↳ i don't rise from the ashes, i make them...
oc x finnick odair
catching fire - mockingjay pt. 2 (flashbacks included)
TW: Depression, thoughts of suicide, use of drugs/alcohol, use of tobacco, detailed gore, use of weapons, death, and mentions/sug...
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Something swishes past my cheek in a blur, barely visible to me before it goes clattering to the floor on the other side of the room, but still managing to crudely make contact with my cheek. I grunt at the instantaneous pain, reaching a trembling hand to my cheek as the only thought that registers in my mind is to retreat and to start moving as quickly as I can to do so. When I pull my hand back from my face, my fingers are wet with bright, red blood, the liquid wasting no time to pool between the ridges of my fingerprints. No matter how much I'd like to stop and nurse my fresh wound, I know I have no time to do anything about it, so wipe my fingers onto the rough fabric of my grey pants and turn around the bend towards what is most likely another room, sprinting through an open doorway.
You have to get out of the building, is all I can think, as I take a quick survey of the new room I've found myself in. There's a set of old stairs against the far wall, leading to an upper level through the ceiling. I think about climbing them, deciding that it's my only option for escape from my pursuer, who, if I turn around, is probably gaining on me again. At the same time, I will eventually reach a point in which I have no more stairs to ascend, and I'll find myself even more cornered than I already am right now.
In front of me, I see a gaping hole in the wall that looks outside at the blue sky, surrounded by staggering bricks, that expose the world beyond. For a fleeting moment, I believe that I must be crazy because there can't be another way to describe the thoughts that I'm having at the moment. I move to the large hole, where I touch my hands to both sides of the building that are still in tact and silhouetting the opening. Looking downwards, it's not difficult to determine that it's a decently far way to the ground - something that has a chance of being lethal and ending the Games once and for all - not to mention the enormous pile of rubble below, acting as just another obstacle between myself and any possible means of survival.
I'd be lucky to survive if I were to jump, but I'd rather die on my own terms, than from a knife in the back while I spend my last moments choking up more of my own blood.
With the twinkling sound of crunching glass underneath the pressure of boot soles sounding off behind me, I know I have to make a decision as to how I'm going to deal with this, but I truly don't really feel like I have one. The chances of this becoming the last decision I'll ever make are becoming increasingly likely. I turn my head rapidly, my tangled ponytail of dark hair flipping over my shoulder as my eyes lock with the girl from District One, Starlet. Her intensely green eyes meet mine, a small grin forming on her subtly, pink lips, which seems to be a great contrast from the smears of dust and crusted blood that's staining her pale skin.
I remember her from the interviews before the Games, her slim, toned body donned with a mesh dress that was crafted of twinkling diamonds and silvery sequins that shimmered every time the stage lights glinted off of it. She was as pristine as a subject in an intricate painting. Now, she's a disheveled mess - her eyes bloodshot and seemingly crazed as they scan my body up and down - but none of that distracts me from the fresh, sparkling blade she is gripping in her left hand, her knuckles turning white because of the tightness.
