𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒 ❦ The Hunger Games

eight

☆ CHAPTER EIGHT! ☆
008. What happens in
private

|| LET YOU DOWN ||
❝All the voices in my
head get loud, I wish
that I could shut them
out, I'm sorry that I
let you down.❞

➳➳

THE NIGHT MADE each second seem to last longer then it would in the day, and each noise or sound feel so much louder than it would of if the sun was able to peak through even just a little bit. For every millisecond of the day that went by, minutes seem to flow through the night up until the point when you would either fall asleep or the sun would rise again.

This time, I was half way between the two as I leaned against the window sill so that I could look out onto the street. Although, it only reminded me of somewhere that let me watch the Capitol better; if I glanced the wrong way, or made my eyes squint a little too much, I could be on the rooftop of the building I was currently in.

A rooftop that I used to know all too well.

It was a secret that only the Victors knew about, I believed whole heartedly that was because the Victors were the only ones that could be free to enter the elevator late enough for the button to show up. I was thankful that I noticed it, or at least that I managed to notice something the first time I managed to stumble through the haze of an early death.

Back then it was because I had seen too many young people die- far too many to even think about without some kind of fresh air.

Although, the wind that came out of the smallest gap in my room's window reminded me that the fresh breeze only seemed to make the feeling worse. Just like the first time, a reminder of what real life felt like against my rather rosy cheeks just seemed to make me panic more- it seemed to make me remember that my body wouldn't be able to feel those little reminders for much longer.

Not if I had to perform my private session later on when the sun would come up; back on the roof it was the idea that so many children wouldn't be able to do the same- that night was the fact I had been forced to endure since I woke up and was told that I was the Hunger Games winner.

The breeze pushed my hair across my face, something that it had done on the roof as well. A breeze that pushed not only hair, but the sensation of fingers tracing over fresh wounds or almost healed scars that I still could imagine two years later. A sensation that was killed by the sharp aches in my chest as I remembered a petal actually hitting into my arm.

It was so sudden that it caused me to gasp back then and crumble to the floor, but this time just the memory of what I became once I won the Games was enough to make panic fill up the extra space in my lungs with black tar.