I first read the three books when they initially came out, but I must admit to reading them a few times over and then didn't pick them back up til a week ago. But my dementia has finally found a use; as I found I'd completely forgotten the second and third book, and so was able to cherish that feeling of reading a story for the first time, all over again!
Annie has to be my favourite character, and as one mad girl sympathizing with another, I couldn't stop mulling over what her time in the games must have been like. And so I sat down and next thing I know I've planned out 26 chapters and already written over 20 pages of it. It only felt natural to commence with the couple's own beginning so here we go.
I've written and proof read four chapters already; so I'll upload the second hopefully tomorrow, as I just really want to post it. Of course reviews and comments are cherished, and I would be delighted to read any suggestions or critiques you might have.
Writing this has been sustained by the dulcet tones of Laura Marling. Her music for me encapsulates these two.
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Though some of the characters and the formation of their back-story belongs to me, the concept and recognizable characters are the property of the genius Suzanne Collins.
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I. Stained by Salt
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'Annie Cresta'
The name is unmistakable, as the intonation of the District 4's overtly orange delegate's voice is blasted out across the crowd.
The name is carried amongst the sea of bobbing heads in flutters of sorrow, pity and relief.
Eyes are searching, a cry wails out, a mother screams for the death sentence tolled upon her child.
The name is unmistakable to my ears; my feet feel faint, my heart is beating more than before.
'Annie Cresta' is called out again to the searching crowd.
Their eyes, as though all at once, find my face.
I can see him already on the stand, but I can't force myself to catch his eye, to see how his face might have contorted would have made it all the more terrible.
I step forwards to receive the name; my name, and the cruel hand that fate has dealt me.
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She's drowning
Her young lungs fill with water
She's drowning in silence, so softly it hurts
The lull of the current fills her nostrils and threatens to squeeze into the gap of her tightly shut eyelids.
The wave had caught her at the rock pool and dragged her out to sea.
She'd been crabbing; looking for a blue crest, just as her brothers had shown her the day before.
A shell to add to her collection.
But now she's gone.
Lost to the sea.
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The dream woke me, as it always did, in a cold sweat.
Dreams have always been a curiosity to me, but none, no matter how horrific or cruel were ever enough to wake me peeling with tears.
But it's not a dream
No, it wasn't. It was a memory, well worn and not so fondly remembered.
At least the dream spared me from the trouble that was waking. My heavy lids had snapped open in fright, so I no longer had to play battle with the lingering spectres of sleep.
The morning sun warmed my face from its gaze through the curtain-less windows. Only a thin net veiled it, to trap out the summer's plethora of insect life. With heavy limbs I stretched beneath the covers, and finally with much mental protest threw them from me in an attempt to rise. I finally did, receiving the salty breeze fluttering in from the cracks around the window frame into my lungs.
The sight from my window was well known, but had never ceased to excite me. Our cottage, nestled not so far from the main seaport, looked out across the Heraldic bay. It was only small, but it was ours; passed down through the generations of the Cresta family tree. As a child they told me that it's small rocks pools and sea glass shard beach held the memories of the world before the dark ages. They told me that the sea was timeless, and that to be beneath the waves was to be without time, without space. I wanted to be in those cool waters with all my heart, so as to wash away the drench of dread that coated my chest and neck.
The one thing we lived without fear of losing in District 4 was water. And the salt as well. Across the town one would see the vast population of glass jars, peculiar in colour and size, and their little metal covers. With the sun's warm grasp, they caught the evaporating water and funnelled the vapours inside to be drunk and washed with, leaving an army of salt filled glass.
My hair was stained by salt. I could see my twelve years of living next to the sea, play across my skin in it's warm tones; not quite as bronze as my brothers', but rather flecked with the golden dust of freckles, blown across the bridge of my nose. I had become quite self conscious about them in recent years, since the Odair boys from across the hill; the ones that stole our fish and cut our lines, apparently in the name of playful mistake, took delight to asking me if my face was dirty, the summer before when the flecks first appeared. I guess I took the fairer skin from my mother, whose face stayed creamy, even after years of washing the port's laundry out in the hot sun.
The small mirror balanced above my chipped washing bowl distorted my face slightly, letting my wavy crown of blonde hair enlarge and become wild. It put up a lot of resistance to the little bone comb I tried to drag through it, but eventually the morning knots are either brushed or torn out. My scalp twinged a little; I must remember to not pull as hard next time or I'll be as bald as a sea eagle by next summer.
The smell of breakfast was enough to drag me from my room, the warm aroma of baking seaweed and bread filling my nose with delight. Capitol had long controlled our consumption of fish, of any sea faring animal; but from beneath the depravity grew a resilience not to starve and so our district boasted a wide range of the most curious dishes. If something wasn't poisonous, it could be eaten; it seemed to have even become a sport amongst the boys, who could withstand the most repugnant of tastes, all in the name of staving away hunger on their boats. We lived near the main seaport; and though our district wasn't as vast as others, it covered a large spread of the southern most coast, with many little outlying villages spotted further east and west.
We all live to fish, all reared from a young age to catch and gut all the sea could offer. Capitol's soft pallets couldn't stand the taste of fish innards; but to those with far less flesh on their bones; it was a meat that could be endured. My Mama wasn't so much a master in the art of cooking, but she knew how to fill my stomach with warmth. My brothers were already sat at the table with my father when I waltzed into the kitchen. It was a sight to see; three broad shouldered men tucked together on the two small benches beside the table, wolfing down broth in time to catch the morning swell.
Thom and Ini were both past the age of reaping; Thom was the oldest, being already twenty-two and Ini had turned nineteen a few weeks before. They both shared the same-bronzed backs as my father; their necks being the most tanned from days hauling in fish under a blazing sun. They both worked on my father's boat, and when I wasn't in school, I did too. As I was twelve it meant it was my final year in school, a fact that I received with mixed apprehension. It meant I could spend more time at sea, helping gut fishes upon the boat and fix the nets, but it also meant that the year just past had been my first Reaping. Thankfully some spirit of the sea blew the cool winds of luck and my name was never called. Or bad luck I supposed; the two tributes from our District, both only twelve were slaughtered in the first bloodbath.
I went to help my Mama at the sink, washing out my brothers' bowls as they passed them over once finished. They quickly shot farewells over their shoulders and bundled out the door to begin the day's catch. They'd return in the evening reeking of fish, as would my father. We'd once again crowd around our small table; all stuffed under the low ceiling of our shell white kitchen and recount our days. They'd humour me by listening to my ramblings for sometime, but they could only hear so many stories of sea caves or about the family of gulls that lived on our roof.
I'd be wrong to say I wasn't lonely. I had a few friends at school, but they'd all grown out of their tolerance of the sea. The girls I had once invented wild stories of the imagination with were far more focused on boys and the Capitol. They liked to look at the sea, but refused to go in; something about the salt being bad for their hair. It seemed their entry into the annual Reaping had drained their innocent curiosity and the thrill of the sea from their souls; just another thing the Hunger Games had robbed us all of. It would have been nice to find a friend, a kindred spirit, but until such a creature rose from the sea, I'd have to do with chatting to the squawking cormorants.
I didn't have school that day, and suddenly the seascape outside became a large expanse of possibilities. If it weren't for the need to breathe I could quite happily float about under the waves for the rest of eternity. There's something about the weightlessness, the press of my ribs against my lungs, the ache in my legs that was exhilarating. I had long dreamed of being able to swim out the outlying islands that lay as smudges in the distance, to my own funny perspective they were the size of bread loaves upon the horizon. A boat would be needed to reach them, but ours was in use everyday and I had neither the skills nor the strength in my arms to operate one all by myself.
Though it was the year's last month, and in other districts the cold would be felt a lot more; the heat wavered only slightly. The stored warmth from yesterday radiated up from the sand as my bare feet crossed over it, as I left the shade of my home. The dry air had forced me into a shapeless cotton dress that I had long outgrown. The faded yellow pattern of little linked up buttercups exposed my grazed knees, the ripped and stained edges riding up too high up my leg for liking. It was my birth date soon and I had been promised a new dress for then, so for now I had to make do with my sparse collection of pale cotton garments. I resented the fact I still had the body of an elongated child, but at least it meant I could still fit into my dresses.
I reached the shore and relished in the sharp, refreshing cold of the foaming waves. I followed them along, trying each time to jump and avoid them, though only managing to get my dress already soaking wet. The sand soon turned to rock underfoot and I began to scale the outstretch sea cliff that formed the edge of our cove. The jutting lip extended a half-mile out and was mostly above sea level throughout the day, so it made an ideal place for me to clamber and jump off. But as I neared the end I spotted a curious sight just over the crown of the rock; a small figure hunched over and still, was examining a rock pool.
'That's one of my snares,' I shouted. I wasn't at all good at setting up traps, and so had been practicing on the small pools, trying to catch anything substantial. My feet carried me quickly over the rough rock, reaching the thief as he stood up to his full height; a whole bronze haired head taller than myself.
It was Finnick Odair. I recognized the long pinky scar on his arm that distinguished him from his brothers; he had grown since I saw him last. He was a year older than me and he loved to remind me; I knew that the curl of lips meant a smat-alec remark was just waiting to burst forth.
We used to play as children, two little bronzed babies chasing around crabs, until some silly spat between our brothers; pranks were played in a frenzy of childish warfare, but the gentle fun turned sour when fish started to be stolen from each other's crop, and eventually one of our boats was sunk. Our mothers still gossiped between market stalls, but our fathers hardly spoke. To me though they were all just basically like large children swanning around. I didn't have a problem with the Odairs as such; they were just being boys and growing up with two brothers I was used to it.
What I did have a problem with was his incessant teasing.
As I walked up to him he flicked water from the rock pool at my face.
'They're freckles,' I pouted, retorting to the remark he was about to voice.
'Whatever you say Cresta.'
'What are you doing with that?' I spied a small hide bag hidden behind his back.
'What do you mean?' He was tying to feign ignorance with an overly innocent expression.
'You're stealing my fish!'
'Finder's keepers I think,' that scrawny face of him didn't even try to hide the truth.
'Really? That is such a load of smuck!' The word sounded so silly as it left my mouth, so I tried to hide my embarrassment with a faltering scowl. I did wish we could be friends again, like we were as babes, but every time I saw that haughty face of his, it really did remind me of how a smack would be so well placed on that handsome cheek of his.
'Smuck?' he snorted.
'I ran out of words,' I protested.
'Whatever,' rang out from his clever lips and I exhaled my resolve. Finnick had a face that I'd like to punch, but so many would rather swoon over. All the mothers doted over him, and always chose his stall over ours. The girls too acted like seagulls, flocking around him in the street. He was a boy with the whole port under his charm.
And a boy who had just put a fistful of sticky algae in my hair.
I squealed out as its cold gelatinous touch hit my neck and forehead. From between its slippery strings dripping down from my crown, I saw his shoulders shaking in the grasp of laughter.
'You Finnick Odair are a -' I struggled for a word '- a worm!'
'A worm?' he chuckled.
'I probably have to have it cut because of you!' I screamed.
'Look I'm sure it'll brush out!' there was the slightest tinge of panic in his voice when he realized what he had actually just done.
'It won't!' I cried.
I could feel him behind me, clawing away the gunk, though only succeeding in spreading it round more. His fingertips grazed the base of my neck sending an uncomfortable shiver down my spine, making me ask for him to stop.
'You can't just scoop it out,' I told him, my voice softer after seeing his effort. Perhaps I felt slightly guilty for shouting and squealing like a child, or that that suddenly furrowed brow of his had me worried. Twisting round to face him I pushed down his hands, coated now in the gunk he had scooped from the rock pool, with my own. They were rough with trade, callused and cracked from the sea's salty touch but still warm.
'You can stop now.'
'Okay,' his said, like a scolded child his hands, still messy, held out in a peace offering.
Over the years Finnick and I had grown apart, and yet we lived so close to each other. We interacted still, but as he was a year older we never went to school together. I'd lived through his taunts and similarly he'd ducked all the rocks I'd thrown at his head. Sadly none had found their mark and dented his ever-growing ego as intended. But this was the first time I'd seen anything other than arrogance in his eyes. It was a little startling and because the silence was awkward too, all I could do was shrug and sigh; twist round and leave with the tattered remnants of my dissolved dignity.
As I stormed home to scowl some more to my Mama, I turned round to see his still standing form grow small as I ran. The same curl passed across his lip, though this time I notice it is slightly less cruel.