so bored?"