"I want to have your children, Finny"

The voice, deepened by the insistent tugs of seduction, silky from the alcohol which has caressed it, laboured under the weight of pleasure, flits through my mind like a shadow emerging and disappearing playfully through mist. I twist round and try to find it, to smother it like how the grey nothingness can embrace it in its icy folds, but it slips from my fingers whenever I grasp it, peering deviously round the corners of my conscious just when I think it's gone.

Its strange how one sentence, a fragment of thought hastily shoved into a form allowing it to survive in the open air, one vibration of a muscle which fades, swallowed by thick walls used to capturing secrets, can resonate within you for so long.

It's strange how of all the small sounds, familiar noises, giggled phrases and stories I heard last night, this one collection of words, threaded together by a barely coherent brain, were sewn to my mind, like a clumsy seamstress inadvertently spearing through an unblemished scrap of material with her needle.

It's strange how the moment those words fought past purple lips, shrugging off slippery lipstick, and latched themselves onto me, I knew they'd be there for a long time, like barnacles grasping the deceptively thick skin of whales on their lonely, endless wander across the bewildering ocean.

I wish I hadn't made such an effort to listen to her ramblings, slick with unadulterated bliss. It was only because of the threat Snow gave me after my first performance of the visit had been 'distracted'. It's hard to put on a show when I only feel half-there due to the gaping, aching hole in my chest, from which I am taunted by painfully clear-cut images of my Annie clinging to my legs so hard my bones clicked, and crying to try to drown the monsters which chase her, with a body so blinded by blood and deafened by the thuds and hindered slices of axes that the screams which escape do not know who they are for anymore.

She was bad when I left. It's my fault, I shouldn't have let her go there, should have been considerate and informed and known they were executing that thief in the square, I should have been there to drag her away, to cover her eyes and her ears and take her to the beach to be intoxicated by nature. Instead, what was I doing? Forcing the splintered spinning wheel in my head to churn out more lies and transform them into horrendously beautiful words, coated with deceptive paint the exact shade of my lips. In this case, I was giving an 'inspirational speech' to the eighteen-year-olds at the Training Complex ahead of the reaping, for which it was anticipated a few of them would volunteer.

What a despicable puppet I've become, to send innocent children to their deaths with a song about how lovely it'll be, while the woman I love, whom I'm supposed to protect, suffers kidnapped by cruel memories due to my negligence.

And now I've left her there in the district all alone again, so I can make stupid jokes at pointless parties and exchange meaningless touches in stranger's rooms, scraped by sharp fingernails in places I would otherwise only let Annie see. Mags reassured me that she and Annie's mother would look after her, but that just makes me feel worse, like my mistakes are gunfire tearing into everyone else, because they have enough troubles of their own without the extra burden, and she'll only respond properly to me.

Now every minute I spend here my mind is back there, willing to see her and know how she is doing, aching to reassure her and bring her out of the torment that reality will only be slightly preferable to.

I'm sorry, Annie. An apology taints my first breath of the morning, lurks behind every laugh. Sorrys writhe within me, puncturing my heart over and over when I'm with those women as their play-toy for the night, it's a thought I tattoo in my brain when life slips away as I lie there, exhausted and trembling. Sorry I've failed you, that I've abandoned you, that you're stuck with the lying, cheating excuse of a person I am and that you rely on me so much it hurts you when I'm not there.

Sitting on the plush, fuchsia window seat in a hotel room, my hands roughly mead my forehead, feeling the slowly developing crevices hewn by streams of anxiety, hoping the thoughts which plague me, like the papery grip of hundreds of leaves blown into me from all directions on a windy day, will disappear.

At first when I was invited back for impromptu visits to the Capitol, the District Four escort, who took it upon herself to be my tour guide in the absence of tributes to brag about the wonders of her city to, dragged me to every museum, gallery, piece of ostentatious architecture and garden she could think of to occupy me. Although at the time I could think of nothing worse than spending the day adding to an already over-spilling bank vault of what our so generous capital city has, where in districts there are only holes, craters echoing with desperate prayers, now I'm seriously considering finding some way of contacting her to beg her to provide me with a distraction from myself: the whirlwind of Annie, Snow's threat, last night's client's words, the dread of who I must perform for tonight.

But something stops me. Maybe it's pride, or the knowledge that at least locked away in my room I don't have to face the baffled stares, push through bodies dead stiff at the sight of me, grin charmingly and try to avoid brushing my hand against whatever ridiculous, garish clothing barely covers a heaving bust as women ask me to sign my autograph on their skin with conveniently available pens from over-sized handbags.

I've never quite understood the awe evoked by seeing a celebrity in real life. They're just people, after all, who happen to have been on television. And rich Capitol citizens' surprise at chancing across them is unjustified, living in the city centre as they do, the rainbow rotary of souls captured within glass lenses, brought out to entertain the everyday lives of those ignorant of what their idols go through just to receive their applause, like animals gawked at in a zoo over a tailored commentary painting neon a story that was once monochrome.

It's even more perplexing how amazed my customers are at the sight of me when I stride into their fancy abodes, seeing as they requested my presence. In my experience the worst kind of shock is one which has dangled in between the bubbly mass of possibility and the sharp rocky incline of reality, only to be cut from its rope to tumble helplessly and be skewered on a knife point, icy with life. Like how, after a lifetime of waiting and two years of anticipation, my name was pulled out by a hand too delicate and meticulously adorned to hold that much power.

Sometimes I wonder whether, if I had known what was to be, things would have been different. I would not have told truths, shivering in their naked vulnerability in the stifling heat of a room saturated with tears, thinking that admissions needed to be released or else would be locked as tortured whispers inside the empty, blood-stained shell of my body as it lay (hopefully in one piece) in a wooden box.

I have always placed such emphasis on telling the truth, after being forced into a life where lies are the only protection my thin skin has against the creatures prowling this city, lusting to draw blood. But sometimes the truth is a liquid, forever changing and sliding from your grasp, which, when it meets the perfect mixture of gases mingled together in the harmony of air, becomes poisonous to whoever drinks it. I feel the prominence of this now as I remember last night: ragged, heavy breaths punctured the hot air; a hand - purposefully starved into a jumble of bones lightly coated with creamy translucent skin - left a trail of frazzled nerves and guilt as it glided across my palpitating heart; weary muscles stretched into a weak, empty smile whilst behind them something died as a hazy mind configured the meaning of the words thrust upon it.

My fans have the strangest, most disturbing fantasies. I guess as a result of a brain not being used for planning the acquisition of the next meal, they can allow themselves the luxury of fading away from the world. But this one is the most unsettling I've ever heard. The thought of sharing something so…sacred, so intimate, so precious, with some bejewelled creature whose only hold over me is exploiting me, invading me while I lie trapped in a net woven from threats and monetary notes, makes me shudder. Imagining my child with her blonde hair and coating themselves in make-up to look just like their mother, a child who would grow to see the Hunger Games shining in lights as bright as their home, a child who would want for nothing yet want everything, defiles everything I have dreamed of, tarnishes my most valued thoughts, which float tentatively in a paper-thin bubble providing a filmy shield from the pollution of the outside world.

What makes it worse is how she doesn't view having children as this at all. In my district, children are the ultimate creation of deep love, a symbol of commitment, compassion, selflessness and, let's face it, bravery to put so much of oneself into the beautiful damned who could be torn away from you after twelve short years. But here, they're either the unwelcome consequence of a careless act of indulgence (as evidenced by the scarily bustling clinics and community homes, sagging with abandonment) or viewed as some kind of tool: leverage against an unfaithful lover, a promise of betrothal to the relative of a business partner to seal the deal, a primped doll to awkwardly manoeuvre into your own dreams, a custom live-in assistant.

Even the process can have nothing to do with love, since rich citizens rid themselves of the inconveniences of nature when they hit puberty (which incidentally I have to thank for why there aren't inadvertent miniature Finnicks running around) so when they want to have children the ingredients are extracted and mixed in a test tube, monitored and tinkered with to secure the best chances of success with no genetic imperfections, and matured in a lab until the parents, fresh and healthy, wander in at their convenience after nine months. Clinical, uninvolved, with none of the sacrifice that would prepare them for the shock of seeing the trouble and sleepless nights their creation causes their nanny.

There are times when I think I can stand these people, and then I discover something like this. Like the glasses of liquid, so dainty and shy perched atop a corner table at every party, thrust upon me too many times for the images of starving children, huddled in the streets of my district, to remain obediently quiet in my mind for much longer. Or the callous way people, the hazy film of indoctrination flaring in their eyes, can report their friends, to knowingly condemn them to unimaginable pain which scars the delicate skin of their eyes long after the other marks have faded; lifelong silence; a family of corpses, all because of one thoughtless word, an unhidden displeasure with the world, revealed under the deceptively warm canopy of trust.

But I'm driving myself mad musing over things that will never change: how I'm steadily drowning in a whirlpool of poisonous fantasies, tugged further away - choking on my own lies - from the gentle blue tint of truth lingering above me. I glance at the clock, wincing at how many hours have slithered from my grasp, grinning me farewell as they push me into the hands of fate. I know from experience that it doesn't end well to get lost in these thoughts too late before I have to leave to see a client. I have to get myself in a presentable state, piece the chipped, faded fragments of myself back together by remembering Annie and Mags and their families: everyone who I must protect. Like glue, their faces in my mind are smooth and reliable, gliding over the most fragile parts of me and freezing into a hard shell to protect me for so long as they can, but also a sticky mess which is impossible to get rid of and makes you change, rethink everything, even tiny household tasks.

I change into my approved clothing, black trousers, cut low to entice the band of my underwear to peek out, and a white button-up with only two buttons, which clings to every minute crevice like a sparse snowdrift suffocating the ridges of a mountain with it's icy, silencing touch. With each item, I feel myself grow more numb, the old Finnick scraped out, like soft, live pumpkin flesh torn from its shelter and replaced by a cheap, replaceable lump of wax, simply for meaningless enjoyment.

By the time I shove my feet into sleek, shiny black shoes, my muscles are primed for hollow smiles though they ache from overuse; mind emptied but for a bank of generic sweet nothings, so repeated they limp across my tongue listlessly; my body detached and flaccid, ready for orders.

This numbness is what has helped me to survive: to not feel the sickening ease my trident negotiated itself through the major organs of my victims; to maintain my camera face even when it almost gets knocked off by the ripple of horror pulsing through me at what I see, strengthen the cracks as I feel something inside myself shatter; to face the ones I love back home and not rupture their spirits with my pain. It's useful to use regularly, because I've learned from experience, from before I was able to envelop myself in delirious numbness, sweet self-induced morphling, that it takes ten times as long to put yourself together as it does to fall apart.

As I walk out of my room with a purposeful stride which most will interpret as eager, and not see that terror and the determination to not run back the other way is the only thing forcing my feet forward, a delicious glimmer of what I have left behind flickers in my mind, before everything turns black at the sight of an opening door and a rush of overpowering perfume.

"Wouldn't it be wonderful to have children, Finn?"

"Annie, I couldn't imagine anything better"