𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫

THIRTY-ONE

xxxi. Hope

The feeling of never-ending suffering Finnick felt surrounded by the white walls of his hospital room had somehow diminished, and good news had finally managed to reach his ears for the first time in what felt like years. It was similar to the feeling of a cold drink of water in the middle of the excruciatingly hot arena, or the smell of Mags' warm potato stew in the middle of a snowstorm. It was a sense of hope, a feeling of sorts that made it seem as if things were getting better, despite the never-ending chaos that ensued just above the ground.

The news that Finnick was finally being discharged was that spark of hope. Somehow, he'd manage to convince himself and others that he'd gotten better. It didn't matter how much of it was a lie, because he believed it. He had to, otherwise, the darkness that lived deep within him would've taken over, and with the situation currently going on, he wouldn't let himself fall like the rest of them. Not now, when the person he cared for most is out there, captured by the enemy.

The room he'd been put in held the same uniform white and black as the hospital, except this time the lights were far brighter, and the walls had a grey undertone to them that was enough to satisfy him. It was plain; nothing but two twin-sized beds were attached to the walls. He'd been grateful that he'd been put alone, for he was afraid he'd mistakenly drive his roommate mad.

The room was silent, nothing heard but the sound of his rubber shoes tapping on the cold metal floors with every step he took. The air smelled of chemicals and construction, tasted metallic. It was no different than the hospital, and miles away from the fishy air that plagued all of District Four.

On the table laid a spare grey jumpsuit. It was all he had considering his clothes had all been left in his house, before the games. It was all too different. It felt as if half of his life had been lost, and what was left were his skin and bones, buried thirty floors below ground, in a place that was believed to have been safe, yet was more dangerous than the arena.

He felt out of place. A lonely fish lost in a sea of whispers and pitiful glances. At least the arena didn't care for who you were, whereas in District Thirteen, despite being all dressed in the same grey jumpsuits, and following coordinated schedules tattooed on each of their wrists, Finnick felt like a freak. He could practically feel the judgment radiating around him, it was no wonder the victors had all gone crazy when they first arrived.

Though deep down he knew, this feeling of insanity that plagued him was more torturous than the fear that haunted him in the arena. In the jungle, the pain was quick and urgent, while here in this empty room, it took over him like needles stabbing into his skin with every breath he took.

Finnick's painful thoughts were interrupted, the sound of the door sliding open filling the void of silence that threatened to push him off the edge into insanity. He turned his head to find none other than the large and burly fisherman that he'd known from home.