If there were one—- singular—- prominent aspect that prompted Annie’s most tarnished nightmares, it was blood. The thick and deep crimson liquid within, complemented by a nauseating aroma, would ultimately spark a reminder of what had been. Where there was blood, there was often chaos in the heart of her own past. And in Gale’s. And in every essence of Panem. It was titled the Rebellion ; they were the modern Dark Days. She would haul around the memory until her last day and perhaps beyond.
Callous, coal-stained hands had been lacquered in burns, where blotches of bloodied scabs began to already form, and Gale Hawthorne was acting rather composed compared to Annie’s fretted state. His complexion sizzled, burnt from the flames that scorched his aching skin. She could not help casting her mind to the rebelling Districts—particularly 12. The survivors and the less fortunate. Did they go quickly? Or did they watch themselves and each other char into smithereens like this? No one could ever be crowned a victor in this terrible, terrible world. Pity had plastered over an expression that shot towards the man, as empathy filled her from top to bottom. It keeled over. It plummeted into her heart with a silent, beaten thud. It carried the mad girl across her suffocating wave.
She signalled him to stay before returning with a jug of water and the few bandages that she could find. Her arm glided through grace, however reluctant, tipping the coolness over his hand lightly at first, then allowing it to soak the burns as steadily as she could contrive. These shaking bones were a result of heightened anxiety, known to be tethered to Annie Cresta. However she always strived for her best and even made a point of not wrapping the bandage around his hand instantly ( for it would keep the unwelcome heat in. )
❛ There… that should do it. ❜
gummygunk
theartofmadeline
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
origamiaround
germansingergirl
prguitarman
