𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄 ‣ 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫

v. blood runs red

act one, chapter five – blood runs red

When she wakes it still feels like the peculiar lightness of limbo, wavering in between life and death. The overhead lights made seep through the thin skin of her eyelids, eerily reminiscent of the sun in the arena. Sticky blinks work to clear her vision, revealing a plain metal box of a room around her. An IV tapped into her forearm under a pillow of gauze. Chemicals wrinkle her nose.

Agony surges down her veins like a faulty wire as she pushes herself up. When her pupils adjust, she rapidly moves the robe of medical cloth to looks at her injuries. Shock and confusion courses through her when it registers that her skin looks flawless, better than how she looked when she entered the Games.

A needle-like sensation pokes at the pressure points of her skull, forcing her to recline to the bed. It's a struggle to keep her eyes open. Fluorescent lighting beats down above and makes her temples throb stronger. Numbness is comforting to feel after the Games, or maybe it's just the medications they're giving her. At least for now, she can feel a taste of peacefulness before the rest of her life is Hell. It's better than the sting of regret she knew would come later.

An Axox places a tray and closes the door noiselessly behind her. Hungrily, she stares down, anticipating something spectacular, but it's a bowl of clear broth. Even though it's underwhelming, she's starving. But when she tries, it's a struggle to manage a couple of spoonfuls. Even the meak soup would come back up due to her uneasiness. In strained gulps, she consumes about half of it, robotically raising the spoon to her lips.

When she looks down, the tray presents a strange reflection. Stone-cold, hardened features conceal all traces of the girl she used to be. Her nerves won't respond to her brain's signals to make an expression. In a dreamy trace, she moves the tray aside, hoping that sleep will entertain her more than this.

The next time she wakes, Fallon feels slightly more rejuvenated. Eagerly, she throws her legs over the side of the bed, half expecting her knees to buckle when she bears her weight on them. To her surprise, they hold steady and keep her straight. That's when she sees it. She's sure that the broth is rising with the bile in her throat. At the foot of her bed lies a reminder of the arena. The pile of a suit makes her wince, freezing as she glares it down, expecting it to spring to life and kill her somehow.

Against her will, she dresses. The texture of it pressing against her skin feels like it's crushing her inwards, collapsing into nothingness. Apprehensively, she pushes the door, letting it swing open on its own. She steps into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. Is she really all alone? Again? She says the first word that comes to mind in a feeble attempt to see a familiar face. "Finnick?"