𝐌𝐀𝐃 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 - 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘥𝘢𝘪𝘳

― 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

⚠️TW: mention of self-h@rm⚠️

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chapter twenty-five: we Victors stick together

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𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒. 

She is standing over Rye and Orion's broken, mangled bodies. There is a knife in her hand. Blood coating her lips. Her eyes are wild and frenzied. She staggers back a bit, dropping the knife. Blood is on her hands, too. 

She killed them. 

She knows that she killed them. 

Visha lets out a sob, blood-covered hand slapped to her mouth as tears stream down her face. She sinks to her knees, horrified at what she's done. 

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! THE VICTOR OF THE SIXTY-EIGTH HUNGER GAMES―VISHA DEVI!" a voice booms. 

Her eyes close as the realisation of what has happened sinks in. Almost by itself, her hand picks up the dropped knife and turns it towards Visha's body. Something sharp pierces her stomach. She pulls her hand away only to feel red, hot blood. 

Blood trickles out of her mouth and―

Visha wakes up screaming from dreaming, sitting up as rapidly as humanely possible. She shoves her covers off her body, feeling slick with sweat and tears. Clammy hands cover her face as Visha's entire body is racked with sobs. Snot drips down her nose and onto her hands, but she can't bring herself to care. She runs the same hands through her hair, sniffling. 

It has been only a week since her return from the Capitol, yet it feels like an eternity. 

She can't imagine spending the rest of her life like this. 

Wiping the tears off her face, Visha stumbles from her bed and pads down the hallway of her brand-new Victor's House. She shuffles into the bathroom, washing her hands carefully and then splashing cold water onto her face. Briefly, she catches sight of the bags under her eyes. They are horrendously huge. But, then again, she hasn't been able to sleep for the past week― the nightmares are a reoccuring thing. This time, it was Rye and Orion. The last one had been Mayan, and the one before, the Careers. She can't remember anything from earlier. That is the price of being a Victor, she supposes.