like a detuned radio

Annie Cresta, 22 years of age. You call me a Victor but I'm not quite sure if that word has the right connotations to describe me anymore.

One Foot on the Gas, One Foot in the Grave

Streetlight Manifesto ⋅ Somewhere in the Between

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Streetlight Manifesto | One Foot On The Gas, One Foot In The Grave

We want it, they got it; they claim we’ll die without it. But something tells me they are wrong. So what will you do when they call your name and you’re not ready to go? Everyone will stare at you and tell you what you know: That you’re in too deep and you can’t quite keep your secrets, one and all.

(Source: spiral-king-mazer)

2 years ago ⋅ 2 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE ⋅ music   

Like a detuned radio. | selfpara

Desperate scratching and picking at her skin framed Annie’s past few days poignantly. Blood no one else could see stained her hands and arms. Her eyes only found burgundy dirt caked with blood splattered on her gaunt face. Slight frame curled in upon herself, Annie found it harder to pull herself from her bed than before. They always said that if you won the so-called Hunger Games, you’d never have to worry about having an empty stomach. But every day, her stomach felt empty as it had in the arena. Most had stopped trying to coax her into eating something. For weeks now, her weight had been plummeting, her eyes growing wilder and wilder with lack of sleep, her entire being caving in upon itself. It had never been like this before. She had always degenerated right before the games, yes, but never like this. The upcoming third Quarter Quell was slowly submerging her into a hopeless fit of sleepless nights and a lost mind. Any day now, President Snow would announce to all of Panem what the sick twist to this Quell would be. Annie couldn’t bear the thought of losing more of the tributes she always grew close to in even more horrifying ways. So many reminded her of herself before the games; none of them were ever going to be fully prepared for the horror their eyes would find inside of their own personal deathtrap.

The nights Annie Cresta found sleep were few and far in between as of late. But when she did grasp onto a moment or so of stolen rest, her mind was plagued with play-by-play recounts of her games. She couldn’t bear reliving these moments anymore. So many days, Annie found herself contemplating the easy way out of all of this. But she couldn’t just leave Finnick. So when those opportunities lent themselves to the petite woman, Annie passed them by with longing and fear of what she would have to encounter next. Maybe if she let these moments slip by enough, she’d see what other reasons there were to survive. Although things don’t ever seem to work out that way, do they?

2 years ago ⋅ 1,216 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE ⋅ face   this is so pretty agaskdfh   

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Roll Away Your Stone | selfpara

Annie Cresta woke up into a world of black once more. It seemed as if there would be no end to the darkness. Every day, she would open her eyes to nothingness; yet every day she was just as terrified as before, scrabbling what would’ve been her fingernails against her eyes. But ever since the games, Annie had a horrible habit of chewing them down far past the quick. Only lately, things were worse. She knew the victory of the two would only end badly for the rest of Panem. But all the same, those around Annie didn’t understand why she had reverted for so long. Usually it was only for a matter of hours, a day at the most. However, she had been gone into her mute, comatose shell for days now. The only things Annie seemed to be able to do were cry or scream lately. But she rarely did that. No, Annie Cresta suffered the flashbacks and images of brutal killings in her games in silence. She would try to block out the sights or sounds with her hands, but it never seemed enough. The bloodcurdling screams were far too loud and the images far too vivid to avoid.

The most frequent visitor to Miss Cresta was rarely a real human being, but her district partner. The amount of times she saw Col’s head roll towards her feet, eyes unblinking had skyrocketed in the past month or so. That’s what it was always like during the games. This year, she hadn’t even mentored. No one thought it would be a good idea. They knew the responsibility and sharp pang of loss whenever she saw her tributes die was far too much for Annie.

Poor, mad Annie. Reverting into her shell whenever danger threatened her mind. Everyone saw her as weak. But these other victors only saw their games when they slept. Annie saw them day and night. They did stop, but very rarely. And when they did stop, she always lived in fear of when they would come back. Bile always bubbled up her throat, a sick taste pervading her mouth whenever these delusions fell upon her. Annie had come to relish these moments of darkness. They relieved her from the horrors she had to endure otherwise.

In the dark, it was easier to think. In the dark, she did not know who surrounded her—living or dead.

Darkness is a harsh term don’t you think? And yet it dominates the things I see…

2 years ago ⋅ 2 notes ⋅ selfpara   

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Jack’s Mannequin | Swim

I found a tidal wave begging to tear down the dawn. Memories like bullets, they fired at me from a gun.

2 years ago ⋅ 9 notes ⋅ VIA ⋅ SOURCE ⋅ music   
tumblrbot: WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET?

I’m fine in District 4. I like the water…

Eyes Open

Taylor Swift ⋅ The Hunger Games: Songs From District 12 And Beyond

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Taylor Swift | Eyes Open

The tricky thing is yesterday we were just children, playing soldiers, just pretending. Dreaming dreams with happy endings. In backyards, winning battles with our wooden swords. But now we’ve stepped into a cruel world where everybody stands and keeps score. Keep your eyes open, everybody’s waiting for you to breakdown, everybody’s watching to see the fallout, even when you’re sleeping, sleeping; keep your eyes open.

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