𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐒 ❦ The Hunger Games Third Book

t w e n t y - t w o

CHAPTER sixty-nine| MONTHS GONE BY

Conan Grey~ The Story
❝And I'm afraid that's just the way the world works, it ain't funny, it ain't pretty, it ain't sweet.❞

THE FIRE CRACKLED with an intensity that made each pop sound like a gun shot.

In a room that was supposed to be comfortable for Finnick Odair, it was hard for him to notice all the things that would remind him of good times when the sounds brought him right back to the fight. The room had been chosen because of it's colourful walls painted in a deep rich blue that should've reminded Finnick of the bottom of the ocean once the sun had been replaced by the glistening moon. It was littered with small silver flakes like stars- or the remaining foam that floated on top of the water after a particularly bad storm- that made the room lighter in the midday sun that streamed through the curtains. With cushions that wore the same colour, the blue hues reflected off of Finnick's pale face as he stared toward the reds and oranges that reminded him of something other than the sea.

The sun was rather rare now that the weather had become cold; autumn had come early for the whole of Panem after what they'd fought for- what so many of the country had died for six months earlier when a room with cushions and a real fireplace seemed out of the question. When being back home in District Four seemed like an impossibility. When Dr. Granger was painted suspiciously by his wife, instead of being the only woman that could coax the real truth out of him without making him feel like he should throw himself into a void without any way back.

He finally understood exactly how the Titan's had felt for all those years- if he could go back, Finnick wouldn't have ever said the things he did all that time ago.

Still, that was beside the point. As he tried his hardest not to spiral past topics a mile a minute he let his mind wander towards a past he had been afraid of for weeks. The fire popped once more, and he once again heard the similarity between that and the barrell of his gun. It was the aftermath of war; he glanced away from the fire that seemed to dance around the coal shipped directly from what was left of District 12 while he realised that be was the only one that heard guns in crackling wood. The Doctor wouldn't be able to make the same comparison that he had.

"Finnick." She called him back. Her style hadn't changed post war, Finnick realised as he glanced at her, then down towards the book in his hands. Her hair was still impossibly curly- despite the shine to it her locks still overwhelmed her round face that now had been brushed over with colour.

"Sorry." He mumbled after another short glance towards the fire, which had been littered by the embers that made the floor of the fireplace look brown.

"It's Ok. I know this must be impossibly hard for you, but this is a day of celebration." The woman only slightly older than him reminded the boy. "When I first suggested that you write your whole story down, I never expected you to go into so much detail- or for you to write it from her perspective. It shows a lot of strength."