Torn: Sequel to Ruthless

Chapter 21

Octavia

The days after my return blur together, an endless stretch of time that feels both too fast and agonizingly slow. I'm back in District 2, back in my own house, my own bed. But nothing feels familiar. I walk through the rooms like a ghost, disconnected from everything around me, the memories of the Games clinging to me like a second skin.

Rowan tries to help. My big brother, always the protector, always strong for me. Every day, without fail, he knocks on my door, soft and tentative, like he's afraid even the sound might break me. He doesn't push me to talk about the arena, doesn't ask for details I can't bear to say out loud. Instead, he just asks the same quiet question: "Do you want to have dinner with us tonight?"

And every day, I say no. I can't sit at that table, pretending life is normal, pretending I'm the same person I was before. The thought of eating—of laughter and conversation—makes me sick. How can I eat when all I can think about is Seena and Bark and Kai starving in the arena? When I close my eyes, I still see the hunger etched into their faces. How can I laugh when the screams of the tributes echo in my mind, a haunting melody I can't escape?

Rowan just nods, his expression calm, but I see the worry flicker behind his eyes. I know he feels helpless, unsure how to reach me, unsure if there's even a version of me left to reach. My mom hovers in the background, always close but never close enough. She lingers outside my door, her footsteps light and hesitant, as if one wrong move might shatter what's left of me. She opens her mouth to speak sometimes, but the words never come. I think she's afraid—afraid of saying something that will send me spiraling. And maybe she's right. Maybe I'm afraid of that too.

The twins, Vulcan and Lilith, don't understand any of it. They're too young, too innocent to grasp what the Hunger Games really are. To them, it's some grand adventure, a story of heroes and triumph. I catch them in the yard, reenacting the Games, their laughter sharp and bright against the heavy silence in my chest. They don't understand the weight of what they're imitating. They don't know the blood that stains those stories. And I can't bring myself to ruin their innocence. Not yet. But it hurts, their laughter. It's like a knife twisting in a wound that never closes. I want to scream at them, tell them to stop, to never do that again. But the words stay trapped in my throat, choking me. Instead, I turn away, burying my face in my pillow until their voices fade.

Missy is the only one who doesn't treat me like I'm fragile. She barges into my room like nothing's changed, flopping onto my bed with her usual ease. She talks and talks, filling the silence with stories of school drama, her latest crush, the town gossip. I know she's trying to help, trying to pull me back into a world I no longer recognize. But her energy is overwhelming, and her words feel distant, like a language I've forgotten how to speak. I smile when she tells a joke, nod when she expects me to, but it's all mechanical. Inside, I'm numb. She doesn't notice—or maybe she does, but she doesn't know how to handle it. I don't blame her. I don't know how to handle it either.

The nights are the worst. The quiet, suffocating nights where there's nothing to distract me from the memories. I wake up gasping, my chest tight, the phantom screams of the arena still ringing in my ears. My hands tremble as I reach for a glass of water, but I drop it, the crash of shattering glass too loud, too sharp. The sound sends me spiraling, my heart pounding as I stare at the shards on the floor, and suddenly it's not water pooling around them—it's blood. Their blood.

I stumble out of bed, desperate for air, for anything to escape the suffocating weight in my chest. The house feels too small, too filled with memories I can't bear. I grab the nearest jacket and slip out into the night, the cold air biting at my skin. It's a relief, the sharpness of it. It reminds me that I'm alive, that I'm still here, even if I don't know how. I wander aimlessly, my feet carrying me to a familiar grassy field. The old practice arena. I spent so many days here before the Games, training, sparring, dreaming of glory that now feels like ash in my mouth. I drop to my knees, the damp grass soaking through my nightdress, and for the first time since coming home, I let myself break.

The sobs come hard and fast, shaking my whole body. I cry for Kai, for Seena, for Apollo. For every tribute who died, and for the girl I used to be before the Games stripped her away. The grief is overwhelming, a tidal wave that drowns me, but I don't fight it. I can't. When the tears finally stop, I feel hollow, like the storm inside me has burned itself out. I tilt my head back, staring up at the stars, searching for something—answers, maybe. Hope. But the sky doesn't answer. It never does.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words breaking on my lips. "I'm so sorry, Kai."

But there's no response. There never will be. The Capitol wants me to be their perfect Victor, their puppet, their symbol of triumph. But I'm more than what they want me to be. I have to be. I survived the Games. Now, somehow, I have to survive the aftermath.

I don't know how to live with the memories. I don't know how to make sense of the broken pieces of myself. But as I rise to my feet, brushing the dirt from my knees, one thought anchors me: I'm still here. I survived. And maybe, someday, that will mean something.