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If I told you about the darkness inside of me would you still look at me like I'm the Sun.
The bedroom Cassia chose was too big. She was not used to having the large four-poster bed all to herself, or the large oak wardrobe and dresser, or the closet full of clothes that were her size. She had a balcony to her bedroom that looked out at the ocean. She could hear the waves crashing against the shore louder than ever; the noise drowning out the demons swarming and infecting her damaged soul.
It was late in the evening as Cassia stared up at the ceiling in her bed, unable to go to sleep. Dinner was just as nice as it had been on the train; now that they were rich enough to afford the good meat and seafood from the docks. Her and Evelin ate alone at the table in the dining room, not speaking much. It was apparent to Cassia that Evelin wanted to ask her questions, but didn't know how. And Cassia didn't want to answer any of them. She wished she could forget about the Games, the horrors that haunt her all the time.
Night time was the worst. She never really fell asleep. Her adrenalin ran through her veins as strong as it did in the arena; wondering when the next fight would happen, when the next tribute would fall to a gruesome death. . . . whether it be her or another person she cared about.
Sitting up in bed, she went to the balcony and opened the glass doors, leaning on the railing. Similar to the other night with Finnick on the train, she stared up at the stars. So far away, deities watching over the anarchy of the simpleminded humans. Cassia hunched her shoulders.
She never realized how difficult it would be to go back to her old self. The brutality of the Games made her wary of every noise. She had trouble using a knife at dinner, flashes of throwing a knife in a dark forest into the back of a tribute spurred her hands to shake. The image of Clio's victim slumped against the base of the tree with their throat slashed bloodily open flared in her mind with every silver glint of the butter-knife.
She remembered Ezra's pale hand lifting from the water and driving the knife into her thigh; the pain sharp and throbbing, but not as painful as the look on his face when Cassia pulled the knife from herself and drove it into his chest. It was a look almost similar to relief, gratitude that filled his eyes. Grateful that his suffering would finally end. And she was his savior, killing him from having the life of a tribute, of a victor in the clutches of the Capitol, of Snow—
Cassia retched over the railing all of the heavy food she had for dinner, gagging until nothing was left. Her vision blurred with tears and her nose ran. Her hold on the railing slipped and she fell to her knees, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She pressed her forehead against one of the cool bars, trying to ground herself.
The ocean crashed particularly loud against the shore and not knowing what else to do, she cried.
