Away From The Sun {Ryan}

I could never truly tell if Helena was actually worried about me when she saw fresh scars on my arms. The scars come from digging my nails into myself in anger, drawing blood and causing wounds that never quite go away. I do this because I think I deserve it.

I feel like it's my fault that all of these bad things have started to happen in my life. My father's death always felt like my fault, ever since it happened, no matter how many people told me that it wasn't. Some days, I even feel like the Hunger Games themselves are my fault, even though I truly know, deep down, that that's impossible. I suppose I'm just the type of person who blames herself for things that she didn't do. Although, I guess that's better than being the person that blames other people for all of the problems in their life.

When I watched the Games unfold this year, seeing each of our tributes fall, it reminded me as to why we haven't had any victors aside from Shelby in so long. We just aren't strong enough. I could picture it being me, going into the Gamest to fight against what seems like impossible odds. With twenty-three other people trying to kill me, I doubt I'd survive. Even if I did survive, though, I knew I'd never be whole again, since I'd have to kill other people if I wanted to win the whole thing and return home. How could someone ever be the same as they were before if they had to kill another individual while in that wretched place that the Capitol decided to force them into?

I don't know if I'd be able to communicate with people properly if I had gone through something like that. I have respect for the victors that struggle with that. I don't, however, have respect for the victors who revel in their success of killing others. They don't deserve any sort of respect from anyone, yet they receive it anyway. I wish I could stop that, but I know that, as just a regular girl in District Eight, there's nothing I can do. I have no power, on matter how much I wish that I did.

When I woke up the next morning, tears still stained my face, as I'd been crying and digging at my arms the night before. The memory of my father's death resurfaced in my mind and put me over the edge. It was the only way I knew how to react to it, even though I knew how bad something like that was for me. I just couldn't help it. I knew I needed someone to assist me in getting through my troubles, but I didn't know who to talk to. I felt like, at this point in my life, Helena was really the only one that I could speak with about what was bothering me. Therefore, I knew that that was exactly what I would be doing.

I'd woken up around ten o'clock in the morning that day. Due to what time it was, I'd definitely missed breakfast already, but I wasn't too concerned. I decided that I'd just get my own food to eat. I didn't have much of an appetite at that point, but I knew that it was important to get some food in my system. I walked down the stairs from my bedroom to the lower level of the house. That was when I saw Helena in the living room and decided that food could way. I needed to talk to her. Would she notice the red marks on my arms from where I'd scratched away the skin? Would she notice the blood under my nails from when I did that?

"Morning, Helena," I said with a weak smile. I sat down next to her on the couch and spoke again. "Can I talk to you about something that's really been bothering me? I..." I trailed off, not sure what to say as my gaze transferred to my injured arms and bloody finger nails. Tears started to well in my eyes at this point and I looked back to Helena.

"I need help, and you're the only one I knew I could come to," I explained, my voice now shaking.