once upon a time ago I actually used to give a shit about the Hunger Games more than casual interest

part of what was supposed to end up a Gale/Peeta hatesex thing

Time is meaningless down here. Twelve hour shifts are exhausting, but the stretch of time feels just the same as a shorter shift: infinite. Nothing to mark the passage of hours but the chinking of chisels in the brittle solidity of the shaft walls and the deep pops of dynamite being freed. Or maybe it’s not free; maybe we’re disturbing the coal from its home just as the Capitol is controlling ours. Maybe each and every piece of char-black rock curses me as their oppressor, and I am no better than those I hate. 

I know what hell is, and it’s a coal mine.