𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 ᐅ 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙘𝙠 𝙤𝙙𝙖𝙞𝙧

𝙎𝙀𝙑𝙀𝙉

⌌⊱⇱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⊰⌍
I felt like such a
traitor.
⌎⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊷⊶⇲⊰⌏

I writhed in my bed, mind once again consumed by nightmares — nightmare. Singular. Because it was the same one over and over again, haunting my mind in a broken record. Waking gave me no sense of relief, of course it didn't, because life was an endless circle of death and terror. It was what I was accustomed to — what I deserved. This was a natural reaction from the universe... I was a bad person. And bad people needed to be punished.

There was a different horror afoot in reality, and I wasn't sure which I preferred. Reality or dreams? Reality or dreams? Reality or dreams?

Dreams, surely. In the sweet embrace of a dream, I could bask in the warm knowledge that I could do no harm, but I would in reality; it was inevitable. That's what I thought as I drove my knife through Jameson's stomach for the fifth time, and thick, black blood poured from his agape mouth, trickling onto my hands. I choked on nothing.

Through my nightmare, an obnoxiously chirpy voice shrieked at me. Wake up. Wake up, Lynx.

My eyes shot open.

"Wake up, Lynx!" Cassandra rushed as she tottered about my bedroom in a flurry. "Come on, now, out of bed, we've got an incredibly busy day today. First of all, I should let you know your clothing is already on the train, as is everything you need, so all you need to do is to hop out of bed and hurry up about it."

My eyes adjusted to my room, and I sunk further into my bed as Cassandra continued to ramble on, dressed in a bright yellow and silver gown. Today was the tour. I wish I could stay under the covers forever — hide away from the inevitability I'd have to face.

"I've already gone through this with you multiple times, you've got one hour until we need to leave... no, no, Jameson, be careful with that!" Cassandra shrieked as Jameson almost dropped her suitcase, muttering foul language under his breath before glaring at her.

Seeing Jameson after that nightmare, rolling his eyes as he carried bags he refused to let anyone else lift made my stomach churn, guilt worming throughout me. Somehow, I felt like I was to blame for my nightmares, even though the logical side of my brain reasoned that that was ludicrous.

"Why don't you help me, then?" Jameson snapped.

It was as though someone had slapped her. "I should do no such thing."

"Then stop complaining."

"Listen, here—"

Last night still left the hairs on my arms standing on end, goosebumps rising from my skin, almost mimicking the way we rose into the arena. That deal I'd struck with President Snow would secure my freedom, my peace... everything I'd ever wanted since the Games. I'd have to be a fool to turn that down.

I got ready hastily, not necessarily wishing to deal with Cassandra and her frustration this morning. Everything I did was rushed. Hurried. But all of that business was good for me, I thought. It distracted me from the horror I was about to face, about the false words I'd speak from my insincere mouth into the anxious ears of Panem.

The rest of my morning was hectic... it all sort of jumbled into nothing. Interview. Public. Photo shoot. Train.

We were soon in the train station, and the flashing lights of camera crews incited little spots to dance in my vision as I hopped onto the train. The effort to seem of a cheery disposition led me to press my back against the closed door and allow my breath to slow. My heart beat out of my chest. Perhaps it would be better if it did. But after the Games, I questioned whether I even had a heart at all.