Darling, Your Head's Not Right (Shy One Shot)

It hurts. Everything hurts. The liquid hurts my throat as it sears its way down to my stomach. My insides hurt from remembering. My head hurts from thinking about what could have been. Nothing can be changed now, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hope. It shouldn’t have been me. Why did it have to me? What did I do to deserve this? No one deserves this. Why did they have to make it so much worse?

At this point, I don’t remember how I heard the news about the quell. Did I imagine hearing it before the reaping? Did I get a letter that I threw away? Was it aired on T.V.? Did I have a sneaking suspicion that they would do something like this in the future and it happened to be confirmed this year? I don’t know. Regardless, I didn’t think they could make a twist worse; yet here they are making people choose who they want to die. But what are we supposed to do about it though? Stand up and be ostracized or killed? Sit and stay and be a loyal servant to the Capitol? “Fucking hell.”

The bottle in my hand flies across the room and breaks the lamp post it comes in contact with. Footsteps come up the stairs as I watch the liquid drain onto the wood floors. “Everything okay?” says the voice from outside the door. Silence passes over for minutes before the question is asked again, this time more urgently. “Yes, I- -“ I don’t even have to continue to realize that I don’t sound sober enough to pass as okay. “Yes.” Quiet muttering comes from behind the door. “Are you sure? We just want to make sure you’re okay” I glance at the door, trying to remember if I had locked it earlier. “I said yes, didn’t I?” That didn’t sound too bad. Maybe I’m not as bad as I thought I was.

More muttering is followed by a shake of the doorknob. Oh thank Ripred “You’d let us know if anything was going on, right?” Silence would be my go-to answer, because, in all honesty, why would I tell anyone? What would they do? Tell me to ‘get better’ or to ‘just be happy’ or ‘don’t be such a bitch’ or ‘it’ll get better’? I’m a career from District 2. I am a victor. I’m not supposed to have any problems. I’m perfect in the eyes of everyone else. People are supposed to look up to me. Dumb idea, honestly. When was the last time I went out in the public during the day? When was the last time I interacted with anyone outside of my home? Stupid dumbasses who think that they can win and all their problems will go away, or they win and they get fame and glory. It isn’t worth it. None of this is worth it.

I make an audible “mhm,” which leads to more muttering. “O-okay. We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Footsteps lead away from the door. Soon all I can hear is the heartbeat in my head. Nothing to distract me from the head-empty feeling, watching the liquid on the ground grow ever-slightly bigger with each new drop. My beating heart adds to the ripples of my body as I get lost into the nothingness. Why am I floating when I’m not? Why does the world spin when it’s not? Why do I exist? A weighted blanket fills my insides at the thought of the last question.

Eternity passes until my brain regains its thinking capacity. Why does any of this exist? What did we do to deserve to live this life? Did we anger a higher being? Were we all monsters in our previous lives? How did we let this happen? Is this my fault? Do I deserve this? Maybe I do deserve this. Maybe that’s why I got reaped a second time. No, I should have died the second time around. Maybe they knew it would be better torture if they kept me alive. Who’s ‘they’? The Capitolites? Karma? I don’t know. Maybe I deserve to live with pain because I wasn’t supposed to volunteer. Maybe I was supposed to stay quiet and stay home and live a peaceful life, be a nobody, be happy.

All of a sudden I’m wiping the liquid with a towel. Red stains on the towel stop me from circling it in the same spot one more time. I lift my hand and see pieces of glass embroidered into the towel from the shattered light. “Damn, that stinks.” I put my hand back down and continue wiping. Would I have been happier if I hadn’t volunteered, or would I be wishing I had when given the opportunity? What if I had volunteered one game earlier or later? Would I have still come in fourth? Would I have made it as far without Quest? Maybe I’m overthinking it. Maybe the world is pointless and shit happens for no reason.

I put the rag down and lay down on the floor. My head hurts. I think I’m going to close my eyes for a little bit. My eyes shut, letting me see nothing but swirling darkness. My body floats on through the endless sea of the void. It’s almost nauseating, but not enough to make me get up and find the nearest bucket. It feels peaceful, almost. Not having to think about anything, chilling in the void alone.

My eyes open to light shining through my window. My head and hand pound in pain. I don’t even need to look around to know that I already regret everything I did the night before. Why am I like this? I know I don’t like doing this, yet here I am… dealing with my consequences. I push myself up with my good hand, trying to avoid looking at my other one before cleaning everything up. I really hope no one bothers me today… when will I learn?