↳ 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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Isla sat on the edge of her bed, trying to admire the assortment of amenities that were at her disposal from the second she had boarded the train just an hour ago, but found it quite difficult to do as much. Every time she casted a glance at the things surrounding her, such as the plush blankets that made up her bed, or the closet that held a supply of fresh, neatly folded clothes, she found herself being brought back to the idea of her imminent fate, feeling as though nothing that she was able to do or feel would ever have the capability of stopping the events looming in her future. Although there was a comfortable view of the outside world from the window in the center car, where the dining table and carts loaded with assortments of food and drinks were situated during all hours of the day, she found herself holed up in her sleeping quarters, wishing she could just jump out of the train, itself, and run away, finding herself back on the sandy shores that belonged to District Four, and all of the memories of the place in which she called home could rush back to here in the name of safety. She would bury her toes in the sand and let the skirt of her dress be swept back and forth with the current of the salty water.
And everything would be okay.
But instead of wasting too much time trying to avoid a thing that she knew would never stop or end, she willed herself to get up from her bed and take a small shower in the bathroom, which was joined to her room.
She knew it was the least she could do to distract herself.
Within moments of stripping from her white dress and dropping it onto he tile floor in a heap of now wrinkled fabric and submerging herself beneath the pings of harsh water droplets coming from the shower head above, she was glad she had opted to take a shower. The dried sweat that had crusted her skin after the heat of Reaping beat down on her needed to be washed away from her smooth skin. She was sad, however, that with the removal of the sweat, she also had chosen to lose the salty texture of water and waves from her dark hair, feeling it leave her once and for all, like one final piece of home being stripped from her.
She hated to think that she would never be close to District Four again - that her home was a long lost memory, like the last grains of sand that had slid from her feet once she got in the shower.
As Isla watched the water run down her pale skin, where he bones were slightly protruded, she couldn't help but wish that the arena she would be thrown into could resemble the ocean, at least in one sense or another. It could be one last homage to the place in which she had come from. If she were to die, she'd rather it be done in the depths of a deep body of salt water, her skin coated in sand time and time again, instead of in a place that was foreign to her. It was a morbid thought, but if she were at least to die in the ocean, she wouldn't feel any homesickness.
