The Forgotten Days

▬▬ 𝟏𝟓 ∙ 𝝩𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿 𝝾𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗦𝗲𝗮

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽

˚✩ ⋆｡ ✩┊ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐲𝐬 ┊✦ ˚ · .

▬▬ 15 ∙ 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚎𝚊

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

EIGHT MONTHS.

It's been eight months since I got out, but it feels like it's been eight years. Eight years too many of nightmares and secrets, of wanting to forget and not being about to stop remembering. Eight years of running because there's no way to hide anymore.

Eight years of being alive.

But not living.

✯✯✯

The house feels cold without Dad.

It's not a very noticeable change, since the house always felt too big and clean and perfect, not to mention he was never around very much. Even with me trying to get him to understand that with my victor income, I earn more in a year than he does in a lifetime, he still hauls the boats out into the dock every work morning and comes back in time for dinner, weary and fish-smelling. But he was happy, and who am I to refuse any bit of happiness in my family?

He was never around much, but now that he's never around, I realize how I've taken it all for granted. At least I knew that I would see him again two months ago, crashing into a chair. Mom would force him to change and take a shower before eating dinner, and he would always protest that his cleanliness can wait, but his hunger can't.

I still listen for the back door to open. I never hear it anymore.

Finnick told Annie to give me time. That I'll come around sometime soon, feeling a little bit better. Mom says that he comes over every day, knocking on the door, but I gave her strict instructions not to let anyone in, not even my friends. I can tell that she didn't quite agree with my decision to isolate myself, especially from Finnick, the one person I'm close to and actually knows how terrible it feels to have your brain messed up like this. But Finnick's included in the 'don't let in' group, and as ignorant as that makes me, she complies with my wishes.

Sometimes I think I say things so people will do the opposite.

✯✯✯

"How are you feeling today?"

Mom asks the same thing every morning, smoothing back my hair and giving me a smile so that I can be the one who's sad. Because somebody needs to be happy, and she took the burden of making it her.

"I'm okay."

It's such an easy lie to tell that I say it every day, and neither of us believes it, but neither of us knows how to get the real answer out of me.

On a day before my Games, if I was ever feeling down, Mom would suggest that I go to the beach with my friends for a couple of hours. It's something about the water that gives me stability. Maybe it's its familiarity.

Or maybe it's that some days, it comforts me to know that something is as turbulent as I am.

"I made breakfast, it's downstairs." Mom found a way of coping when I didn't—cooking. It's not that I haven't tried to find something, but nothing works the way swimming did, and now that that's taken away, I'm left with nothing.