Applause roars around the arena, shaking the entire structure. Frozen in shock, Blaine felt his knees weaken and it was all he could to stay upright. The rain stopped and suddenly Blaine looks up to see a hovercraft block out the newly uncovered the sun. Its blades slice through the air sending gusts of wind around the peak. A ladder was sent down, rolling until it hung in front of the newly crowned victor.

Blaine just stares at it for a second.

Where was it going to take him? Was he actually leaving this godforsaken arena? Over the past few days, felt like centuries, this arena was his entire world.

It was over.

It was over.

He had won. 

He had beat the odds. 

He was going home. 

Home. 

Blaine shakily raises his good arm, wincing in pain as his entire body screams at the simple movement and the instant he touches the ladder, he is attached by an electric current and pulled up into the hovercraft, the noise of the crowd still ringing in his ears. 

A blur of darkness and color and suddenly he is inside the metal beast, in a room of white, silver, and glass. 

He collapses onto the cold clean floor, and dimly through the fog that was steadily rolling into his mind he realizes the immense contrast between his bloodied body and the brilliant white ground. 

As he lies there, suddenly he feels a piercing pain in his chest. He gasps and tries to breathe, tries to slow the beating of his heart that is quickly stuttering to the end of its last fight. 

Just breathe Blaine. 

In.

In.

In. 

The oxygen he draws in isn't converted or processed or recognized. He can't take that breath. The fog thickens and he hears cries of agony through the blur, and dimly recognizes it is him. He lost control of his body and he tries and fails to draw a breath. 

Just one more.

One last breath. 

You can't give in now.

Not now.

Not after all you've been through. Not after everything you've done. Not after you've won. 

In.

In

In 

Through the haze he barely recognizes that people clad in white are running to him. He feels himself being gently lifted onto a stretcher and deposited upon a cold metal table. 

The doctors and attendants work around him, buzzing about and shouting orders. But all he can think of now is the pain. The pain he had managed to trap behind walls. But the walls collapse at once and he feels his back arch and body writhe on the cold metal as liquid fire runs scorching through his veins, paralyzing his conscious in a burning room in his mind as he loses all control. The world was spinning.

Was

                           Slipping 

                                                           Away- 

---

--

-

"We're losing him. 1, 2, clear" 

Freezing metal smashes against his chest shocks him back to reality, senses heightened and pain flared. God would it just end. Just end. He wanted it to be over. He is so tired. Why were they still fighting to keep his heart beating? Hadn't he done enough? Hadn't he served his purpose? Why wouldn't they just let him sleep? 

"Come on Blaine, stay with us." a voice above him urges. "He's flat lining again. Ready. 1,2, clear." 

Another bolt through his system and he feels himself return again to a world of fire and ice, the fog clearing for a fleeting second. 

Blaine you made a promise. Fight. 

Breathe. 

In 

In

In

Out

In

Out

He feels his heart retake its proper rhythm, beating steadily in his battered chest. Suddenly laughs and cheers as his hazel eyes flutter open.

A rush of cold air as he feels his clothes being gently cut out of the way, and sharp intakes of breath as the doctors and nurses take in his tattered skin. The firm press of towels against his wounds, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"Glad to have you back, Mr. Anderson. We're going to give you some sedatives so we can begin to patch you up. Don't worry, you'll be as good as new soon enough." 

A sharp prick against his skin and Blaine tilts his head back onto the table with an exhausted exhale. His eyes flutter close again, and then there is a hand against his forehead, softly brushing the plastered curls away. Blaine relaxes a little at the gentle touch, breathing slowly as he hears Pheebee Crippet whisper, "Well done Anderson. Very well done." into his ear as he welcomes the approaching black with eager arms. 


---------------------

Blaine awoke, squinting his eyes against the light above him. He is in a windowless room of white. It is empty except for his bed, tubes running from his body up into the wall behind. He blinks, once, twice. He carefully moves to take a breath, getting ready for the sharp pain that has become part of the process. But there's no pain. He breathes steadily, drinking in the oxygen deep.

He's thirsty. He licks his lips, opening his mouth to call out, but his voice is an illegible rasp. He tries to sit up, and realizes he is naked, white sheets cool against his skin. The sheet slips off his shoulder and he looks, eyes wide, at the unflawed skin. No evidence of the savage tear that had ripped across it remains.

A door slides open and suddenly there's a nurse dressed in white. She readjusts the sheet and then there's a cold cup against his lips and he drinks eagerly. She pulls back and there's a sharp prick against his forearm and the world falls away again.

-------------------

The next time Blaine awakes he's in a different room. It is large, with his bed, a dresser, a chair, and a piano. And he isn't alone. A nurse is fiddling with the tubes, detaching them from his body. Crippet is talking in hushed tones to a doctor in the corner. He clears he throat, trying to find his voice.

"When can I go home?" He rasps, voice weak.

The nurse disappears and Crippet and the doctor approach his bedside.

"Welcome back Anderson." Crippet says quietly.

The doctor glances wearily at his mentor before turning to Blaine, "We've managed to heal the majority of your wounds. You've been unconscious for a couple of days. You're muscles are going to sore for a while, but all we can do there is make sure you get some rest."

"When can I go home?" Blaine repeats with a tired sigh.

"Well-"

Crippet interrupts the doctor, "You've been unconscious for a week Blaine. The Capitol is getting restless. They want to see their victor. If we can get you on air tomorrow for the interview, and then you can head home sooner. You'll be in a little pain, but with some mild sedatives you'll survive. You're going to have to rest a lot at home though in order to recover some strength but-"

"I'll do it. Anything to get home. I just want to go home."

Icy eyes soften, and she clears her throat before replying, "Of course. You just relax for a bit and tomorrow morning we'll get your prep team up here and make sure you're ready. Now if you both excuse me, I need to make a couple of calls." And with that, she strides out of the room.

The doctor turns to Blaine, "It's going to hurt a bit, but I'm not going to give you any sedative now so you don't fall asleep again. I'll have an attendant bring some food up." He moves away, halfway out the room before turning back, "Oh, and Mr. Anderson? Congratulations on your victory. I really enjoyed your performance." The door shuts behind him with a click.

Blaine sits up, slipping off the bed, wincing as his muscles pull and stretch. Biting his lip, he stands. Not bad. Not bad at all. Walking shakily, he sits on the piano bench, flawlessly manicured fingers brushing lightly across the keys. He can barely recognize his own hand.

He moves to play, to make some sort of music. But can't find the heart. He just sits. Numb. Trying to feel anything at all. Excitement, relief, sorrow, loss.

Anything.

He gasps. It isn't the physical pain that hurts. It is something deeper.

That feeling in your chest where you feel like someone is crushing your heart in their fist.

That feeling of your heart dropping lower and lower, sinking and drowning for some unexplainable reason, although there is nothing wrong.  Although it's over.

That feeling that there is a gaping hole, yawning and tearing ever wider. It isn't necessarily a real pain. It doesn't make you scream and look for a bandage.

It's much worse.

It's that feeling that leaves you standing and breathless in shock. Everything is numb except that emptiness in your chest. It's that feeling that makes you search frantically for something to fill it up. It's too empty. And you just want it to go away. Just go away, you scream.

But no amount of screaming, crying, eating, sleeping, thinking, dreaming, or reading can fill that hole. It's just there. And it won't go away. Even when everything is right, it's there and it's pulling you down, beating your heart mercilessly until you feel like you can't take it anymore.  You just want to feel again. You want your heart back. You want to feel it race and flutter in your chest. You want it to make you cry. You want it to make you sweat.  Anything but this continuous numbness that is worse than the most scorching agony. This emptiness that makes you clutch at your chest, surprised that your hand doesn't sink straight through.

And no one seems to notice.

That feeling.

That feeling that is silently ripping you apart, and you just sit motionless, a scream trapped in the back of your mind. A protest left unheard.

That feeling.

This numbness. 

Why won't it just go away?