Author's Note: With this, I'm trying to be as true to the books as possible, concerning accuracy for the characters and their histories. I have taken a few liberties, however. The most obvious is Finnick's character, who is ten years younger here and therefore not the same person we meet in Catching Fire. Read with an open mind and (hopefully) enjoy. Also other than some minor spoiler's for Finnick's character, this story is spoiler free.
Strangled
Chapter 1
I feel most at home when I'm in the water. Even now, with the dreaded reaping day so soon, once I dive in the sway of the water calms me. I resurface, and the sun warms my face. If I feel lucky for anything, it's that the sun rarely leaves us here in District 4.
"Finnick! Finnick!"
I look to the shore and there's Zeke, jumping up and down and waving his arms in the air.
I swim to the shore. The salt stings my back, but I ignore the burning. This is why I went for a swim in the first place, to heal the lash wound on my back that I got when my father whipped me with his belt. Only after he started did he remember that the reaping was coming up, and by then he'd already drawn blood.
I swim to shore. When I reach the beach I rake my hands through my hair, shaking out droplets of water. I'd run out of my house so fast that I hadn't the time to grab a towel. I pick up my shirt, which I'd left behind on the sand before going in. It's warm from sitting under the sun. I dab my face with my shirt, not worrying and now it's damp with salt water. It doesn't matter. I was going to have to wash it anyway; it's got a dark red blood stain on the back.
Zeke is fifteen, a year older than me but much smaller. He seems to be cursed with a forever scrawny body no matter how many years he spends training. The rest of us Careers have turned our bodies into killing machines in preparation for the Games.
Zeke is so upset he's actually shaking. "Did your father…you know?" he ask.
I shrug, pretending I don't care that my father beat me. Pretending that I don't care that he's beaten me before. "Only a little bit. He remembered that the reaping is next week, and that I can't afford any injuries," I say, and I even manage to force a smile.
Zeke smiles back. We pretend that we're just like all the other Careers, that the Hunger Games is the most anticipated event of the year for us. "I'm so sorry," Zeke says.
We had training today, just like we've had every day for the last few months leading up to the reaping. Today we had to fight in combat, and I was paired to fight with Zeke. He usually gets clobbered during training, and then is always sent to the hospital to get patched up again. I didn't want to give him yet another trip to the hospital, so I went easy on him. My father inevitably found out about this since it was the talk of the Careers and our trainers, and that's when he beat me. He has high expectations for me. I have to do what he never got to do: volunteer as tribute for the Hunger Games and then win.
I dismiss his apology with a wave of my hand. "It's no big deal, Zeke. Really."
But this isn't enough for Zeke. "You shouldn't have helped me, really. I'm...I'm a loser."
I frown. "Don't say that," I say, because really, if he's a loser then so am I.
I may be the strongest Career, but I've never been able to truly be one of them. I'm as strong as the others, but not competitive. I don't have that drive, that need to win. In a way, this makes me the weakest Career of all despite my physical strength. Except I don't know how to be or do anything other than a bad Career. If I'm not mentally strong enough to compete in the Hunger Games, the competition that I've spent my whole life training for, then I'm useless. My father would agree, and his greatest disappointment in life is the fact that I've never had the mentality of a true Career.
Zeke and I leave the beach and back to the center of the district. We go our separate ways. I enter my home with the intention of leaving as soon as possible. I just want to get my fishing gear and go out there one more time before the day ends. But my father has other plans for me. He's sitting at the table rubbing his hands together anxiously when I come in. When he sees me he pushes his chair back and stands.
"Come here," he says. I cautiously approach him.
To me, my father is one of the saddest sights I've ever seen. Trained from childhood to be a Career, he was determined to win the Games and bring home the glory. He was a front runner too, ranked first out of all the boy Careers, but then the year he was supposed to compete, when he was sixteen, he became very sick. He was given the proper treatment, but declared too sick to compete in the Games. He could not volunteer as a tribute, and lost everything he'd ever worked for. Between the illness, the misfortune he experienced at such a young age, and his frustration with our dysfunctional family, my father has the look of a beaten down, broken man. He even looks about ten years older than he actually is.
"Went for a swim?" he asks.
No, I went to go get baptized. Surprise, I think dryly, referring to a practice that is considered part of the "old ways". No one really has any figures to worship anymore, because it's considered a betrayal to the one thing you must worship the most: Panem.
"Yes, sir," I say.
"Need that cleaned?" he asks, gesturing to my shirt.
I nod and hand him my shirt. He holds one sleeve in either hand, examining it. "I'll take care of it," he says.
After my mother left, my father had to take on what he considers to be "womanly chores". At first he was clueless when it came to cooking and cleaning, or at least that's what he tells me. I wouldn't know, because my mother left when I was an infant for a man from the Capitol; a tour guide who was giving people a tour of our district. He found some downtime to spare a conversation or two with her. It didn't take long for my mother to decide that this wealthy man was a lot more promising than my father, who she was only engaged to because she'd just given birth to me. I don't really blame my mother for leaving my father, but I still haven't quite accepted the fact that she didn't think to take me with her.
"Thank you, sir," I murmur, not looking him in the eyes.
My father gently turns me around and observes my back. His fingers graze my wound, and I resist the urge to flinch. "It's not so bad. It should heal in time for the reaping," he says. He feels guilty now, I know. My father doesn't hit me that often, but when he does lose his temper and hit me, he always regrets it later.
He turns me around again. Then he drapes my shirt over the chair he was sitting in. He places a hand under my chin. "I'm sorry," he says. I know that he's more worried about the fact that I have to be in the best shape possible for the Hunger Games next week than he is about causing me pain. I have to do what he never could. It's practically the reason my father decided to have a child in the first place.
My father pushes my chin up, forcing me to look at him. "You'll be fine, right?"
"I think so," I say.
He wraps his arms around me. They are like two thin tree limbs. His body is still worn from his illness even after so many years.
"I'm so proud of you," he says. This is also kind of a big deal, since my father usually just accuses me of being too soft compared to the other Careers. "I know it's going to be you."
"Unless it's Tyler," I say, referring to the other Career tribute that was selected.
In most districts, volunteering is pretty straight forward since it's basically a death wish. But here in District 4 the rules have to be different. Every year all the Careers are ranked in order of strongest to weakest. The lower your ranking, the more miserable the trainers and other Careers make your life. You're beaten regularly, mocked, more likely to be punished. The rest of the district also shuns you. Some food stores in the market will even refuse to serve you. I had to deal with all of that when I was twelve. I tried to endure, but you can only bend so much before you break.
One day an older Career tied my hands behind my back and ordered me to eat with my mouth like a dog. I refused until he force fed me the food. I'd had it after that. I decided I wasn't going to be a victim anymore. When I was thirteen I was ranked in the top twenty-five.
I worked hard to rank high in training. The more I impressed the trainers, the less the older Careers bothered me. It got to the point where I became a threat to the Careers who used to abuse me, and I enjoyed that. I was starting to think like a real Career, where I enjoyed the fight and the competition. The wake up call came when the rankings were announced this year. I never expected to be ranked first at fourteen. That's pretty much unheard of at my age. There are so many other Careers that I assumed the older ones would place higher. Shows how much I know. The top two males and the top two females are the ones granted permission to volunteer. Tyler is number two.
"It's going to be you," my father says, eyes hard with determination. "I just know it."
"Yeah, maybe," I say, though my chances are very likely. If the tribute selected has a last name that begins with the letters A through M, I must volunteer for him. If his last name begins with the letters N through Z, then Tyler volunteers.
There's another rule that's meant to keep force even the weakest Careers to fight. The two lowest ranked Careers for the boys and girls are required to compete if reaped as punishment. Zeke is ranked second to last for the boys, which is why the he is terrified for the reaping this year.
"Going fishing now?" my father asks.
I nod. "Came back for the gear," I say. I try to exchange as few words with my father as I can on a regular basis.
I walk past the living room, past the mantle with the picture of my mother. I know from this picture that my bronze hair and sea green eyes are from her. This is the only picture of her I have ever seen, frozen in time fourteen years ago. I open the back door. My fishing gear is stored in the shed outside.
"Finnick," my father says.
"Yes?" I ask, stopping at the door.
"Get to bed early tonight," he says. "You're going to need to be as well rested as possible for the Games."
This sends a fresh wave of terror through me. Even after I clawed my way to the top, I still can't handle the pressure. I must be the worst, most pathetic highest ranked Career in all the sixty-five years we've had the Games.
"Yes, sir," I say, and head out to the shed.
Another year. Another reaping.
It's funny how it's the children from the Career districts who are the safest from the Games. They know that if their name is drawn, a Career will volunteer for them. The reaping for us is just meant to decide which of the top two Careers will compete.
As we're lined up I pass by Zeke. He looks like he's about to faint, but really he has little to worry about. Sure he'll have to compete if he's called, but his name is only in there four times. Four slips of paper out of thousands. As opposed to me, where my name is in there for every single boy whose last name begins with the first half of the alphabet.
The reaping begins. We hear about the history of Panem, the rebellion, the formation of the Hunger Games. People are talking but it all goes right over my head. I can't hear anything but the slamming of my heart in my chest.
I could just refuse to volunteer, but I've already decided that I won't do that. Tyler will volunteer, because he desperately wants the glory of winning the Games. Even if he didn't want to compete, since he's a Career it wouldn't even occur to him that he can, you know, break the rules and not volunteer. This thought has occurred to me, but I can't do it. If someone from my half of the alphabet is called, the poor kid will be expecting me to volunteer and save his life. If I don't, I'm sentencing him to death, and I can't live with myself if I do that, even if he is a Career. Not to mention that if I didn't, the entire district would treat me even worse than they did when I was twelve.
Pan, our escort, takes the stage. His eyes are a different color every year, and this year they are bright orange. And bigger too, I think. He must've gotten surgery.
"Welcome, District Four, the Sixty-fifth Hunger Games!" he says into the microphone in a booming voice, his accent clipping his words and hissing each s. The crowd goes crazy, cheering, clapping, stomping their feet.
"That's the spirit I know and love from this district!" Pan says, so proud to be an escort to one of the wealthiest districts. Imagine if he worked for a place like District 12, poor and filled with starving children, how unpleasant his job would be. Imagine.
"Enough chatter. Let's get straight to the good part! Happy Hunger Games and," Pan says, and here the crowd joins in to recite the slogan with him, "may the odds be ever in your favor!"
There's more applause, and then Pan goes over to the bowl with the boys' names. I can almost see my name over and over, on half the slips. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair.
Please, no. Please, please. Please not me.
Pan fishes around in the bowl. He returns to the microphone. "Our boy tribute is..." I'm so nervous that I only hear the last name, Patterson.
Patterson! It's the second half of the alphabet. Patterson. Not me.
Then my stomach drops. Patterson. Zeke Patterson.
Not Zeke. He'll die within seconds. This is a death sentence. For the first time, I understand what the weaker districts go through every year, watching their children walk up the stage to their deaths.
The crowd goes crazy. It's been years since one of the lowest ranking Careers has been called. I'm not sure that my father has even been alive to witness it. I watch Zeke walk to the stage, but he can barely carry himself. I can't hear over the screaming protests of the crowd, but I know that Zeke is crying.
Pan has to yell, "Silence!" at least ten times before everyone finally quiets down. Zeke is now on the stage, tears streaming down his face. He grabs Zeke by the wrist and lifts his arm in the air. "The winner is Zeke Patterson!" There's more protests, but they're quiet, muffled. "Now, would anyone like to volunteer as tribute?"
Everyone is painfully quiet. These are the rules, the way it must be done. No one wants Zeke to go in. They want to see District 4 bring home a winner, not Zeke's body in a casket. But these are the rules, and the only way for this system to work is to follow them. I'm waiting, silently begging, for someone with authority to speak out against this. But these are the Careers we're talking about here. We're raised to live and die by the rules, to do anything else is a great dishonor. So there's no sound except Zeke's choked sobs.
"All right then! Let's move onto the girls then!" Pan says.
My heart is beating faster than ever. No, this can't be happening. No one deserves this less than Zeke.
Pan walks back to the microphone, and I've already made my decision. I must, once again, be an outcast among the Careers. I will never forgive myself if I don't do this, and for once the fact that I'm not good enough to be a real Career is going to help matters. I push past the other boys, ignoring their glares, and race down the center aisle.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the female tribute—" Pan says.
"Wait! Wait!" I scream.
Pan is shocked. He looks at me with his bright orange eyes, unable to comprehend what I can possibly be doing.
"I volunteer as tribute!" I say.
"What?" cries Pan into the microphone, and again the crowd reacts.
I say it again, loudly so that he can hear me over the chorus of all the other voices, "I volunteer as tribute."