PART I
ENTER ANNIE…(AND FINNICK)
To be continued...
DISCLAIMER: OBVIOUSLY, I'M NOT SUSANNE COLLINS, AND I AM HIGHLY REMORSEFUL OF THAT FACT.
ENJOY
It's reaping day. I acknowledge this fact in much the same way that I know when I'm about to receive a particularly nasty punishment. It's inevitable, something I've got to face. But that doesn't change the absolutely true fact that I am terrified out of my wits, just like I always am on Reaping Day. Just like all of the kids from twelve to eighteen are in all twelve of the districts across Panem. These thoughts, however horrifying they may be, are the ones that grace my mind as I drag myself out of the ocean. . The ocean that is my mother, my father, my grandparents. In its rushing tides, it contains my ancestry, and the dry sands of the beach are my siblings.
I don't bother to dress for the Reaping, I just walk to the town square in a light cotton shirt and my bathing suit. This is District 4, home of the ever infamous Finnick Odair, and no one cares if you're wearing slightly less than what is traditional in some of the more conservative districts. I don't want to get dressed up, anyways.
I know my hair is salty and unbrushed, my eyes wild with the pleasure of the ocean's torrents. I attract a couple of stares as I take my place among the other girls my age, most of them have dressed in their finest clothes. To me, wearing finery while attending the Reaping is obnoxious. No one will remember your face unless you're chosen as a tribute, in which case fancy clothing won't do much to improve your situation.
Although, of course, appearances do leave their own impact on the games. Anyone who's grown up seeing a half – naked Finnick on the television screen everyday has no excuse to forget that. It's doubtful he would've stood a chance without the bronze hair, bright green eyes, and perfect golden coppery build that drew so many capitol sponsors to him.
The man in person, one of this year's mentors, sits proudly atop a makeshift stage, enjoying the luxuries of being the most attractive, desired person in the country. He's dressed (if you could call it that) in his customary evergreen suit, which happens to be missing a few essential pieces, such as the shirt. I wonder, absently, if he's ever felt regret behind his strong, careless façade, or if that face of his has ever been truly twisted with anguish and agony. I reminisce on his games, in which he was showered with gifts from sponsorships, securing a trident that was deadly when wielded in his arms. I consider the oddity, the obscurity, and the downright hideousness of a country that falls desperately in love with a fourteen year old boy to the point where they would exploit him for every moment he had. How people of both genders, and all ages, from everywhere swooned at the sight of the fourteen year old "man" who had conquered the odds and survived the Hunger Games. I contemplate whether he considers himself responsible for the tributes, who are really just children, who have been slaughtered under his responsibility.
Yes, I decide. I think perhaps, if Finnick truly loves the sea the way we all know he does, the way any self-respecting fisherman's child does, he must have some form of decency hidden beneath the public image. Public images are everything once it's time for the games again: Wendolyn Marks, our District's host, is the perfect embodiment of that truth. Her curled hair has been dyed an ostentatious shade of orange, with lips and tattoos to match. The way the sun glints off of it, with my subtle ocean in the background…it appears even more gaudy. How must we appear to the citizens of the capitol, who're always painted a rainbow of neon hues, when they see us on television? Our dull, natural faces and unaltered bodies must look boring and lifeless compared to the colors and shapes of the capitol. But then again, Finnick has obviously made short work of capturing their hearts.
I play with a strand of my long, dark hair, comparing the ebony and walnut strands to the orange of Wendolyn's. I imagine the way bleaches and chemicals could burn away its salty, oceanic color, turning me into one of the chameleons who wander the streets of the capitol. I wonder whether I could ever find a place within the capitol, whether I could ever be sane in a place as big and diverse as the capitol.
"Annie Cresta," says a distant voice, breaking into my thoughts, interrupting my hallucinatory imaginings of capitol grandeur.
I look up, startled, forgetting where I am as I attempt to identify the voice. Who was looking for me? "Yes?" I ask shyly.
"Congratulations, Annie Cresta," says the voice, and this time I realize it belongs to Wendolyn. "You're the new District 4 tribute."
"What?" I ask. While my world may always have a somewhat surreal tint to it, I feel as though I'm drowning now, and the real world, which I'd barely grasped before, even, is far above me and I can't reach it. Everything has been flipped around, and I can't tell which way's up. Because I know it's what they want me to do, I take slow, careful steps toward the stage. I look at the camera, it follows me, its lens like the giant eye of a dragon, or a snake. It's staring me down, waiting for me to glance away, and I'm frightened. Reptiles. Giant eyes. This snake's eye camera is following me, I realize. I hide my face in my dark, wavy hair, thanking it for being there when I needed it like so few things are in my life.
The boy tribute is called. I don't know who, I didn't bother to find out. I pray he isn't someone I know, and I pray that he isn't someone who I don't know. All I know is that I'm walking, and it's crowded and to hot, and a strong hand guides me.
Chapter 2
That hand belongs to Finnick Odair. It having finally occurred to me that I was curious as to the beautiful hand's owner, I had looked up, curious, and found those two deep, swirling sea green eyes staring back down and into mine.
Embarrassed, I quickly ducked my head, hiding my face from view. I could feel his eyes burning into me, trying to interpret me, the way a fisherman interprets the sky for a change in weather. I am not a cloud, I decide. They are fearsome and grey and large and so powerful…and it's already been proven today that I am powerless. Complete slave of that one piece of paper in that dreaded glass ball…like a lottery straight out of hell. I wish I were a cloud, free to come and go as I wished, float, rain, storm, precipitate, snow, cycle, without being controlled by the people around me. I wish I were an uncontrollable force of nature.
Now I'm on a train. I didn't know; I had to ask an attendant to find out for sure. We're going to the capitol, and I remember it's for the Games. I'm going to starve, probably kill someone, either be stripped of my dignity or have it handed to me on a shining platter. Of course in the latter case, then I would have to swallow it. Whole. Like an octupus.
I confuse myself with reality and obscurity, hoping I still know what's true and what's not. I try to ground myself, but all I see are a pair of man's hands which are always guiding me to where I need to be. I know now that they belong to Finnick. I want to trust them, but I can't. I don't know where they come from. Quite frankly, I know nothing now but the fact that I need the ocean. I need it, like I never knew I would need it until I left it.
Later, the hands guide me to a room. There's a shower, with several buttons. I turn the water on and listen to the comforting sound it makes, but I don't get wet. Knowing the water's there is enough. I lay down on my bed, enjoying both the comforting pitter patter and the fact that I'm wasting capitol resources. I decide that while I'm alive, I will take back as much as I can of what the capitol has stolen from my people, my ocean.
Outside my door, I hear voices. One's low and silky, a seductive purr that probably comes from years of practice. This voice is immediately classified as Finnick Odair's. Another voice must belong to Mags, the kindly older woman who's also slated to supervise our massacre this year.
"….not entirely stable, Finnick. Don't destroy yourself over her."
"…just shocked. Maybe she's in denial."
"You could ask her."
The door clicks open and swings in toward me on well oiled hinges, probably seen to by the toga wearing Avoxes who tend us like the servants of Atlantis. I see Finnick, thinking he could be the King of Atlantis, wielding a trident, with a mermaid tail, protecting his little schools of fish. Of course, he hasn't done an excellent job with the little fish he's supposed to bring back from the Hunger Games. I scoot to the center of my bed, pulling the light cotton shirt I've got on over my knees. Finnick, who's also managed to misplace his suit jacket as well as his shirt now, sits on the side I'd been previously occupying. The sheets are rumpled, and I wish I could chase him off so I could straighten them. Instead of struggling with the odd obsessive impulse, I just look him in the eyes. I see they're green, strong, and everything promised by his reputation, but also that they're soft. Considerate. And from those eyes I demand answers.
"Annie Cresta…Annie," Finnick murmurs. I don't know what he wants to tell me, and so I just wait. Trying to be patient. Patience is not my specialty, my mind tends to wander as I envisage various oddities, which typically have very little to do with the original topic. The memory of a goldfish.
"Mags is letting me mentor you. Usually she mentors the girl, but I asked for a special change this year." I continue to stare at him begrudgingly. He hasn't told me what he wants to yet. Finnick Odair, the man of many mysteries. I wait for him to elaborate on his statement.
"Because…I don't know why. But I think I can help you. And I'm sorry." I realize that I don't understand Finnick, and probably never will. I relax my position, now, though, beginning to realize that he genuinely cares. He better watch himself, or this could damage his capitol reputation. Imagine, the shock of all those men and women, when they realized that the great, godlike Finnick Odair had come down to earth, merely on the concerns of one mortal.
"You're special, Annie," he says to me, and touches my hand. It's white next to his dark one. I contemplate all of the times people have told me I'm special. My mother. My teacher. My older friends.
"Special Annie," they would say. Not crooning, like Finnick, but still fondly. I was never much curious as to what the hidden double meaning behind those words was.
I wish I was special like Finnick, not special like me, Annie. I want to be special in a spectacular way, a history changing way. Special like an amazing, unique creature.
Once again, his voice interrupts my fantasies.
"I need you to talk to me, Annie," whispers Finnick. His face is very close to my ear. "I need you to talk so I can protect you."
I don't want to hear about this. I cup my hand on my neck, just below my ear, so that I can block some of the sound without appearing rude. It occurs to me that the sound my hand makes when it's over my ear is like my ocean, that the sound imitates the roaring noise made by the push and pull of the tides. Like little kids, when they pick up seashells to hear the ocean inside. God, I want a seashell right now.
"Annie?" Finnick says. He expects me to answer him now. Too bad I can't remember what the question was. I just look at his green eyes again, and see that they're more of a teal. Like my ocean. And his firm, bronze skin is like the sand that the water sometimes frolics with.
"You're a seashell," I say dumbly. He looks taken aback, but I also detect a hint of victory in his eyes. At least he got a few words out of me.
"I haven't heard that one before," he says, laughing good naturedly.
Suddenly I feel a pang of remorse. This boy – man – is trying to keep me alive. I ought to give him something to work with. "Finnick, I can swim," I say. I like the way his name feels in his mouth, sounds in my voice.
He smiles. "That's good, Annie. That's a good place to start."
I'm proud to please him.
"I can sew."
He smiles. "That's good. I really want you to come back, Annie." He strokes my forehead, then gets up to leave.
"Bye, Finnick," I say, not sure that he heard my quiet voice or not.
I consider Finnick Odair again. He won the games when he was only fourteen, and even then he was coveted by both men and women alike in the capitol for his exceptionally good looks and athletic build. Since then, he's managed to create the most scandalous reputation of anyone in all of Panem, let alone anyone under twenty. And yet, somehow these facts don't match his character. The Finnick I've seen, the Finnick who's my mentor, has been caring. Responsible, even, if a little conceited, but nothing like the Playboy of Panem he's made out to be. It's as if there are two Finnicks, the one I meet in private, and the seductive beast who struts before the cameras. And I can't help wondering if there's something more to the story than what meets the eye. It's as if I'm missing a key piece of the puzzle.