Annie by the Water
Sweat in the neighbors/Locking the windows/Crow on the stop sign/Leaves when the wind blows
And Annie can see me/Well from her corner/Still she will meet me/Down by the water
Sometimes I give her/For all that I wanted/Gold and the finest/Lint from my pocket
Annie stopped wearing/The apron I bought her/Annie stopped reaching/For reasons I want her
~Iron and Wine
A shrill, incessant ringing (that I later identify as my alarm clock, a hideous shell-shaped thing picked out by my stylist) abruptly jars me from my sleep, the noise unnecessarily loud in my fuzzy, alcohol-saturated head, the hour ridiculously early to my bleary eyes, eyes so unaccustomed to squinting in the bright light of dawn. Naked (no surprise there), I stumble over to the (unnecessarily large) mirror and push a hand through my hair, mussing it just enough that it looks deliberate rather than lazy, and smirk at my reflection. Fortunately, I look good no matter what time of day it is.
Speaking of which…I manage to force my eyes to focus on the dancing neon numbers on my clock. 6:30 am. 6:30 am? Why the hell am I even conscious at this ungodly hour? I mean, sure, on the rare occasions that I go back to District Four, I wake up before the sun to get on the small, elegant fishing boat I bought with my Victor's winnings and sail as far away from shore as I dare before the Peacekeepers and fishermen head onto the water, but I haven't been home in months, and when I'm here in the Capitol…well, I can't remember ever waking up before noon in the Capitol, unless a particularly exciting turn in the Games demanded my attention. So why in all of Panem did someone – most likely Lydia Frill, the over-attentive District escort who also fancies herself my self-appointed publicist – set my alarm for six-thirty in the morning?
The Games. The 70th annual Hunger Games. Of course.
The unpleasant thought, pushed down into my subconscious by last night's excessive (even for Finnick Odair's standards) partying, hits me in the stomach like one of the Capitol's high-speed tribute trains, and I fight the sudden urge to vomit. My entire body tenses, instinctively on edge even though I know there's no way I'll be going into the arena this time. Not as an almost-twenty-year-old no longer eligible for the Reaping, not as a previous Victor with all the fame, fortune, and security I once thought I wanted…no, I am safe, or as safe as anyone can be under the ever-watchful eye of President Snow. But someone - no, two someones - from District Four will leave my District behind today, most likely forever, as they head into the arena, their existences shattered the instant they hear their names trilled from Lydia's too-plump lips.
Two children from District Four are on the train right now, heading here, to the Capitol…heading, most likely, to their deaths. Statistically speaking, the odds are not in their favor. District 1 and 2 usually win, and even though I won my Games five years ago, all I've managed to do as a mentor so far is send eight kids back to Four in body bags. It is little consolation that most of the tributes from Four are Careers who eagerly volunteer for the Games, little consolation at all when I know firsthand the chances (the odds, Lydia and her Capitol friends would say) of either of this year's tributes coming back. And even if you do return, you're not the same person you were before you went into the arena. You can't be. You can't forget it…what you've seen, what you've done, what you've become. And even if you wanted to, even if by some miracle you could, they won't let you. I'm a living testament to that.
I half-fall, half-trip over to the unnecessarily large dresser (unnecessary being a defining characteristic of the Capitol, especially when "fashion" is involved), pull on a pair of pants – skintight, the only way my stylist lets me wear them – and down a few glasses of ice water and an assortment of colorful pills that should energize me, or at least help with the raging hangover I'm nursing at the moment. I dig through the drawer for a shirt, shove my arms into the sleeves, push my feet into a pair of shoes, and then I'm out the door, buttoning a few buttons over my bare chest as I hurry through the training center to the conference room where I will meet Mags and our newest victims – er, tributes, completely ignoring the whistles and come-hither looks that follow in my wake.
And then I'm there, and so is the entourage that I never seem quite able to shake, and I'm greeting the cameramen and the paparazzi (somewhat disturbed that I know all of them by name) and dodging the spit-slicked fingers of my newest Capitol-appointed stylist, Grommett, as he lunges at my messy hair, and then I catch sight of Mags' wrinkled face and Lydia Frill's abnormally smooth, pink-tinted one, trotting along behind an enormous hulk of a male tribute too terrifying to really be called a boy, no matter how old - or young - he may be.
"Finnick, darling," Lydia croons, her eyes flitting to my chest, then dropping lower and widening noticeably. Really, lady? I know I'm bigger than whatever you've had to satisfy yourself with all these years, but come on. What happened to professionalism? "Finnick, meet Curtis McInnes."
Curtis takes my proffered hand, nearly crushing it in his own, and grins broadly at me. "The infamous Finnick Odair," he says, his hands twitching as though already anxious for a fight. "Tell me you're gonna be my mentor."
"Later. First we talk strategy," Mags declares, her words barely distinguishable as they emerge from her gummy mouth. I translate for Curtis' benefit.
"Strategy?" he scowls. "I've got all the strategy I need already – bash their heads in."
"Awesome!" cries one of the cameramen, clearly inspired by Curtis's raw brutality. I can't help but feel some amount of relief upon meeting him – he possesses the viciousness to win sponsors, plus the strength and appetite for violence that will help him do well in the arena, and besides, he is obviously a Career, so he willingly chose to participate in these so-called Games, meaning he has either a taste for killing or a powerful death wish. Judging by what little I've seen of him already, I'd go with the former.
Mags has taught me not to get too attached to tributes, and I've managed to stay distant by involving myself in...ahem, other pastimes...during the Games, but I still can't help feeling responsible for the lives of the two children old Mags and I mentor every year. It's a little better when a Career dies, easier to accept, at least – after all, they know exactly what they are getting into, and yet they still volunteer, year after year after blood-soaked year. But the ones who don't volunteer, the little ones, the timid ones, the ones who are trembling and screaming when they are reaped, who are carted out here like cattle being led to their own slaughter…
No. Best not to think about that. I've got a show to put on. Tributes to train. Sponsors to secure. People to please.