A/N: Whatta I tell you, eh? My first HG fanfic in months! Yay! Inspired mainly by 'Swimming' by Florence and the Machine, but partly by a post by chroniclesofpanem on tumblr.
P.S. I'm going to finish Innocence! Stick with me m'lovlies! There is a light at the end of the long and winding tunnel.
Disclaimer: Yes, of course I'm Suzanne Collins -_- I don't own anything.
Lyrics: 'Swimming' by Florence and the Machine
- o -
Rotting like a wreck on the ocean floor
Singing like a siren that can't swim anymore
Your songs remind me of swimming
Which I forgot when I started to sink
All of a sudden I heard a noise
It started in my chest and ended in my throat
Your songs remind me of swimming
But I can't swim anymore
- o -
They roll in; rise up, peak, then break, shattering into a million droplets of beaded light, refracting colours every which way before the next one comes in. They leap up, roar, and bring you down to their underwater world. They bubble up; lapping lazily at the sand, tickle your toes.
I come down to the beach front to watch the waves almost every single morning. Have done since I lost my father in the shipping accident nearly three years ago now. That was when I had to start taking the tesserae. My mother battled, fought against me to stop me taking it, but we were fading away and I couldn't sit by and do nothing.
I watch for a little longer, realising now that the routine that I've adopted isn't placating my nerves as I'd hoped - rather the opposite. Each swell of the sea sends a fresh thrum of anticipation flying through my veins and I can't stand to stay here any longer.
As I walk the tow path back to my village I hear quiet sounds - a baby crying in the distance, the shutting of doors, the birds calling a melancholy tune. It's as if even the animals know what today is.
The Reaping.
- o -
Imagine having your life and every hope pulled away from you with just the draw of a name. Imagine leaving everything you know and saying one last goodbye. Imagine walking to your death.
- o -
There's a small murmuring amongst the crowds here in the Square. An unhappy sound, the sound of distressed children, distressed parents. The only people enjoying the show I'm sure are the Capitol announcers and the Peacekeepers. I'm standing in the pen with the other girls from Four - fitting, really, for us to be in a pen then shipped off for slaughter like animals sent to the abattoir - and I'm sure we're all thinking the same thought:
Please don't pick me.
The Mayor of District Four comes onto the stage in front of the Justice Building where the unlucky two are carted off to after their names have been drawn. He reads the mandatory documents - the Treaty of Treason and the Panem anthem - and then gestures for our escort to take the stage.
Micah-Blue Scott, he's introduced as, since our last escort has seemingly disappeared, and I'm left wondering why anyone in their right mind would name their child 'Blue' but then he opens his mouth and shatters any illusion of intelligence that could have been lingering around him.
He starts off with an excitable, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!", then launches into a, "Welcome to the Reaping!"
As if we didn't already know.
Everything about this man screams capitol, from his electric-shock blue hair and his tight smile complete with pearly teeth to the veritable monstrosities of what look like fish-scale sandals on his overlarge feet.
If he's trying to embrace the culture of District Four, he's failing miserably.
After some more babbling on from the idiot about what a pleasure it is to be here, how lucky he is (and infuriatingly, how lucky we are), he cries, "I'm wishing everyone a very happy Hunger Games!"
Almost everyone had switched off during his self-important speech but the tension in the air is suddenly palpable. There's not so much as a whisper; the smell of the sea is the only thing I can make out.
"Are you ready, District Four?" he asks. There's no reply. "Well, here we go!"
The people watch with bated breath as his hand circles in the bowl, stretching it out to make it as painful as possible. They do it to taunt us. To tease and tame us. The anticipation, the sickening fear, is enough to strike down any trace of rebellion, any thought of revolution.
Breathe, girl. Breathe. It's like you're in the ocean. What did your father always tell you? When in trouble, keep your head above the water and breathe.
"Annie Cresta!"
It's no use. The water's tendrils reach up and grab me, pull me down into an endless sea of turquoise aquamarine indigo azure cobalt -
"Congratulations!"
Don't the sapphires look pretty down here?
"Annie, you get to represent your District in the 70th Hunger Games…"
His words of water wash over me, dragging me under -
Where I'll be left to rot -
"…unless there are any volunteers?"
Like a wreck on the ocean floor -
No-one will come to my rescue -
"Alrighty then, come on Annie, come up on the stage!"
No-
Hands on my back tell me that someone caught me -
Pulls me up, out the water -
Cold and blue -
They tell me that I fell like a marionette whose strings had just been cut, with no-one there to pick me up and pack me away out of danger's reach.
I can hear a scream inside my head, a high-pitched yell that sparks nothing in me but terror, only my lips won't release the sound; it's trapped in my throat and stopping my breath.
When in trouble, keep your head above the water.
- E N D -
Reviews are Finnick Odair.