A/N Thanks for taking the time to read my story. Please leave a review with your honest opinion. I'll try to update regularly. Enjoy!
"The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea."
Isak Dinesen
With the sun breaking slowly over the horizon, the melodic waves of the ocean broke against the weathered edges of the boat. A tanned girl sat quietly, rocking gently inside. She wiggled her barefoot toes, and sighed. Five fishing lines were strung up alongside. All she had to do was wait. Her fingers traced a callous inside her palm. This was her favorite part of the day. Awaking before dawn, pushing the boat out into the sea, and waiting for the day's catch. The tranquility of the moment came of over her, and she exhaled, letting her breath join the breeze around her. Out here, she could almost forget about today's Reaping.
She was eighteen now, and her name was in the bowl seven times. Eighteen. Her last year. She was close, so close, to being free of the Hunger Games forever. She closed her eyes, imagining what her life would be like without this oppressive weight hanging upon her. It had always been so far off before, she had never let herself fathom it. But now it was so close she could almost taste it. What would it be like? At the end of the school year, she would start working. Probably on the fishing boats, like her father. And maybe she would get married. She wasn't as pretty as some other girls, but she was strong, and in District Four that mattered. Anapos from down by the docks had already taken to lurking around the house some evenings. Maybe she would marry him. He was a nice young man, with a good job. That's the best she could hope for, really.
The boat suddenly dipped dangerously to one side, and her eyes flew open. There was something tugging at one of her lines. Quickly, she scrambled out of her seat and tried to yank it out of the water. The line cut into her palms. God, this fish was strong. She squatted down in the boat pulled backwards, mimicking the motion of rowing an oar. Her muscles strained, but she felt the line giving. She was not going to lost a game of tug-of-war to a fish. Biceps curling, she pulled the fish out of the water and into the boat. It flopped viciously, desperate for air. She noticed it's green hue, and stark white belly. A cod. It had to be over twenty pounds. She hesitated a moment, feeling sorry for what she was about to do. Reaching quickly for the knife at her belt, she held down the fish in one fluid motion and cut along the gill line until she reached the main artery. "I'm sorry," she said softly.
By now the sun was fully out, shining brightly upon the dark water. Pink clouds dotted the sky. She didn't need any more fish, not after such a large first catch. She brought in her other lines and began rowing back to shore. The Reaping was in just a few hours now. It felt so much closer after the sunrise. A hard knot of anxiety filled her stomach. "One more day," she muttered. "One more day and it's all over."
She hopped overboard, feeling the cold salt water splash at her feet. Dragging the boat to shore, grains of sand slipped through her toes. She secured the boat to one of the trees growing along the beach and headed inland. It was only a short walk home, and took little effort even with the large cod in a net on her back.
Her house was a small wooden shack, third down the row, surrounded by others identical to it. Seaweed hung from the rafters, drying in the breeze. A neat garden growing a few beans and vegetables surrounded the base of the house. She stepped through the front door, careful to close it quietly behind her. Her father, Faustus, lay asleep on one of the two beds. A slight snore reached her ears. Normally he'd be up long before dawn, but on the day of the Reaping, all work was cancelled. Better to catch up on sleep while he could.
She set about gutting the fish and thought about the feast they'd have for supper, to celebrate her last year in the Reaping. She'd make bread, and cook some of their vegetables. Maybe they'd even go the market latter and buy some cheese. Her mouth watered just at the thought.
When the meal prep was finished she started getting dressed, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach. She should wake her father soon, but she wanted the time to herself. To breathe. To think. She reached for her brush where it lay on the dresser. The fine white bristles were hog's hair, and the handle was made of abalone. It belonged to her mother. She had died several years ago, giving birth to a baby girl. Neither of them had lived, leaving her alone with her father in the world.
"Annie?" Her father's voice came gruffly.
"Yes?"
"You shouldn't have let me sleep." He rolled out of bed. "It's Reaping day."
"I just knew how tired you are."
"You should know how much I want to spend time with you." He stops there, but they both know what he would say. If.
She crossed the floor and snuggled into his side. Neither of them need to say a word. She feels the chapped, dry skin of his hands rubbing her shoulder.
"Is that what you're wearing?" He asks.
She nods. Her dress is dark blue, with white lace at the trim. "Pretty," he mutters.
They eat quietly, chewing on mush made with grain that most likely came from District 11. Waves of nausea keep coming over Annie, but she keeps sipping water like it's any ordinary morning.
After what seems like both an eternity and a mere second, it's time. They clean up the dishes and walk out the door, latching it securely behind them.
"Welcome! Welcome!" Ambrosia Lockhart fluttered about the stage, gesturing happily.
Hundreds of children filed around the stage, ranked according to their age. Large blue banners with the emblem of District Four - a fish - hung from the buildings. Annie made her way to the section roped off for the eighteen year olds, her nails biting into her palm. She passed a camera, it's cyclops eye staring at her right in the face.
The mayor stands up from his chair and walks to the microphone. "Panem. Our glorious nation. United we stand, twelve districts and the Capitol. One land. One heart." He paused for dramatic effect. In the background, Annie could hear the ruckus of some people laughing, placing their bets on who would be selected this year, and if there would be any volunteers. No one honestly believed any of this nonsense.
No one, except maybe Ambrosia Lockhart, who was gazing dramatically at the mayor as he described the times of the rebellion and the Dark Days. She wiped a quick tear from her eyes, careful not dislodge her elongated, blue lashes.
The mayor went on. "And as a reminder of the generosity of the Capitol, each year there is to a Hunger Games, where a boy and a girl tribute between the ages of twelve and eighteen are to be selected from each district. They will be presented to the Capitol and brought to an arena, where they will fight to the death until only one remains.
"It is a time both for repentance, and for thanks." He shuffles his cards. "Now let me remind you of our past victors. Margaret Georgos." The crowd cheered, and an old woman rose from her seat on the stage and took a slight bow.
A buzzing was beginning to sound in Annie's ears. It grew louder as the mayor continued to read of the list of victors. Jace Makos. Orin Elias. Finnick Odair. 'Just a few more minutes,' she muttered. 'Just a few more minutes and it will all be over.'
"And now, for the main event! Let me introduce District Four's very own escort, Ambrosia Lockhart!"
The mayor takes a seat and let's the small, effervescent woman take the stage. Her bright pink skirt and blazer are almost blinding against the bland colors of the district. A very large bun perches on the center of her head, looking heavy enough to drag her head backwards.
"What an honor to be here!" she peeps out. "I do love District Four." She places one hand on the perilously stacked bun. "Let's start with the ladies, shall we?" She crosses the stage to the glass bowl on her left. There are hundreds of white slips of paper inside. Maybe even thousands.
Annie's eyes follow Ambrosia's hand and it wavers uncertainly in the bowl. Time stops. She can't look away. She can't breath. She waits for her heart to beat but nothing comes.
Ambrosia has selected a slip of paper. She uncurls it, and the sound of the paper opening catches in the in microphone. It's so quiet the whole crowd can hear it. And then she reads the name.
"Annie Cresta."