reap my sanity {hannah oneshot}

I am held captive by the savage claws of terror. They rake against my skin and dig into my ribs, leaving behind deep cashes and crimson as I try to fight my way to an escape route. But I am trapped in terror’s iron clutches and my efforts are to no avail. There is no running from fear. It is an ubiquitous beast that has no boundaries, nowhere it cannot cross into. It follows my every footstep, trailing behind me like a ghost and gently brushing against my skin (searing pain rips through my body with each soft touch), leaning in and whispering in my ear to remind me each time it slips away from my mind.

It stalks me down the cobblestone streets of District Nine, to the classroom of my school, to the comfort of my home. It invades my mind and conquers my heartbeat. There is no place I can run and not one soul on this earth can shield me from my own trepidation. It is always prowling behind me.

Fear follows me everywhere; even in my slumber.

(As it has now.)

It is the Reaping of the Seventy-First Annual Hunger Games.

I stand in the crowd, towering over most of the girls in my section and casting a shadow over the shortest among them. Other than my striking height, there is nothing about me that separates me from the other girls my age. (But in the Capitol's eyes, my last name is treasured like a precious jewel and does make me stand out, shine, even, among the other faces in the crowd.) Each of us wear our nicest dresses, our shiniest pair of shoes. And each of us have trembling hands, clasped together in a feeble attempt to steady them. We are all hoping desperately for the same thing: that we will evade the Reaping unscathed. (At least for this year.)

But the fear they harbor is not like mine.

Their fear does not consume them like a ravenous inferno. They do not have the eyes of the Capitol boring into their backs. They do not wonder if the Capitol indeed desires O'Leary blood to spill onto the ground of the horrendous Arena. They do not contemplate in the dark of night, riddled by exhaustion and wrapped in their bed sheets, Will the Arena become my graveyard? Will I perish within these walls, made by cruel hands that lust for endless bloodshed? Will my death be part of nothing more than a Game? (No matter my fate, I end up at home. Whether I am the flesh and blood as a Victor, a Victor murderer myself, or a corpse with gray skin of ice and blank eyes like great green mirrors, reflecting my family's tears as they stand over my body.)

Fear shakes me to my core as I stare up at the escort. She should not be a daunting sight. If anything, she should soothe me with her cheerful aura and glitter and pristine, unnaturally white smile plastered across her face, caked with white powder. The escort never fails to appall me each year with her clownish makeup and elaborate, colorful hair and dazzling, vibrant clothing. Her ridiculously tall heels click against the stage like gunshots in the eerie silence as children and parents hold their breaths in fear.

Her hand reaches deep into the bowl, sifting through hundreds of names among the horde of small pieces of paper, and within several seconds of sheer terror, grabs one of the slips with her pink, claw-like fingernails at last.

I can feel the tension and the dread rising among the crowd of people, hoping, praying frantically to Ripred that their name, or their child's name, will not be the one spoken into the microphone to ring out as clear as a bell throughout the entire District Square.

The escort slowly unravels the slip, prolonging the suspense that hangs over the District Square like a blanket of thick storm clouds.

I ball my hands into fists in an attempt to steady my quivering body.

My heart has transformed from a mass of muscle and tissue and blood to Thor's hammer, beating against my chest. Thud thud thud THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD T H U D. It is like an unsteady rhythm of crackles of thunder in a sky cloaked by wrathful, charcoal clouds, and it increases in magnitude with each terrifying, fleeting moment.

I find myself seeking out Colgate among the multitude of people, passing over hundreds of heads that stand out due to their higher altitude. And when I do find him, he is already looking at me. At first, his face is contorted in solemnness and his stare is grave and worrisome and sends a tremor of fear shaking through my bones. But then a glimmer of hope surpasses his grim expression. In the blue depths of his eyes, I read, Chin up, as clear as if they were printed on a piece of paper before me.

But not even Colgate and his encouraging, optimistic trademark phrase can comfort me in this moment.

I am immersed in an icy black sea of terror, my head being the only part of me still above the surface, gasping for air, drinking in each breath like it will be my last. My fear has caged me in its merciless, beastly jaws and I cannot break my way to freedom.

"Hannah O'Leary."

My head plunges beneath the surface.

I am utterly submerged.

And I

cannot

BREATHE.

I can hear the exhale of thousands of lungs all around me in relief. They were not chosen. They would not be shoved into the Arena and face the Capitol's tricks and traps. They would not be slaughtered like an animal by a fellow tribute, purely driven by the burning desire to live.

But that was the reality that I would face now, just as Colgate and over a thousand other children. Not warriors, just children given lethal weapons that they can barely hold in their weak hands, just children who are told kill or be killed and carry out the dreadful phrase.

They will try to mold my willowy, delicate frame into the bones of a ruthless warrior. They will try to take my mind and twist it into a deranged, savage version of myself that only cares about her own survival. They will try to make me a piece of their Game.

And I won't let them do that to me.

(But do I have a choice?)

I am frozen in the crowd, my entire body rigid as if I am encased in ice. (I would rather be trapped in ice and remain frozen for eternity than here.) People slowly turn to face me, and their gazes burn like bloodthirsty flames. A tsunami threatens to brim over the edges of my eyes, but I refuse to cry and reveal that I am just a scared little girl who knows that she cannot win the Games. I would cry and scream and let the sobs rack my body and break through my breathing if I was not here, surrounded by people, if I was not on camera, being spectated by thousands—millions—who knows—of people, if this moment would not be documented in stone forever.

My face is devoid of emotion and I can only pray that my composure reaches my eyes, that they betray nothing. I swallow down the rising screams and sobs to suppress them, just as hastily as I would down shots in the midst of a party roaring with rebellion. (Something I will never do again.)

Before I can take a single step, a sea of hands violently shove me towards the stage, propelling me forward like a fragile sailboat caught in the vicious waves of a squall. I try to pull them off of me, shouting at them, demanding them to cease, but they do not relent.

And I am screaming now, ripping through the silence like a blade ripping through silk.

"STOP!"

But my voice seems to go through one ear and out the other.

"STOP IT, PLEASE!"

They are machines, controlled by the Capitol, pushing me to my demise.

My own frantic screams of horror roar in my ears.

"ST-"

My nightmare shatters and I am thrust into reality and consciousness, numb with fear, with a roar of horror ringing throughout my house and torrents of tears soaking my cheeks.