Maysilee had never before in her life felt a silence so deeply.

Wyatt was dead. You had managed to kill his attacker, but you couldn’t save him.

Haymitch, you, and Maysilee were sitting around a makeshift campfire- Haymitch roasting birds.

You refused to look at the blonde, refused to touch her. Tear trails cut through thin layer of grime and sweat that covered the beautiful tan skin of your face.

Your eyes were half-broken now.

Maysilee could still see the girl you were, but she knew that the death of Wyatt had broken you a little. The two of you had been relatively close, him being the first person to treat you, a Covey, as more than a dancing, singing, drinker.

You had never touched any actual alcohol, only blackberry wine, which wasn’t really wine.

The blonde was a tactile person- the words that came out of her mouth were never quite right or how she meant them, so she relied on touch to communicate her feelings.

However, you wouldn’t let her touch you.

I still know how you are! I still love you, I still want you, damnit! She wanted to scream- so she sighed. What she said instead was, “It wasn’t your fault.”

You didn’t even look up when she moved closer and tried to slide into your lap- that always used to make you smile.

But you gently lifted her off, rubbing at the skin of your hands. Panache Barker’s blood had stained them- you had cut his jugular and then stabbed him in the lung.

Frankly, Maysilee was a little hurt. Was she not pretty enough anymore? And then she saw the look in your eyes.

Those eyes, those goddamn eyes, they put a silent voice to your fears.

“I killed. You shouldn’t have to touch a killer.” You whispered, and Haymitch bit back a retort.

Maysilee was the only person who hadn’t killed- she had only incapacitated for self-defence.

The blue-eyes tribute didn’t know what to say, or do. You were staring at your hands, the hands that had once caressed her skin and picked berries and played music.

Now, they were hands that killed.