Siren Song ~ Finnick Odair x oc

16...the Remake

As I begin to regain consciousness, I find myself in an uncomfortable, sterile white room, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. The walls, though devoid of any decorations, radiate a sense of clinical precision and meticulous care, designed to foster recovery and healing.

The medical team in the Capitol works tirelessly, their skilled hands deftly stitching up my visible wounds, meticulously applying salves and ointments to minimize scarring, all while maintaining a facade of professionalism and empathy.

I can feel their determined energy as they move around me, and for a moment, I take solace in the fact that my external injuries are being tended to with such expertise—after all, they want to ensure that my perfect exterior remains unmarred and flawless, the kind of pristine image that society expects and demands.

Yet, beneath this layer of comfort and attention, I am painfully aware that there are profound wounds that no bandage can cover, no surgical intervention can erase.

The mental scars, deep-seated traumas, and haunting memories of what I've endured persistently throb beneath the surface, elusive and insidious.

Each flash of a memory feels like a jagged edge against my psyche, reminding me that while my body may heal, the echoes of my experiences will resonate within me forever.

I try to focus on the gentle hum of the machinery around me, the soft voices of the medical team murmuring reassurances as they work, like a dull backdrop attempting to drown out the cacophony of my troubled thoughts.

They mean well, pouring themselves into their craft, yet they are powerless against the intangible wounds that I carry, locked away like a dark secret, waiting to resurface.

I shift slightly on the crisp white sheets, catching a glimpse of my bandaged limbs, and I realize that healing in this sterile environment is twofold—yes, my body will mend, but the journey to soothe my spirit and undo the damage wrought by my experiences is a far more complex struggle, one that I know will take time, introspection, and perhaps the courage I have yet to fully embrace.

I feel different...both physically and mentally. The pain I had experienced in the arena is now gone, replaced with a disconcerting feeling of numbness and detachment that seeps into every corner of my being.

I look down at my body and, to my astonishment, notice that it is completely healed; the medical team has seemingly performed miracles, mending my physical wounds with a precision that leaves me awestruck yet bewildered.

However, even as I run my fingers over the smooth skin free of scars and bruises, I can still sense the psychological aftermath of the brutal games lingering in the depths of my mind.

The vivid memories surge forth like a relentless tide, fractals of trauma replaying in my head; the screams, the chaos, the insufferable weight of survival add layers to my identity that were never there before.

With every close-eyed moment, I am transported back to the blood-soaked arena, grappling with the visceral sensations of fear and loss that seem impossible to shake off.

Suddenly, the sound of the door handle turning breaks the haunting silence in the room.

I sit up on the bench, my body adorned with the stark fabric of hospital-patient scrubs that feel foreign against my skin.

My legs swing over the side of the metal table, and I feel a tight knot of tension forming in my stomach as I brace myself for whoever is about to step through the threshold—my immediate instinct is too ready myself for a possible threat, a remnant of the survival instincts that have become all too familiar.