Please talk to me about it.
People always say that speaking of your pain, telling your story, letting it all out into the open could help to cure that ache. But, I was never so sure about that. What would sharing my pain do? I could tell such horrific stories, I could explain how the screams bounced off of the walls and went straight back to your own ear drums, you practically deafened yourself and it was your own fault. "Please, talk to me about it." I could practically hear the pleading in her voice, she saw my pain, my struggles, she saw the bruises and cuts that had scarred my face. I thought about it for a moment, glancing down at my hands as I clenched my fingers into a tight intertwine. She wanted to hear about the games, about what it was really like. She wanted to know my story. "It was..." But as I went to pull my gaze back up to her face, to spill my truth, I couldn't help but stare at the curvature of her stomach. She was pregnant. Twins. Not one, but two kids. Kids that would consume her life, whether she knew it would or not. And she wanted to hear my story, the story of a sixteen year old kid trying to survive in a world where no one was safe. My eye twitched thinking of the pain and I shut my eyes uneasily, forcing the lump that was in my throat to dissipate. I adjusted my placement in my chair and shook my head, dark brown hues connecting with her lighter ones. "Don't make me." My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat again. I wanted to say more, I wanted to explain, but I couldn't. I didn't even dare to think about it. I couldn't tell her my story of trying to survive, when she was about to start such a grand journey. I wouldn't dare put those horrors of The Hunger Games in her head. "Don't make me, River." I echoed.