I don't own the Hunger Games: sorry, I forgot to put it on my last AnnieFinnick One-shot.
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." Matthew 6:19-21
She used to like swimming. She used to feel so at home, fighting against something so much more powerful than her, kicking her legs and propelling herself forwards, breaking the surface and breathing heavily, lung aching. It was so familiar that it was automatic whenever she was feeling lost and confused. She'd wander down, past the bank and the ever-present peace-keepers, running if the day and mood called for it, and jumping into the current, letting herself, for a few moments, be carried away into nothing.
When her name was called, she screamed out, loud and terrified. It was just a sound, really, breaking the silence that would otherwise be there. She could feel hands, calloused on her bare skin, roughly pulling at her. She glanced around, eyes scanning, hoping, but no one called out. Of course they wouldn't, she assured herself, shaking like a leaf in a breeze, he needs to call out an invitation.
She wanted to fall into rough waves; she wanted to be carried away into the unknown at this point. She was so, so scared no one would volunteer, that she'd be left to die a death worse than anything she could have imagined. She'd promised her older sister, Eugenie, that she'd be okay. That if she got picked, she'd fight, but now she wanted to flee. A feeling settled in her stomach now that she would have to fight other death, that no one would volunteer this year.
"Annie Cresta," the tall, thin man had said, his purple-tinged skin creasing the slightest bit as he smiled discouragingly.
Her heart hammered in her chest – boom, boom; thump, thump – as she climbed the steps to the stage, presented to the youth of District Four. The mentor, Finnick Odair, looked at her calculatingly, as if sizing her up. She tensed, narrowing her eyes at him accusingly. He shrugged helpless, but in a somehow soft way, as if saying 'sorry', because he knows, too, that this is her year to die.
She stares, unblinkingly, at the ocean from her window. It's been over seven years now, and her heart still thuds unfairly, her breath quickening. Even with the heavy baby resting in her arms, the security he brings, Anne Odair feels unsafe, as if people are watching.
She wrenches her eyes shut tightly, but she can still hear it, the whooshing of the water around, the haziness in which she swam, her survival instinct, and Finnick's voice, somewhere in her head, telling her to keep swimming, that it'll be okay, that she'll see him in no time, they'll be together. Finnick had seen something in her, and he had extended his intrigue into something that felt a bit like love.
A baby cries, and confusion crosses her mind . . . there are no babies in the games . . . she weight in her arms increases and then varies. She smiles, opening her eyes to see her beautiful baby's green eyes staring back. And it hurts so badly, standing in a bed of memories, but she's fighting through it, waiting until she gets to see Finnick again.