AN: Please don't expect literary gold here. I still have to practise my first-person-narrator writing, but I thought it would fit, regarding the books' style.
Who was it that determined all the stages of grief? I don't remember and it doesn't really matter.
Denial. I think we all skipped that one - being crowned a victor of the Hunger Games, you get used to taking brutal mutt attacks seriously. The arena does that to you. There was never a doubt about his death, even without a cannon to confirm it.
Anger. A very familiar characteristic. This was predictable enough, especially for me. Everyone who knew me even a little bit were fully expecting me to have a fit and start throwing axes into any living target's chests - maybe that was not far-fetched. Their faces were priceless when I had convinced Beetee to calm down of all people and had my own private breakdown only hours later. At least by then my companions were ready and kept their distance, which makes me, what, grateful? Possibly.
I tired of counting all the times Finnick had ever done something reckless and gotten away with it. Why couldn't that have worked again, just one more time? Irrational as it was, I grew agitated and aggressive and my anger was directed at him. Why the hell did he leave Annie? Why did he agree to form an alliance with Katniss in the first place? (He could have won, easy. There had been enough chances in the arena to catch all of us unaware. Ironically, that would have spared us a lot of pain)
Bargaining. In my case, it wasn't God I bargained with, it was whoever was in charge of the ones responsible for creating those bloodthirsty mutts. Couldn't they have their employees work insanely long? Someone was bound to be tired and as far from motivated as possible one day. That guy would make a little, but crucial mistake. This mistake would create a huge domino effect that would lead to the pack who has been sent after us having faults - jaws that wouldn't bite quite hard enough, claws that were not sharp by any means. Surely that could happen and Finnick would appear out of thin air, saving the day and our sorry selves, anything but deadly wounded?
Depression. Of course he would not live.
Acceptance. Strangely enough, this one proves to be the hardest to go through. After all this death, isn't it ironic? Weren't we all expecting and discussing our inevitable end?
I guess no one is ever truly ready to leave this earth and rot somewhere in a box six feet under if one is physically healthy and reasonably content with life. Maybe, just maybe, our elders are right when they say that some people died too young. Maybe not.
It all comes down to one fact: I miss him.
I know I'm not alone with this, either - I've seen Katniss turn around and open her mouth to tell him something only to find empty air and cold. Peeta attempts to comfort her and Beetee immerses himself deeper into his work.
We all desperately need a distraction, after all.
I still have my morphine addiction to deal with, but my restlessness has nothing to do with withdrawal.
"Someone has to do it.", Gale murmurs. It's glaringly obvious he is primarily concerned with Katniss, who has been sitting on the icy floor hugging her knees and staring at the rope Finnick has left on his bed (it still has ridiculously complicated knots in it) until her best friend raises his voice. Her expression is a perfect blank.
Peeta seems confused. "Do... what?"
"He's right, you know. Annie's got to know her husband has died sooner or later and I'd advise one of you being the one to spill the beans. Unless you want Coin to announce the happy news?", Haymitch rasps, who has miraculously managed to get a hold of a huge whiskey bottle. I scurry to him, my quick steps echoing in the dead silent room. The rest grows very interested in their boots or fingernails all of a sudden as they avoid looking Haymitch in the eye.
I snatch the bottle from his grip and take a decent swig. The effect is immediate and I can't help but grin just a little as my throat burns, a pleasant sensation that overshadows everything else for a mere second.
Obviously, we simply cannot have happiness here around District Thirteen, so reality comes crashing down on me soon enough. Haymitch doesn't even move to ask for his bottle, which is such a heartbreaking tiny detail that leads me to realize that even though he did not know Finnick very well, all this is affecting him as well.
"I'll do it.", I blurt out. I hadn't meant to, not consciously, but here I am with a sea of faces staring at me in disbelief as if I had announced my wedding to President Snow.
"What?", I counter without even meeting any resistance. Everyone's so quiet, it sets me on edge.
"Be my guest." Haymitch grimaces. "Dinner's in five minutes and Annie will be there for sure."
Whatever demon possessed me to volunteer for a task no one was eager to perform (see, it's like the Reaping, the wheel turns and turns and nothing is ever new), it's disappeared.
I'm left standing there in the empty store room that has become our secret little group room before I can even blink and when my aimed punch draws blood, it smears the white walls. The pain of reality has remained and it hits me that this is not a dream, after all. More and more cracks appear in the skin of my fists, scarlet droplets dripping to the floor.
My head held up high, I walk into the Thirteen equivalent of a cafeteria and glare daggers at my supposed friends. It takes no genius to tell that they were absolutely certain I was going to chicken out. Well, wrong day for cowardice.
Annie yelps as I grab her arm in an admittedly rough manner. Peeta moves to separate us, but Katniss holds him back. Good girl.
I smile humorlessly. "Hey, Annie. Care to go for a walk?" I'm burning to wipe the alarmed glances of all of their faces as they become increasingly panicked. Should have done something yourself if you're not happy with the way I'm handling things, then.
"But, b-but I haven't eaten yet." The poor thing is quite flustered. It's almost cute, if it wasn't for the fact that she's prone to flashbacks and phases of borderline insanity.
"Good." There's a high probability of her throwing up at the news, anyway. I cannot help but calculate it in cold blood. Numbness is preferable to facing emotions and I speak from unfortunate experience.
I catch her stealing worried glances at Katniss and Peeta as she reluctantly follows me above ground. I estimate that worst case scenario that involves her alive, she joins Haymitch in the Drowning Our Worries Illegally Club.
Sunlight shines through the leaves, bathing Annie's laughing face in a golden haze that is so painfully beautiful I almost bite my tongue. I have a responsibility, however, and I was never one to back down and do it gently at that.
"Listen, please. Have you not wondered where your husband is?"
Annie pauses mid-step, her mouth hanging open comically for a second as she falls silent and her eyes burn into mine. "Well, he's busy a-"
"Hold on.", I interrupt her. It's no use. "He hasn't come back with us from our mission, An. The Star Squad has failed."
I can see that some essential part of her still hasn't got the message, as if her question - How? - isn't enough proof. It's incredible, the power shock has over our senses and feelings.
The craving for morphine is strong now and I'm actively battling it, relatively happy at a chance of winning something that will not destroy someone else's life for a change, no matter what. The feeling doesn't last long. "Mutts. It was horrible, if you must know."
Seconds blend into minutes, almost like time is slowing down and freezing specifically for the purpose of making this so much crueler than even I had anticipated it would be. The forest around us (thank whatever God there is her arena was different than this, she would lose it completely if it had been) seems to be holding its breath.
The expression in her eyes, a brief flash of fire, tells me everything that I need to know.
She doesn't swear or cry, not now. There is time for that and by then she will be surrounded by more people, some of whom she trusts. Some of whom just remind her of him and cause never ending agony. She walks away with the specific manner the grieving seem to unconsciously acquire.
My moment of enlightment comes in time with a mockingjay singing a song - Katniss's Hanging Tree, I can't help but notice.
It wasn't that Haymitch didn't want Coin to inform the widow, though that undoubtedly played a minor role in the big picture.
No one - but me, apparently - was ready to take a risk. That Annie is going to hate the person who told her that the love of her life had died face to face and that no one of us had even tried saving him.