dawn ridden // finnpoe

His face haunts my dreams. I know him, I know him, I know him, I—

I know I am supposed to know him. Pretty blue eyes. Deceptive, darling-of-the-Capitol eyes. The kind of eyes that were born to take from others with no reason to give back. And I- wait. Were his eyes blue? I feel as if I’m about to wake from sleep, my dreams beginning to unravel at the seams, dissipate at the edges: water and oil and a cloud of confused aftermath.

The closer I am to waking, the more I forget. How did I know him? What was his name? What did he even look like? When my half-conscious brain can’t find answers to those questions, it is scary, but it is when the lapse in my memory keeps taking that I can feel my hands begin to shake, until only one question keeps ringing in my head over and over and over again: Who am I?

My eyes fly open and I do not recognize this place, nor the trembling fingers that I hold out in front of my face. I wear only pants, my upper half shivering against the cold. I see a white uniform piled off to the side— peacekeeper? But it is dirty, tattered, plagued with holes and rips. I know it is mine but I don’t know how I know; I doubt I’ve ever felt this frustrated before.

For a single, terrifying moment, I think that I am dead. Maybe this is hell.

I stand, nauseous, pulse throbbing against my temples. I seemed to be in some sort of hangar, only smaller. What was the word- garage? There’s a car here, half-assembled, hood propped open as if someone were trying to restore it. Odd place to hide a person, but am I here to be hidden? I spot a jacket hanging out of the vehicle’s open window and slide it on, shielding my arms from the draft. I feel an inexplicable need to protect myself from this seemingly harmless place. The most out of order thing in this room is me— why am I here?

I hear a door open, grab the first thing I can find, (a tire iron,) and I prepare to swing before I find the face of a chipper stranger standing in the doorway.

“Oh, you’re up!” Hot coals under my feet, a decision to be made. Forward or backwards. Run or hide. If I stay a second longer, I’ll burn. I want to be brave— I should be brave. But I find myself stumbling backward like a caged animal, terrified of what will happen if I am caught ever again. I trip, fall, catch myself. Not enough strength to just pick myself up and run.

“Stay still. I gotcha,” He rings, walking forward to help me up. I raise the tire iron in his direction defensively, point it right at his face.

“Stay back.”

It takes me a moment, but I manage to gather my footing again. Out of breath, I meet his gaze.

“Where am I?”