His fingers were sore.
It never stopped Finnick from his task. Loop, pull through, weave, tighten, untie and begin again. Over and over until he could do it without thinking about it. It became a natural movement, a normal part of his body. Like breathing or swimming. The length of rope became another limb, as necessary to him as his arms and legs. It was part of him now, and he was almost positive that it could feel the pain that the rest of his body felt.
His fingers had tied hundreds of knots in the past, but never this many. With every knot that he tied, the rope rubbed his skin raw. Redness gave way to bleeding, bleeding hardened to scabs, scabs fell off and formed calluses, which would eventually crack open again and bleed. Mrs. Everdeen and sweet little Prim had offered to help him countless times, but he always waved them off. He needed the pain. With each throb of his fingers, he remembered.
There were knots for the dead, the faces that haunted him the most while he slept. Knots for the ones he killed, watching their faces as their life drained from their bodies. Knots for the ones who died for him, the people who should be there in his place, the people he wished every day hadn't sacrificed themselves for him, willingly or unknowingly. And endless knots for the ones he should have saved, tried so hard to save, failed miserably to save. The ones who needed his help, and he couldn't do his one job and keep them alive. The countless tributes he had mentored and led to their deaths in the Arena. The people he loved and tried so hard to save, but somehow his actions were never enough, and "accidents" happened. The knots for the dead slowly became the knots for the broken promises.
After the dead, he remembered those still alive. The ones he seduced, the bodies he had positioned himself over. Their faces, in that moment of sheer ecstasy and pleasure, eyes rolling back and mouth falling slack, barely whispering his name. People joked that he must lose track of all the people he slept with, but Finnick never forgot. He knew each and every one of them, what their name was, how he had seduced them, and which loved one had been threatened at the time. He was good at playing the playboy, but inside he felt so dirty. Each knot became tighter and tighter as he remembered, and when he finally untied it, part of his brain wildly hoped that it meant some sort of forgiveness.
And then there was her.
He lost track of the number of knots he had tied for her. Knots for every time he had missed her, every time he had saved her, every time he wished he could just give up his filthy life and be with her, every time he awoke screaming her name, clawing at his pillow in panic, unable to erase the dreams of her lifeless body, blood pooling around her, and that sickly sweet smell of roses-
Annie.
In the end, he supposed all the knots he tied were really for her. She was the only thing that kept him going. Even now, in the underground District that shouldn't have existed. They said they were going to rescue her, see if the Capitol had left any part of her unbroken, hope that Snow hadn't finally decided to kill-
So he tied more knots.
And waited.