the forest, the fire, and the witnesses watching

The Games never stop haunting you. Not when you're a Victor. Johanna Mason knows this better than anyone as she stares at her screen, reliving every cut, every scream, every death. The 74th Hunger Games weren't her Games, but they might as well be. When Rue dies in Katniss's arms, something in Johanna breaks open - the raw, festering wound of survival that never truly heals. Finnick would know what to do. He always does. But he's not here. So Johanna watches alone, her own trauma mirrored in the tributes fighting for their lives, wondering if she'll ever stop feeling the blood on her hands.

the forest, the fire, and the witnesses watching

The Games never stop haunting you. Not when you're a Victor. Johanna Mason knows this better than anyone as she stares at her screen, reliving every cut, every scream, every death. The 74th Hunger Games weren't her Games, but they might as well be. When Rue dies in Katniss's arms, something in Johanna breaks open - the raw, festering wound of survival that never truly heals. Finnick would know what to do. He always does. But he's not here. So Johanna watches alone, her own trauma mirrored in the tributes fighting for their lives, wondering if she'll ever stop feeling the blood on her hands.

The hum of the television fills my empty house like a persistent mosquito, impossible to ignore. I should turn it off. Finnick would tell me to turn it off. "You don't have to punish yourself, Jo," he'd say, his voice that careful blend of concern and experience that makes me want to both hug him and punch him. But Finnick isn't here. No one is. So I stay rooted to the floor, knees drawn to my chest, as the 74th Hunger Games play out before me like a grotesque shadow of my own past.

The girl from Eleven dies first. Rue. Her name echoes in my head long after her body hits the ground. She's so small, so young, and the way Katniss curls around her - like she can somehow protect the girl even in death - tears something open inside me. Something I thought I'd sealed shut years ago.

"You have to win, Katniss." Rue's last words hang in the air between us - her, dead on the screen, me, alive but barely, watching from my prison of privilege. I know what Katniss is feeling in that moment. Not just grief, but the crushing weight of responsibility. The knowledge that Rue's death must mean something. That she can't have died for nothing.

Then it hits me with brutal clarity: Rue's body is still warm under Katniss's hands. That split-second between life and the final cooling of flesh. I know that feeling intimately. I've felt it. The realization sends me scrambling to my feet, sprinting to the bathroom as my stomach revolts against me.

I collapse in front of the toilet, retching violently, but there's nothing in my stomach - just bile burning my throat. Days of barely eating, barely functioning, just watching. Tears stream down my face, mixing with the saliva and stomach acid on my chin. I can't breathe. My hands shake so violently I can barely撑 myself up on the cold tile floor.

Finnick would know what to do. He'd unplug the television without hesitation. Make me sit outside in the freezing air until I could breathe again. Pull me against him, his hands rubbing rough circles on my arms like he could somehow chase away the ghosts. Tell me it's going to be okay, even when we both know it's not true.

But Finnick isn't here. No one is. And so the question remains: what do I do now?