↳ 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 in her room on the edge of her bed, her feet were planted firmly on the floor beneath her. She left her hands folded in her lap, staring at the window in front of her. The curtains had been pulled apart that morning to awaken her, courtesy of Belisama. She left them that way, peering out at the skyline of the Capitol, something she was only used to seeing in compilations of propaganda splayed across her television screen at home.
The effect of her score rung through her head repeatedly, coming from the lips of Caesar Flickerman himself as he read the scores of each individual from their private sessions.
"Seven," Isla repeated to herself, wanting to hear the number come from her own mouth. She could hardly believe it, but at the same time, marveled at how it could even be something to work with. Sure, it was a higher score than several people had been given, but many others outshone her with their numbers vastly beating hers.
Arden had received a ten, and the other Careers were neck and neck with him, but she felt burrowed in the middle, hidden amongst the better and the worst.
The other thing that continued to repeat in her head was Finnick's words as he strode across the room to her from where he had been standing, eyebrows furrowed and eyes trained on the television with his arms crossed over his chest. He smirked funnily as Isla's score was read out and crossed the room towards her, leaning his head over the back of the couch where Isla had been sitting. The hair on her neck rose as his breath tickled her skin, his lips nearly pressing against her ear.
"Congratulations," his alluring voice uttered, but then later left her pondering over the genuineness of his singular word.
Any explanation dissolved in her mind before she could attach it to any true meaning.
Confusion plagued her like a festering wound, and at the end of the day, she didn't know what to make of anything. She was infected by his presence, her mind only returning to Finnick, even after repeatedly trying to repel the thought. Training was over, which left a day in between to prepare for interviews. Isla was left torn on how she would portray herself. There were countless options, but all of them seemed too shallow or bold of her. There was no way she could sum up her entire life and situation in just a few minutes, nor did she believe she could rest her case as to why she was the tribute with every right to survive.
It would be easier to just fall apart.
But she needed to find a way to pull herself together just enough that every face in the audience and individual at home who had coins jingling in their pockets would want to bet on her.
