Finnick Odair felt truly drained. The sickening smell of sweat and slick oily skin filled his nose. What was the point in living anymore? Why did he bother even going on day by day, just a pawn in another of the President's schemes? From the moment he hit puberty his face was plastered everywhere. He became sex icon of District Four, the sex icon of Panem, hell. He was the sex icon of the whole damn world. Finnick hated the way he felt; dirty, sick, worthless, used. Anymore, he had almost given up taking care of himself. His face shadowed in thick stubble, deep blue eyes gone dull and bloodshot. He hadn't showered in days, or even gotten dressed. He didn't see the point in it all when he was just waiting for another knock at his door, for another one of Panem's crème-de-la-crème citizens to come waltzing into his apartment demanding sexual favors. An ocean of overly painted women, the occasional over feminine man, he had seen it all.
Most guys his age would kill to have sex all day, every day. Most guys would kill to live where he did. But not Finnick. With every thrust, every kiss, every favor, he was losing himself. He could feel himself becoming a hollow shell without a soul. His dreams were fading into oblivion, collapsing in on him. All he'd ever wanted was a normal life, to shack up on some beach and live out his days as a fisherman with a big boat. But that would never happen. He was Snow's shining star, the ultimate sign of how much of a success the Hunger Games can make someone.
How could he know that when his name was drawn in the reaping he'd be selling his mind, body and soul? Why didn't anyone step up and take his place, saving him from this eternal hell? Why didn't he realize that when his mother had combed his copper hair to the side and kissed his cheek the morning of the reaping that it would be the last normal day of his life? Why didn't he know that when he told Annie Cresta that he wouldn't let the games change him he was lying? A tear forced its way out of his eyes, cutting a clean line down the grime on his face. What had he allowed himself to become?
Even in sleep he found no respite, remembering each face that claimed his once strong frame and left him empty, or reliving every moment he spent in the arena. No amount of gifts, or sex, or secrets could make him whole. He was just another side show in the vicious cycle that is panem et circenses. Just another piece of disposable Capitol garbage. Finnick felt in all certainty that one day Snow would burst in the apartment with a few peacekeepers and plug him full of lead. Spent, beyond desirability, used, dirty. Left to rot alone and forgotten when his name was no longer a sensual bragging chip amongst the men and women of Panem. He tried so hard to play his part as the most desirable man in Panem, but he was really just a scared boy robbed of his childhood, his virginity, his meaning, his heart.
"Don't let them change you. You're above their games."
Annie's words rattled around in his head. They were beautiful, meaningful, spoken out of pure love. But she didn't know; she couldn't know what it would be like. He wanted to believe her: that he was above the Capitol, that he wasn't just another lost tribute swept away in a riptide of lies. But he knew what he was. Finnick knew that he had allowed them to mold him into a sick twisted creature of darkness, lies, and lust. He was just another innocent child who had been ripped to pieces by it all, and put together again all wrong and ugly. He loved the way her words sounded, you're above their games, but he knew it was all just a lie in the end. There was nothing you could do to win, even stepping out of the arena on top. You would always be their property, always answering to them. Eternally afraid of the knock on the door with news that your family and friends had been murdered because you hadn't played your part well enough. Lying awake at night exhausted but unable to sleep, knowing that sleeping is more tiring than waking. Searching the depths of your heart in a move of desperation for solace that isn't there. Craning through memories for thoughts and words that hold no comfort.
"Are we kings or pawns of men?"
He almost hears his father say, as he had said so many countless times. A quote for fools, he thought, there are no kings, only those with power to manipulate the weak and make them play their games. Innocents made to join a deathly dance around a chess board where there are no rules and no winners. Because when it comes to the Capitol's games, it's more than physical hunger. It's hunger of the mind, it's hunger of life, hunger of the heart, hunger of the soul, insatiable hunger that strips you barren and cold. Games of hunger you can't win, because the Capitol always gets its way.