Beautiful: A Finnick Odair/OC One Shot
I wanna heal, I wanna feel like Im close to something real
I wanna find something Ive wanted all along
Somewhere I belong
She didn't belong there.
Then again, none of them truly did.
But her, she really didn't belong here. It was her first time in the reaping, and her name was in the jar only once. She was damned the moment she turned twelve years old and there wasn't a thing she could do about it. She didn't seem to bat an eye lash as she was lead to the stage by the peacekeepers, she smiled softly at her companion, partner and opponent - me, Finnick Odair. She was charm, a true symbol of innocence and and purity. Her green eyes, auburn hair and freckled skin - everything about her was cute and girly.
She didn't belong in the games.
In her interview she came off a real charm, captivating the Capital audience with her childish personality and girlish flare. But her personality could only take her so far. I had told her, time and time again, that she should practice her fighting skills. She would only tilt her head and chuckle, waving her hand and then heading over to the station that taught about plants - a black leather notebook in her hands at all times. Even Mags had pushed her to go and throw a couple knives, or shoot a couple arrows. But she still shook her head, her mind was made up and she had come to terms that she was going to die.
But I didn't know that, not then.
Upon arriving in the arena she was quick to leave, not even bothering to search for a weapon in the Cornicopia. Instead, she fled to find a safe place to hide out. And I didn't bump into her until there was only us, and 5 other tributes left.
"It was a blur."
That's what I told everyone when they asked about our encounter with each other. It's the only real answer I can give without wanting to either punch a wall or burst into tears.
I was up against a large career from two, the burly 16 year old would have overpowering if I didn't have my trident. The triple edge dug deep into the skin of his stomach, blood pouring out as if his body was a faucet from my bathtub at home. I remember yanking out the trident, using my foot to push the career away from me. I didn't even have time to wipe the tips of the boys fifthly blood before the crunching of leaves met my ears. I twirled, swinging the trident with such force that my back was sore for the next week. A few droplets of blood splashed onto my face and my breath hitches in my throat.
She didn't belong there.
No, the beautiful girl from disctrict four did not belong there. Her aburn hair tangled and sticking to her sweaty face, her freckled cheeks coated with dirt and blood and her small hands shakily holding onto the handle of the trident that pierced her flesh. After seeing that I can only vaguely recall what happened next.
She guided my hands to pull the trident out of her, blood oozing from the three holes in her stomach. I remember picking her up and taking her over to another spot that could better conceal us. Then she seemed to lurch forward, her forehead resting on the corner of my shoulder as she vomited blood and berries. She managed to live on until she was amongst the final four.
Those last moments, I remember so clearly. Just as I remember the day my birthday falls on, and as I remember the girl I first kissed.
Her chin was resting on my shoulder, her cheek leaning against my own. She threw up more blood and berries before her breathing became slow and shallow. and she could no longer hold her arms up to hug me back. I didn't see her face as the life died from her big green eyes, but I did hear her last breath. Because as she released the final air her lungs could muster up, she whispered her last words to me.
"I love you."
I didn't cry after she died. I simply set her body near the river, where her view of the arena was nothing but beautiful, and then I left. She died early morning, two hours before the sun rose. And by that night, I was crowned victor of the Sixty Fifth Hunger Games. I smiled, winked and blew a couple kisses to the crowd of those at the Capitol. But the moment I was allowed alone, with no one to bother me, I let everything out. I could swear that I wept for a whole day, sometimes calling her name and other times cursing myself for being the one to end her life. By the time I was done, and I couldn't let another tear fall, my chest ached with an unimaginable pain. The pain seemed to strike me in the area right above my heart, as if my very own trident was shoved into my chest and was attempting to skewer my heart out. After a short while of being left alone with my thoughts, Mags slowly enters the room. She looks aged, her wrinkles a bit more prominent and her cheeks lightly stained with tear tracks. Clutched tightly to her chest is a small leather notebook, and I know exactly who it belongs to.
Mags doesn't say anything. She simply sets down the small book beside me and exists the room, only staring at me for a moment long enough to give me a small nod.
I stare at the book, anger and resentment building up inside of me like a wildfire. It bubbles deep within me as I become disgusted with the book. I have no interest in reading a book by a dead girl. And with that thought in mind, I pick up the book and throw it at the wall harshly. It gives a light pat as it hits the wall and then quickly falls to the floor, a couple pages spilling out after it.
Again, I feel the trident through my chest as the book falls open on the floor. I stare at it, my mouth going dry.
Because I'm staring back at myself.
The whole book seems to be filled with sketches of me, Mags, other tributes and people from the Capitol. The sketch that had caught my eye was one of my profile. A small smirk seemed to play at my lips and I could see the harsh erase marks right above my nose as she attempted to get the curve of it just right. The fact that she seemed to take time to perfect my nose, a simple thing in reality, shows the dedication I probably would have never seen with a quick glance. After looking through the book I noticed a single paragraph written on the back cover - and I realize why Mags really gives me the book. She clearly addresses me, with the nickname she had given me on the train ride to the Capitol.
Finn,
I truly hope you're reading this, crowned victor of the Sixty Fifth Hunger Games. This book you're holding also holds a part of my soul. You see, everything I draw is beautiful - not in the sense that my art is beautiful, but in the sense that I only draw beautiful things. Do you understand, Finn? Everything, and everyone, is beautiful. I know how dark and unnerving this world seems to you. But please remember, that even though I knew I was going to die... I found something to live for - even if I lived for just a moment. Thank you for being the beautiful work of art to inspire me. If I didn't get the chance to tell you in the arena, I'll tell you now. I love you, Finnick Odair.
No, she didn't belong there. The beautiful girl from district four did not belong in the Hunger Games. She belonged at home, waiting for my safe return. The aburn haired, freckled faced girl belonged in my arms at night when I had nigthmares of the games. She belonged in District Four, drawing pictures of the horizon while I was out fishing.
The beautiful twelve year old girl should have stayed home, for she would have aged into a beautiful young woman with a very beautiful heart.
Nothing to gain, hollow and alone
And the fault is my own