Traumatic experiences, fear, danger, are all commonplace to the people of Panem, but Finnick's known more of them than many other people, because of the Games, because of Snow, because of the beds he's been forced into. And he knows that not all pain is equal. Some, he can shove away, ignore for long enough it seeps into something deep inside him rather than forcing itself out into the open. Some stays close, always there, always ready to remind him.
"When I came here, I was in the arena again. Victors, we're supposed to be immune, but this year, for the anniversary of the Games, they reaped from the victors."
His voice has gone distant, and so has his gaze. He stops speaking for a moment, then he refocuses, and his lips tighten before he looks away.
"I know what you mean about it being closer."
Maybe it's because he knows the cost of the Games to the people who survive them now. Maybe it's because he'd known the people who'd died, one of whom he'd killed, this time. Maybe it's the horror of the jungle arena, the loss of Mags, the betrayal of the compact with the victors by sending them back into the arena, but something makes the Quell burn brighter in his nightmares, both sleeping and waking.
He breathes in, out, and gives her a strained smile.
"Sometimes I write. At home, I'd go running or sit on the beach. Or tie knots. Over and over again until my hands hurt and I can't think about anything else."
His smile flickers out. "If it's really bad, I talk to Annie. I don't like waking her up, but ..." His voice is almost a whisper. "Sometimes I have to."
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Traumatic experiences, fear, danger, are all commonplace to the people of Panem, but Finnick's known more of them than many other people, because of the Games, because of Snow, because of the beds he's been forced into. And he knows that not all pain is equal. Some, he can shove away, ignore for long enough it seeps into something deep inside him rather than forcing itself out into the open. Some stays close, always there, always ready to remind him.
"When I came here, I was in the arena again. Victors, we're supposed to be immune, but this year, for the anniversary of the Games, they reaped from the victors."
His voice has gone distant, and so has his gaze. He stops speaking for a moment, then he refocuses, and his lips tighten before he looks away.
"I know what you mean about it being closer."
Maybe it's because he knows the cost of the Games to the people who survive them now. Maybe it's because he'd known the people who'd died, one of whom he'd killed, this time. Maybe it's the horror of the jungle arena, the loss of Mags, the betrayal of the compact with the victors by sending them back into the arena, but something makes the Quell burn brighter in his nightmares, both sleeping and waking.
He breathes in, out, and gives her a strained smile.
"Sometimes I write. At home, I'd go running or sit on the beach. Or tie knots. Over and over again until my hands hurt and I can't think about anything else."
His smile flickers out. "If it's really bad, I talk to Annie. I don't like waking her up, but ..." His voice is almost a whisper. "Sometimes I have to."