Mentally Disoriented~ Odesta Fanfiction

Entry #1

September 1, 75 ADD

It's hard for me to explain to Dr. Aurelius what goes on in my head. Right now, when I want to speak, the words jumble. It's hard to seem like a rational human when your statements never quite come out right. Especially to people who already think you're mad. When really, you're just trapped inside your mind, your perception of the outrageously broken world.

Writing is easier. I can take all the time I want with phrasing, play something out in my mind, involuntarily or to better perceive it, and no one will give me a concerned glance. The pen, the crisp lined paper, and the carefully formed letters certainly won't. So that's what I'll do- write. Since it already does seem a bit reassuring. I'm still able to express my thoughts in some form.

Everything is sterile here. The compartments are all the same, I hear, at least for the most part. I thought it was just the infirmary that was so pristine and controlled.  With the nurses conducting their examinations, wearing pure white, trying to find a new problem with my body.  They would find nothing new.  It’s still my mind.  Mentally disoriented.  A euphemism for mad.  Except now, Finn seems to be having a similar problem.

Finnick.  I’m so glad to be able to see his oceans of eyes, bloodshot but present.  Touch his hands.  Fiddle with his fingers.  Calloused, scabbed over.  But they are more his than the perfectly smooth ones that smelled like some foreign mixture of exfoliating herbs, the scent of an unfamiliar lotion.  They were like that the years after he won.

The games.  I think of screaming.  Shrieking.  Blades or horrific contraptions piercing skin.  Blood spilling.  Lifeless children.  Floating like lifeless fish.  Fins useless.

I can’t write any more about it for now.  Can’t cry more.  My head aches.

The compartments.  I was writing of them before.  Finn’s room is as dull as the infirmary, and as dull as mine.  The walls are grey and bland like the garments.  As a whole, in 13, there doesn’t seem to be much color or life.  No sun from the window, because there are no windows underground.  Then again, it’s safe here.  Just colder.  His arms keep me warm, though.

The last time before last night that I fell asleep in Finnick’s arms was years ago.  After that time, he had said he couldn’t stay over anymore.  A month later, I was reaped.  Broken.  Returned.

I told him he should go back to his compartment.  I just wouldn’t let myself sleep, and wouldn’t meet the awaiting nightmares.  But he said he could stay.  Nothing bad would happen.  I’m guessing that means no white letters with wax seals imprinted with eagles to snatch away form me when I find them lying on his kitchen table.  No kitchen tables even.  No sunlight.  No sea.  Except in his eyes that try so feebly to hide exhaustion.

I still couldn’t sleep through the night, but I didn’t think I would.  At least I had him this time, unlike the interminable nights of paranoia.  Remembering he wouldn’t be home a few houses down, gripping the most current note he’d left in his imperfect penmanship, and adding wrinkles to the paper to match.  Then opening my eyes, smoothing it out, falling back asleep with all of the lights on.

I want to go home.  Finn promises we will, and that when we do things will be different.  Snow will be gone.  He sounds so sure.  I don’t know if he is, or if he just wants me to be hopeful.  Finnick doesn’t lie to me.  I know that much.  Might exaggerate, but we’re both that way when it comes to each other.  Hopeless romantics, I guess.  As far as the truth goes, he either tells it, or doesn’t say anything.  I trust his judgement when he thinks I’m better off not knowing.  Though that almost worries me more.

Last night we were both quiet for the most part.  Though there was so much to say.  I was glad he had survived.  Glad he had found refuge rather than being taken by the Capitol.  They took him away enough times before the rebellion.  But there was this sort of silence that we couldn't understand how to break, and were content in leaving unbroken for the time being.  Just having the luxury of looking at each other was an improvement over recent times.

No moment could compare to when I saw him in the hallway, after calling for him.  The soldiers conducting the rescue had told me he'd be there, waiting, and that was one of the only reasons I was able to trust them.  I was so desperate to see him.  I need him.

A  rather perturbed Katniss had stood a ways behind him.  I assume it had to do with her cousin, he was one of the soldiers, if I recognized him correctly.  I didn't pay much mind to her in the moment.  She's interesting, though.  At times she seems so cold, but I'm not quite sure.  Not so blunt as Johanna.  But I get the feeling she isn't one to jump to make friends, either.  Neither am I, really, though.  I think everyone needs people, but I already have who I need.

Every since I've been given a daily schedule, after I was discharged from the infirmiry, I've tried my best to follow it.  In the past few years, too much of my time has been spent doing nothing productive, ignoring the world outside, other than the sea and the wind.  I can still ignore down here, but at least I can feel like I'm contributing to something.  Work in the kitchen, despite the bland food, gives me a slight sense of quiet community.  That doesn't replace the longing for the feel of sun bathing my skin, the soothing sound of waves crashing over rocks, but it's something.

I don't know when it will be safe to go home, or practical to be happy again.  I am hopeful, though, and I think Finn is, too.  We can hold out together.  And now more directly, without the secrecy that I never understood the reason for, but always complied to.

~Annie Cresta