Making knots. Making knots. Don't think of the Capitol. Don't think of torture.Â
             Don't think of her. Don't think of Annie.
                      Alone, and suffering without any help....
                               Making knots. Making knots.Â
        Head snapping up, his eyes widened at the sight of company. Who would come at such a time? No one came to visit Finnick often as of late; according to doctors, his current state of mind was rather unstable. But he wasn't unstable, just...slowly breaking at the seams. The rope within his hands twists between his fingers, continuing to knot as he makes eye contact with the person."What are you doing here?" His voice is low and quiet, though the expression worn expresses the man's confusion.Â
