Flash Back Games (Closed)

I am dead.

As dramatic as this may sound, and as unbelievable as this narration may seem, I am very much dead. I have been, for a whole whopping week.

And the worst part in it isn’t what I dreaded, the whole ’being forgotten’, it’s seeing him, breaking piece by piece like a porcelain doll. Delicate, kind, and so traumatized.

And I wonder if winning was truly what was best for him after all.

Amadrya is dead, Everest killed her days after I died, I watched the moment sadly. Haunted, I could not move on, it seemed I was tethered to the arena, to him, and even dead it was painful, my nonexistent heartbeat felt skyrocketed, you know, if I had one, it would be.

And when it was jut Everest and Burton, I knew something was amiss. Everest wouldn’t fight, Burton was troubled by the fact, and I had never in my life wished someone would bare such a killer instinct as I had in that moment, the guilt wouldn’t be as bad if Everest fought back. Burton could live on, claiming it was self defense.

But it was colder, perhaps revenge, perhaps not, all I know is that the moment Burton dealt the killing blow, he would be haunted in that moment forever.

But seeing him there, all alone with a single bundle of flowers, and a amulet in his hand, with tears in his eyes, was just like Macaria’s deadly attack all over. It was faster, but the pain lingered.

“Don’t cry,” I whispered, standing before him, but he couldn’t see me, he would never see me.

Little did I know that he saw me like I saw him, but it was too late now.

“I miss you,” came his sorrowful response, and I frowned. I never thought someone would miss me. I never thought of the consequences of sacrificing myself so he could win, that it would haunt him. I allowed myself to get close to him, and him to me, and now he was broken.

“Please come back, I-I love you!” Came his cries, and I knew maybe I read too much into the words. But friend or not, no matter what context, I felt even more broken than I did when I was dying.

Dying, I had hope for him, but now it was terribly empty.

I laughed some, “I love you too, probably not in the same way, but-“ I trailed off, noticing as he paced the flowers, some roses and a single lotus(rebirth, what a symbolism for a dead girl, yet they were always my favorite) upon my grave, before dangling that amulet I always had with me.

“You look so happy,” He noted, glancing at the photos hidden within, “I wish you could have been truly happy,” he whispered.

Love returned in similar fashion or not, he had a very long life ahead of him, and I had none. He couldn’t dwell on me forever, like I was cursed to dwell on him.

Never in my life did I wish to be forgotten.

Not until then.

—

I was angry at him for all his mistakes, for going to the Capital, for letting Louden blackmail him. Catastrophe had died shortly after his family had been killed, of course I had been upset but happy to see my cat.

And said cat was happy to see me. We were ghosts, haunting, lost.

Fitting, it was just her and me again.

Furthermore, I wasn’t impressed by the boy I died to protect, I was heartbroken, depressed, angry. It felt like he forgot about me as the days went on, but I knew he didn’t.

He writhed in his sleep, cried at random times, and when he finally snapped after the 100th Hunger Games I truly knew he didn’t.

A part of me was hopeful and relieved by this, the other dreaded it. If anything hurt more than seeing him turn into my worst enemy, it was him being hurt. And Louden hurt him. He used the 90th hunger games against Burton, our deaths on replay like some sick drama skit.

”I can’t wait until the districts finally fight back...”

Those words haunted me, watching them on the screen as a bloody girl, one with my features, my eyes, my voice, spoke.

”No one lives forever.”

Hearing him cry hurt, but glancing at my dead body on a screen was admittedly awkward, hearing my voice where someone could hear it was distant.

I fancied a future where Burton and I could be friends at least, maybe more, alive in District 8, meeting every so often and passing jokes and laughter.

“Wanna hear something funny?” I questioned suddenly, turning to look at him expectantly, of course, he couldn’t hear me and remained silent.

“Dreams,” She hummed, “Oh wait, family, no! What about our lives,” she commented plainly.

“Wait no, all of those things are one, nonexistent or just simply pathetic. But then again, we all kill and die so no point in hope, right?”

”Run, just like we always did.”

—

I always wanted him to remember me.

Then I died, I asked he forget me, he live on. He find some happiness, and go on with his life.

I never regretted a wish so much in my lack of life.

Sure, jealousy is normal, I am, or was, human once. Now I’m a ghost, or a phantom, or...something. I haunt him, without choice, followed by a little kitty ghost.

I was upset and disheartened when he rekindled his friendship with Paige and they married. She was nice, probably someone I would get along with, but I did fall for Burton. Admittedly I was upset to learn that was in vain. Then again, I was dead, it’s not like I could exactly expect a lot.

The feelings of that dread never faded, the feeling of being betrayed or trashed or left behind. I knew none was true, Burton never owed me anything, I made my own decisions, and thus my fate was my own. But my feelings of true regret didn’t regard him and his wife or his daughter.

It was when I heard her name called that the true regret filtered in my head. He found happiness, admittedly the happiness he had was my torture, but it hurt even more when she plainly accepted her place in the 125th Games.

He did too, upset, but true.

Sure, it sucked being dead, feeling forgotten and replaced, it sucked never being able to move on.

But it sucked more when you couldn’t never do a thing to change the way the story went.

They were all the Capitol’s pawns, and I was like a spectator, seeing every move and helpless to stop it.

And sometimes I wish they just forgot me all together.

Then I could dream of better days once more.

But dreams don’t exist, and even as a ghost I can feel it.

The wetness on my cheeks increases, collapsing in on my grief, my hands placed on the walls before me, an arena surrounding me, trapping me like the flightless bird I am.

I am her guardian angel, but I bear no pure wings, only darkness and tainted memories, but still I watch her closely.

But no storms end on command, nor do tears.

And memories don’t disappear.