𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒 ⋆ THE HUNGER GAMES

𝟎𝟎․ ghosts of the past and present

GHOSTS OF THE PAST & PRESENT
( armored hearts, 00 )
ˋˏ *.·:·. ࿇ .·:·.* ˎˊ-

HE WAS DYING ONCE AGAIN, just as he did almost every night. Lying on the damp grass, paling as crimson flowed freely. It ran between her fingers. She couldn't stop it. She never could. He would bleed out as her scrawny hands clamped over the ugly, mangled wound. His usually tanned skin was a sickly pale and glistened with sweat. His breath was ragged and uneven, he couldn't breathe. She would press her ear to his chest to listen to his erratic heartbeat, but it was always difficult to hear over her own sobs and muttered pleas.

This was how he went out every time. It was always just as painful and gory- but originally, his eyes held nothing but the glimmer of love and a promise fulfilled.

Now she can only see anguish and a smoldering anger.

His unblinking eyes were stone cold as he locked onto her desperate gaze. She only wanted to save him- she needed to save him. But he was angry, furious, and it was all directed at her.

"This is all because of you."

Her glassy eyes narrowed in confusion. She was trying to save him. She would never do this to him, she could never hurt him.

"This is your fault."

"Wh-what?" She found the strength to answer in a pause between her cries.

"You killed me!" His sudden outburst sent her reeling and she tore her eyes from his, instead looking down at his wound.

Where she thought her hands were keeping pressure on the gash, she found a machete imbedded into his chest- with her hands wrapped around its handle. Like it was a scalding iron, she snatched her hands from the weapon- yet his blood still stained her skin up to her forearms and splattered across her jumpsuit like tainted constellations.

It was all she could see- red. It burned. Her hands set aflame by the deep scarlet that wouldn't fade. He stood like a sculpted corpse before her, the blade still embedded within him and his frame heavy.

She once believed he was ethereal, a being handmade by the gods and allowed to grace her presence. Now, with his ichor drained, face sunken, and limbs gangly- he depicted a creature ejected from Hell. A simple shadow of the boy she knew replaced by a mutt of the Underworld.

Taking shaky and wobbling strides, he approached her quickly. She propelled herself backwards, her hands and feet scrambling across the damp ground in attempt to keep her distance from him. But it was useless, for he seemed to glide effortlessly to her quivering frame while she tripped over roots and slipped on mud patches.

Latching his hands onto her upper arms like a leech, she was trapped. He looked like a rabid animal, teeth bared in hatred and jaws snapping as he screamed at her over and over. The angelically smooth voice she once dreamed of hearing whisper her name now only spewed venom in her face.

He wasn't like this. He wasn't this wicked zombie that stood before her. She remembers his lingering touches and encouraging words that wrapped her in a warming safety like a wool blanket. She remembers that boy dying years ago. Her inner demons now use his image to terrify her in her sleep. She knows this- but he is a ghost that haunts her still.

The world around her seemed to crumble as he shook her by her arms. His poison dulls into an inaudible rage and it sounds as though her head is stuffed with cotton, finally his face fades from her vision. Darkness consumes her but the shaking continues. She still feels hands grasping her, though now her tears had vanished and her instincts came flooding back to her. Her grip found the figure restraining her and gave a hard shove, a thud and a curse followed.

The darkness began to fade and she found herself flung back to reality. The haze in her mind cleared and her senses came flooding in.

Valora was sprawled across the couch of her living room, in the Victors Village, District 10. Not the arena, but home. On the floor, mumbling under his breath just a few feet from the couch was her brother, Oliver- not the hollow shell of him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She apologized breathlessly, swinging her legs around to ground her feet on the floor. She began to wipe her hand down her face, but red flashed across her mind once again and she found herself wiping her palms across her pants.

"Don't be. It's my bad," the younger Farvale hoisted himself from the floor to sit on the opposite end of the couch. He knew when this happened she needed space and cursed himself for being dumb enough to wake her like that. "I didn't think about what I was doing."

Though he meant well and his words were earnest, Valora had to stifle an eye roll. It was pathetic, she was pathetic. Here she was crumbling before him. She was the oldest sibling, her younger brother shouldn't be the one looking out for her. She needed to pull it together, and he was waiting for her to do the same.

"The Reaping is in a few hours."

His voice broke the silence and brought Valora's eyes up from the shining wooden floors. Their gazes met and the siblings shared melancholy smile.

"We're almost done, you know," Oliver's brows pinched in confusion as she paused. "After this Cria only has one year left, then you guys don't have to deal with this anymore."

Sliding across the couch to sit beside him, Valora grabbed a hold of Oliver's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He reciprocated the gesture with a sense of reality that felt like a slap across the face.

"But you still have to."

Her attempt at a lighthearted moment on the dreary day faltered with her brother's words. But you still have to. Yes, she did- for the rest of her life.

"I should get ready. Jax will have my head if I get on the train looking like this." She brought a swift end to the touchy subject and released Oliver's hand to head upstairs, readying herself to send two more children to the slaughterhouse.