I can't give much explanation for this story - inspiration comes and goes, I will probably almost never update it, but there's always hope.

Here's to Suzanne Collins, who gave us one of the most poignant and disturbing YA fiction of the 21st century.

And here's to Finnick, who deserved so much more than the ending he got.

He sits on the train, and the scenes pass by; a little too familiar, a little strange, and hardly anything has changed but somehow he feels like he's experiencing all this for new again. He's headed home, he thinks, headed home, even though that is no longer a physical place and no longer a place where he can hide in obscurity.

No, home is where she is, where she is waiting, where he will hug her and she will give him a smile but be unable to voice her love.

"Where have you been?" she'll ask, and he won't have many answers.

"Around," is the best answer he can give her, although it's really been several months since he's seen her last.

But she won't know that.

And he'll smooth her dark hair and look into her green eyes, and thank whatever perverse deity that exists that he has suffered through another day to see those features again and given him another chance to spend another day with her.

So he thinks, Annie, Annie, Annie.

Clean all traces of makeup and oil and perfume from me, clean my guilt-ridden heart, clean my blood-drenched hands, clean this disgusting body of mine, soiled by naïve and cruel hands.

Annie, Annie, Annie.

The train stops. There is no one at the station.

But he goes home, to Annie.