One
I duck under the fence, knowing very well that there's no electricity pumping through it like there should be. Of course, the mayor turned it off years ago, right before I was born, because he thought it was just ridiculous that we should be confined to District 12, although most people seem to prefer it that way. They like being trapped; it provides a false sense of comfort. I, on the other hand, have always need space. Wide, open, space, amongst the birds and the willow trees.
Retrieving my bow and arrow from a hallow log, I make my way to the little clearing at what I like to think is the center of the forest. Early morning light glistens, illuminating the dew on the grass and blanketing everything with yellow. The smell of honeysuckle floats in the air, emitting a sweet smell. A light breeze plays with my hair, and I run my fingers through it, making it only more untidy and unruly.
I hear a rustle from behind a tree, but I don't turn around. I have been hearing that sound since I was eight, and it doesn't make me jump around like it used to. I feel her before I see her, a light and airy but oddly heavy aura.
She steps out from behind the trees, and I briefly think of how, when we first met, she would try to scare me by jumping out from behind that exact tree every morning, and every morning I would just shake my head at her. Sometimes, when she's in a good mood, she'll jump out from behind and grab my shoulders, but I never do anything more than blink.
"Why are you never scared?" she would ask, hands on her hips.
"You're nothing to be scared of," I would always reply, smiling slightly.
Frowning, she would say, "Well there's got to be something you're scared of!" And I would always say No, not really.
All of that passes through my mind the second she steps out, honey-colored hair swishing behind her. "'Morning, Fin," she says in greeting, calling me by my nick name. I am named after some bloke mother was friends with, who died in the war.
"Hey," I reply, her eyes flash up at me for a moment, blazing me in green, and then fall back to the log as she picks up her bow and arrow. I always catch myself wondering what goes on behind those eyes.
"I don't think many animals are gunna be out today," she remarks, looking around. "It's too cold." She's right, autumn has quietly settled around 12, making people bring out their jackets and boots earlier than expected.
"It's worth a shot though," I remark, and walk off into the deep roots of the forest, not making a sound.
Not much later, I hear an arrow whiz behind me. Turning around, I see she's brought down an animal, cleanly, right in between the eyes. The rabbit sways and falls, and she walks over, the sleeve to her top falling over her shoulder a little. A burning blaze that always fills her eyes is there when she turns around, a quiet smile on her light pink lips.
"Not any animals, huh?" I tease. She smacks me on the shoulder playfully. I look down at her, smiling.
"Well, okay, that was the exception," she says, not hiding her sly smile.
"'Kay," I say. "Whatever you say, Tilda." I've been calling her Tilda instead of Matilda for as long as I can remember, and I remember the first time I called her that she punched me in the mouth and practically broke my jaw. She was nine. Now she's sixteen, I'm seventeen.
We walk around the woods, catching the game that fell prey to our traps. Well, they're Tilda's traps, I never do anything more than watch her construct them with delicate fingers. She has a thing for snares, and can design the most innovated, expert tools to capture animals as easily as I can shoot an arrow.
Around noon, I finally grab the game bag and follow her back home, her hair swishing behind her as she walks. Walking in the Town Square, a teenage girl my age with straight, bobbed, brown hair and big brown eyes catches my eye and smiles at me, walking over.
"Oh boy," Tilda says, loud enough so I can hear. "Another girl for the Finnick Mellark Fan Club!" But I don't really hear her, I'm staring at the girl.
"Hi," she says, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. "You're Katniss Everdeen's son, right?" she asks, tilting her head and smiling. "I'm Shirley."
"Ugh…y-yes," I say. Tilda rolls her eyes next to me and mutters, "Moron."
"I heard you were the best archer in the District," she says sweetly, twirling a lock of her hair.
"Is that what you've heard now, is it?" I ask, retrieving some of my old charm. "Well, Shirley, what can I do for you then?" Tilda walks off, with a swish of her hips in my direction. I suddenly feel very confused.
"I was wondering if you would be willing to, you know, teach me how to hunt," she says in a low voice. But I can't take my eyes off of Tilda, who is talking to a boy and nodding in agreement with something he's saying.
"What? Ugh, sorry. I don't think that will work. Maybe next week," I say hastily, not really listening to what I'm saying. I walk to Tilda, grab her arm, and make her walk next to me.
"What the hell is your problem?" she insists, breaking away from my grasp and glaring at me with fiery intensity.
I feel oddly stupid. "Uh. Nothing. Come on, let's go home," I say. She follows me, and I can feel the electricity fly off her body and hit me right in the heart. She has that effect on people. But she's following me. Always following me, or I end up following her, and that shows that she isn't mad enough at me to turn and leave, which I've told she can do whenever she pleases.
We arrive at my home in Victor's Village, where nine large houses line up in a circle. Only one of them is lit warmly, just like I can always remember. I think mother and father's mentor use to live in the house in the middle, but he died a few years prier, too long ago for me to remember. Father used to live two doors down from mother, and when they got married, they moved into mother's house.
Tilda is still fuming with me when we walk in the house, not saying a word. "I think I'd rather have you yell at me then not say anything at all," I say quietly as we enter the house. I can hear mother humming softly from the kitchen, and the sizzle of food. A mirror in the hall shows our reflection, and I don't think I've ever seen two people that looked so different.
I'm tall and lean, where Tilda is petite. I have dirty blond hair and olive skin, with my mother's grey eyes. Tilda has blonde hair, so blonde that it sometimes looks white, that falls to her waist in light, airy curls.
Tilda looks at me. "Really? Do you really want to hear what I have to say right now?" she asks, glaring over her long eyelashes.
I hesitate for a moment, and then say, "Yes."
"I think you're a self-centered ego maniac who gets jealous at the slightest instigation! You can ask out and flirt with any girl you want but as soon as I so much as-" she can't finish, because the next second I find my hands around her waist, her lips on mine.
Her body stiffens, much like an animals does right before it falls over, dead. What feels like an eternity later, I feel her hand against my chest, pushing me against the wall, my rough lips shaping around her soft, pink ones, her taste of cherries overwhelming me. Tilda has had so many admirers I lost count, but each one she politely turns away and then looks at me.
I don't think I'll ever know why I kissed her that night. I think I just wanted to shut her up. Maybe I wanted to know what it would feel like, to kiss her, or maybe I just really liked her, loved her even.
We've never kissed before, after so many years. I've kissed her on the cheek many times instead of saying good bye, but she never showed any indication that she liked me as more than a hunting partner. I think people believe that eventually, I'd get down on one knee and pop the question, and five minutes later she'd be pregnant, but whenever we pass by the jewelry store I just look down at my shoes.
She breaks away first, very gently, and I find myself leaning in for more. Placing a firm hand on my chest, she looks up at me with stern eyes. I've always thought of her as a pretty little kitten who believes that she is a lion.
"You're definitely a psycho," she whispers, a little breathless. I laugh, and I think mother hears us, because footsteps emerge from the kitchen. I imagine what we must look like, me pressed against the wall, her ankle around mine, my hands on her waist, hers on my chest. We jump apart, both burning red.
An amused expression crosses mother's face. She stopped braiding her long, straight brown hair years ago, now she just lets it fall to her waist in soft waves that sometimes come up in the breeze and caress her face. I grew taller than her a couple years ago, but the way she looks at you can make anybody feel tiny.
"I thought I heard you two out here," she says, twirling the wooden spoon in her fingers. "Matilda, are you staying for dinner?"
Still blushing madly, Tilda picks up the game bag that she dropped on the floor. "Uh…no, Katniss, thank you." She gave up on calling my mother Mrs. Mellark years ago, when my mother wouldn't respond. She never got used to the name.
"Tilda!" father exclaims, walking in from the study and smiling. "Haven't seen you in a whole two days!" he teases. He noticed her nickname a while ago. Father has always been the nice one, the one to go out of his way to make somebody smile even if he's dying inside. His blue eyes shine. "How are you?"
Looking suffocated by my parent's presence, Tilda scrambles to the back door. "I…uh…I really ought to go home. Mother will want to be getting started on dinner," she says, and practically throws herself out the door. She's never liked people, never really gotten along with them. Whenever I asked her why she chose me to be friends with out of all the other people in the village, she just smiles and changes the subject.
Mother looks at me, a question in her grey eyes. "I'll walk her home."
The awkwardness fills the air between us the entire walk home. "Look, I…I wasn't thinking," I say at last.
She almost smiles and shakes her head. "I just...I don't know how I feel about you, Finn. You've always just been a friend. A great hunter with a kinda weird family."
"Ouch," I say. Friend-zoned. But was I expecting her to kiss me back, to throw herself at me whenever I'm around? Do I really want her to do that? If I were being honest with myself, the answer would be yes. I'd love to be able to walk with my arm around her waist, her head resting on my chest, fingers interlocked with mine. But Tilda isn't like that, and that's what draws me to her even more, like a poison. You aren't allowed to drink it, but if you keep staring at the bottle, you want to see what it tastes like.
"I've seen the way girls look at you. They like the fact that you're Katniss Everdeen's son, and your looks don't help them to stop staring either," she says, ignoring my protest. "I love you, Finnick." I can't stop my heart from giving a lurch and a hopeful somersault. "But not that way." She kisses me on the cheek. "Good hunting partners are hard to come by."
"You're just full of surprises today, aren't you?" I manage to ask in a steady voice. "Keep the rabbit, it's yours," I say. She smiles and turns to leave. I watch her until she turns the corner, blonde hair draped over her shoulder.
"I love you too," I mutter under my breath, and walk home.
