life kicked them to the ground, held a blade against their throats and told them to stand
she ached to do so much more than that
finnick odair x fem!oc
thg, catching fire (& flashbacks)
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"I am the centre of an atrocity. What pains, what sorrows must I be mothering? Can such innocence kill and kill? It milks my life."
——Sylvia Plath, Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices
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There were no Gods in Panem, the closest thing to it were the Victors of the Hunger Games, the Titans of society, with teeth sharp as knives, heads plagued with nightmares that replay every-time they blink. Oh, what a wondrous life they led.
Elio Kimura watched her best friend turn ruthless, watched him kill other children just so he could be guaranteed another night alive. A year later, Finnick Odair watched her become the very thing they made him, a monster. Their innocence stolen by a thief in the night, their hopes and dreams and plans for the future— the only solid thing they had left was their title, but even Victors were disposable in Panem. Finnick Odair won the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games at fourteen. Elio Kimura won the Sixty-Sixth Hunger Games at fifteen. The two Victors never recognised the faces in their reflections since, hands always smeared with blood, no matter how much soap they used.
They would wander round their own houses, ghosts of the people they watched die clinging to every thought, every object and thing in existence now had the power to send them into a spiral. A gust of wind and a hoarse shout now enough to make them scream, clutch at their own throats until they couldn't breathe, until their hands shook and they fell unconscious on the floor of their kitchen, until they woke up shivering and covered in sick hours later. The Victors never actually left the Games, the mental torture kept them in that God forsaken arena years after they slaughtered others to leave, day after day felt like a repeat of the worst week of their lives— there was no escape from their greatest achievement. It was such a sick game they played, such a shame they played it so well.
What's worse? The hand that mocked or the heart that fed? To citizens of Panem, President Coriolanus Snow was both. The Victors lived in his palms, never out of reach from his cruel and diabolical thoughts, scraping whatever leisures they could from under his nails like savages scrounging for food. Even the victorious weren't safe from the man in the gold mansion.
