A/N: Trigger warning for animal abuse.
Inspired by Chardin's The Ray (1728).
At first, he had thought a cat or a dog would be perfect. But even strays might be missed, and he couldn't risk that.
A ray seemed better. He liked rays. They glided through the water, almost as if they were flying through it rather than swimming. Also, they kind of looked like big, grey butterflies had pancake babies. This one's skin was smooth under his fingers in a way most scales could never be. From above, rays looked invincible, but their undersides were soft, the skin thin enough that he could make out the organs beneath.
He didn't want to do this, but that was kind of the point. Finnick liked children too.
He grabbed the knife he'd stolen from the kitchen on his way out this morning. Dad woke up earlier than Mom, and he might have noticed if one of his fishing knives had disappeared. It was probably better this way. The kitchen knife made it feel more like the real thing and less like fishing. He had killed for food before, and for money too. That wasn't hard anymore, but those were just fish. Rays were fish too, he supposed, but they were special, and if he could do this, then he could do it in the Arena.
Murder had a nasty taste to it, so he wouldn't call it that. Practice sounded better.
Finnick didn't want the poor thing to suffer for too long. It had already been out of the water for a couple minutes, and its thrashing had died down. He located what looked like a heart and plunged the knife in. Maybe he'd been wrong, because it didn't die as fast as he thought it would, but there was no going back now. He tried again, then again, blindly stabbing at the body spread beneath him until it couldn't possibly be alive anymore.
This would probably be easier if it didn't still look like it was smiling at him.
The seagulls squawked behind him. Finnick wondered if they were waiting for him to be done so they could have their fill. He couldn't eat the ray. Even though Four sent a few to the Capitol to be served up as a delicacy in the fanciest restaurants, he didn't want to take it home. That would make it more like hunting for food and less like what he was going to do in the Arena. When he got up, sparing the ray one last glance before he began his walk home, the birds flocked to the feast Finnick had left for them.
He'd expected to figuratively have blood on his hands. For some reason, the literal part took him by surprise.
Finnick wiped his hands off on his pants. With any luck, Mom would assume it was from the boats. He had all the plausible deniability he could ask for. The sun was just beginning to inch its way over the horizon, marking the end of curfew hours. He still shouldn't be all the way out here, but even the most devoted Peacekeeper would hesitate to shoot a twelve-year-old who wasn't doing anything to hurt anybody. As long as they didn't see the kitchen knife, which he hadn't yet bothered to clean, he'd be fine.
The walk home wasn't long enough to collect his thoughts, but when he showed up for training that afternoon, he came with a new assurance that he could succeed. He didn't have to like it – really, it was better that he didn't – but he knew now that he could kill.
A/N: I don't want to call this a sequel to Memories of Us, since there's no real overarching plot, but if you're familiar with my other collection, this is in a similar vein. I will be posting drabbles and short oneshots about Finnick, Annie, and (to a lesser extent) the other District Four characters. Ratings will vary by chapter, and any trigger warnings will be listed at the top. (And no, not all of the chapters will be as dark as this one. There is fluff coming, I promise.)
If you like this, I'd recommend checking out Memories of Us for other Odesta oneshots. Thanks for reading!