![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
(no subject)
There are dreams and then there are flashes of memory, and these days Peeta can't tell what's real or fake, what's a true memory and what's been hijacked: a memory manipulated, infused with terror (and tracker jacker venom), saved, and sent back into his mind so he remembers an event a whole lot differently than the world does.
A lot of things don't make sense. A lot of what he feels is confusing. Mostly what he feels is scared all the time, but on the edge of that is anger - dark, boiling, red-hot anger; and then, beneath all that is a desperate need to do something about it, scratch it off as if he could shed the feelings like a second skin. He wants to save his brothers, save his District, save someone or something but most of all, he wants to save himself. Because if he doesn't, he feels useless, feels like the poor beaten down boy under his mother's fist with bruises across his face and across his back because he'd tried to turn away - fast but not fast enough.
He's standing in the centre of a room, surrounded by people in different costume, some sparing him curious glances, others not bothering to acknowledge him at all. He's dressed in a very simple shirt and trousers, both the same tan colour like a set of scrubs only without the profession to go along with it. He doesn't recognize any of these people, that much he can tell, and he wonders if this is real, or if this is one of his dreams, or one of his tampered memories.
His first instinct is to find something to defend himself with, something to keep his fist clenched around so he can stop drifting in and out of the confusion in his head, a lot of the time skewing his sense of place and time. But he doesn't move. He stays rooted where he is, dark circles under his eyes looking like deep blue bruises on his pale skin, his lips cracked dry, mouth pressed into a tight, tense line.
To someone in the modern contemporary Earth, he looks as though he could have escaped from a mental facility. To others, maybe he just looks like a stressed out teenage boy who could use a good (thousand) night's sleep.
He swallows once, exhales - but then just as suddenly, he jumps and a silent scream tears through his senses and makes him flinch when someone mistakenly bumps into him from behind, mutters an apology, and keeps going. The action does get him to move though, and move he does. Aimless, a little dazed at first, but with one hand clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles are white, he schools his expression into one of neutral, focused interest.
Dream. Memory. Reality.
He's not sure what this is, but he's alone and he has to save himself.
[ ooc: oh yeah, forgot to mention that this is backdated to before the sickbay shenanigans to come. ]
A lot of things don't make sense. A lot of what he feels is confusing. Mostly what he feels is scared all the time, but on the edge of that is anger - dark, boiling, red-hot anger; and then, beneath all that is a desperate need to do something about it, scratch it off as if he could shed the feelings like a second skin. He wants to save his brothers, save his District, save someone or something but most of all, he wants to save himself. Because if he doesn't, he feels useless, feels like the poor beaten down boy under his mother's fist with bruises across his face and across his back because he'd tried to turn away - fast but not fast enough.
He's standing in the centre of a room, surrounded by people in different costume, some sparing him curious glances, others not bothering to acknowledge him at all. He's dressed in a very simple shirt and trousers, both the same tan colour like a set of scrubs only without the profession to go along with it. He doesn't recognize any of these people, that much he can tell, and he wonders if this is real, or if this is one of his dreams, or one of his tampered memories.
His first instinct is to find something to defend himself with, something to keep his fist clenched around so he can stop drifting in and out of the confusion in his head, a lot of the time skewing his sense of place and time. But he doesn't move. He stays rooted where he is, dark circles under his eyes looking like deep blue bruises on his pale skin, his lips cracked dry, mouth pressed into a tight, tense line.
To someone in the modern contemporary Earth, he looks as though he could have escaped from a mental facility. To others, maybe he just looks like a stressed out teenage boy who could use a good (thousand) night's sleep.
He swallows once, exhales - but then just as suddenly, he jumps and a silent scream tears through his senses and makes him flinch when someone mistakenly bumps into him from behind, mutters an apology, and keeps going. The action does get him to move though, and move he does. Aimless, a little dazed at first, but with one hand clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles are white, he schools his expression into one of neutral, focused interest.
Dream. Memory. Reality.
He's not sure what this is, but he's alone and he has to save himself.
[ ooc: oh yeah, forgot to mention that this is backdated to before the sickbay shenanigans to come. ]