There's something intriguing about a devil seeking redemption and an angel fallen out of grace.
Reaping day.
The morning is quiet, save for the crashing of waves on the shore, but being from district 4, the waves are a constant, as normal as breathing. I lift myself out of bed and place my feet on the sandy ground of my little home. Testing my tired body, I stand and stretch my hands over my head, hearing my back cracking. I twist from side to side and then touch my toes, do pushups, and jumping jacks. Outside, the sun is just above the ocean, the sky and sea are tinted the most brilliant shades of peach. A small smile spreads across my lips as I open the door of my hut, grab a towel, and run out into the sand dunes.
My favorite part of District Four is the sand. Everyone thinks I'm crazy, but its true. Sand has a way of getting where it doesn't belong, like into my house or matted into my hair. Its never constant and can always fit wherever you put it. People hate it for that very reason, but I love it. To me, sand means home. I've lived in District Four my entire life. My house is right by the beach, nestled between the sand and the street hidden behind patches of tall grass. It's not a big house, just two rooms: a living room and a bedroom. My dad sleeps in the bedroom and my brother and I share the living room. We take turns, alternating couch and floor. Last night was my turn on the floor, but because it is the reaping and my brother is already 21 and I am only 17, he insisted I take the couch.
The reaping. A cold fear shoots through me, but I try to ignore it. Instead I walk faster through the sand, feeling it scratch lovingly at the bottom of my feet. I push the thought of my name coming out of the glass bowl out of my mind and instead try to take in the subtle beauty of the orange sky turning blue. I finally reach the ocean and put my feet in. I haven't bothered to put on shoes, but when you live on the beach, you really don't need shoes. Waves break a few feet away and come speeding toward me and then break again in minuscule proportions over my feet. The water is morning cold, but it wakes me, energizes me, calms me.
I remember the first time I did this morning habit. It was really only 5 years ago, on this day actually, reaping day. I was 12 and it was my first reaping. My brother was 16, it was his fourth. The morning was a lot like this one. This ritual of walking onto the beach in the morning had been my brother's. That morning was the first time I joined him. We walked really far, talking about the games and the Capitol and he comforted me when I broke into tears.
As I think, I begin to strip. First my soft sweatpants come off. I fold them into a neat square and lay them on the sand. I lift my thin shirt over my head and lay that on the sweatpants. I gather my bushy, salty, matted hair into a ponytail at the base of my head. Next off is my underwear and then my bra which join the rest of my clothing. I lay the towel protectively on top of the pile. I used to be ashamed of being naked, but I have been swimming naked for year. I have learned that by sunrise, all the fishers of District Four have already gone for hours and everyone else is hours from waking.
I crack my neck and step further into the ocean, until I am hip deep. Then I take a deep breath and lunge forward. The cold water is perfect. It feels like breathing, easy, effortless, necessary. I swim further out and by the time, I surface again for air, my feet can no longer feel the smooth sand underneath the water. Air rushes into my lungs and thoughts from 5 years ago rush into my head.
It was practically reaping time when my brother and I got back to the house. The smell of fresh smoked salmon spread throughout the house. No one worked during the reaping so my father was cutting up bagels and my mother was smothering them with cream cheese. Our District was certainly not as rich as the Capitol, but we had much more than the other districts, 11 and 12 especially. My brother and I changed into the clothes our mother had laid out. We both ate as my mother did my hair, whispering comfort in my ear. My father was having a word with my brother about being strong. Then the siren rang. My mom leaned down, kissed me on both cheeks and held me close to her. My father did the same to my brother and then they switched. My brother took me by the hand and led me out the door.
The reaping was the same as it was every year. Unlike other districts, parents did not to come to the reaping in District 4. Their absence showed that they trusted our strength and skill, should we be chosen. It was old fisherman's tradition. When the called the girl's name I buried my head in my brother's shirt to block out the sound. I was too scared to move, but a few minutes later when I felt my brother's grip on me loosen and realized I wasn't being dragged away, I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't been chosen. Then it was time for the boys. I grabbed my brother's hand in a death grip and waited. But a boy named Finnick Odair was chosen.
We watched the girl and Finnick Odair ascend to the stage. Neither was smiling. The girl was 16, she was one of my brother's friends. I saw his face darken, but if other people, who didn't know him as well as I did saw him, they would not be able to see it. It was considered a fisher's weakness to show too much emotion.
Finnick Odair was 14. He was just two years older than me but he was already the size of my brother. He was well built with perfectly tan skin and had bronze hair which descended in perfect curls around his face. I knew him especially because of his awful reputation. He had won every trident competition at school, hung around with the delinquents of District Four, and had already slept with most of the older girls in my brother's school. No one who was angry at him, could stay angry at him. He was supposedly god-like. I couldn't care less if he was actually Poseidon reincarnate; him being chosen had spared my brother.
But that day I had actually wished my brother or I had been chosen, so we could escape the terror awaiting us. Even the Hunger Games would be better than my home. But the odds were not in our favor. When we returned to the little house, it was as if nothing was wrong. But as I pushed the door open, the scene was straight out of a horror movie. Red everywhere. Not one surface in that house was free of splattered blood. My brother was behind me so he couldn't shield me from the fresh nightmare that was waiting for us. My mother's body lay on the ground, covered in blood. My father was sitting next to it and screaming in agony. The sound still chills me to this day. But that wasn't even the worst part. My brother tried to grab me and push me out of the house so I wouldn't see, but I escaped his grip and ran over to my father. That was when I realized, my mother's body was headless. Her slender, delicate, beautiful body, which had carried my brother and I, had been unceremoniously ended, right at her throat. By this time my brother had finally managed to trap me in his arms and he carried me out of the house and threw me onto the sand. He commanded me to stay, but there was no need. I had no way of moving, I was paralyzed with a mixture of anger, sadness, and most of all pure disgust. Tears were already spilling from my eyes, but now bile rose in my throat, my stomach clenched and I puked. As my brother was picking me up and taking me away, I had seen it, my mother's head with eyes wide open but a serene, insane smile on her face. I threw up again.
The scarring thoughts send a fresh wave of terror through me and I find myself still underwater, unable to breathe. I shoot upwards and take a breath. The year after my mother's death, I spent as far away from my house as I could. I learned to swim so that I could escape from the house every morning. My brother managed to go to school. My father was given a week off by the Capitol, to mourn, but then was put back to work on the boats. Since that day, I don't think he's spoken a single word. Everyone thinks he's crazy but I know that he thinks speaking will bring out emotion, a fisher's weakness, and he doesn't want to seem weak. My brother and I find strength in his silence.
They never found out who killed her. Some people even go so far as to say my supposedly insane father killed her. But I know that's not true. A part of me wants revenge, to solve the puzzle of my mother's cruel murder. But another part of me has moved on, with no intention of ever going back.
I allow the water to rush over me and start swimming back to the shore. Each freezing wall of water that hits me helps me to forget, to push forward and on. These are the thoughts that zoom around in my head each and every morning, but with each day the scars grow fainter. I let the waves push me the last few yards and wash up on the beach. I find my pile of clothes and I lay naked for few more minutes, feeling the push and pull of the water, breathing slowly, taking life in one grain of sand at a time.
"Whoa there," comes a deep voice from above me. My eyes snap open and my nudity suddenly becomes a burden rather than a freedom. I grab my towel and wrap it around me before I see who the voice belongs to. Finnick Odair. My cheeks burn red.
"Can I help you?" I snap. I don't usually snap, but having Finnick Odair catch me in this immensely private moment angers me.
He is standing a few paces away from me, but trots over and sits down next to me. He is beautiful, there is no denying that. His hair is the same as it was five years ago, but his face is completely different. Before the reaping, he still retained a sort of boyish innocence, despite his reputation. At the reaping, five years ago, it was stone cold. But ever since he won, it has taken on an even more arrogant look. What Finnick Odair was doing on the beach, I had no idea whatsoever. He usually just stayed at the Capitol, acting like a little lapdog to every rich, unsuspecting woman, using his charm to suck up to them so they would sponsor his mentees in the Hunger Games. It was revolting.
"You already did," he said, "I was having an awful morning, but it's all better now." He motions to my body.
"Shush," I say, pulling the towel tighter around me. Self consciousness spreads like a chill through me. All of a sudden, its like my nerves are wires and I feel every cell in my body
"Okayyy," he smirks, but he turns around and presses his hands to his eyes so I can put on my clothing. I dress at top speed and start to leave so I can go back to my house and say goodbye to my family before the reaping. Just one more year of this, I think.
"Hey Annie," he says. I turn because I'm surprised he knows my name. He stands up and trots over to me.
"What?" I answer, annoyed, "Why are you here?"
I can see from the look on his face that he isn't used to being talked back to. And of course, he isn't.
"Don't worry about it," he says, "I just want to say…"
He hesitated, digging his foot into the sand as if he was nervous, but then he spoke "'May the odds be ever in your favor'."
What the hell is Finnick Odair doing wishing me luck? Is he flirting with me? The absurdity of the whole thing makes me giggle.
"Something funny?" he asks in his deep echoing voice. I just can't stop laughing as I picture me and Finnick Odair together. I'm tiny and he's the size of a whale. My hair is like one giant knot and his are these perfect curls. I can't even get angry at the person who murdered my mother, and he won the Hunger Games.
"Nothing," I manage to say through my incessant giggles. We could not be any more different. "I'll see you around."
I start to walk away but his voice sounds again, "Hopefully not."
This is true, the only time I would actually have to see him would be if he was my Hunger Games mentor and I have absolutely no intention of that happening. "See you never, then," I call to him. And then I run home.
The sun is shining fully in the sky and the smell of smoked salmon hits my nostrils. With it comes a million memories, but I push them far, far down. My brother is in the kitchen, my father sits at the table with a cup of coffee. He looks up when I walk in, but as usual, I doubt he sees me. But I still kiss him on the top of the head and ask him how he is. No answer, I exchange the usual look with my brother.
"I'll be right back," I tell him, "I need to shower."
"Yeah, that's fine," he says, adding more fish to the grill.
My shower is warm and uneventful, but I realize with a pang, that it may be the last shower I take in my home. So I take my time. Instead of just running water through it, I separate my hair into sections and actually clean it, rinsing out the salt and sand that have found their permanent home. But if I'm about to lose my home, so are they. I shampoo and condition and run a comb through my hair to get rid of the knots, mattes and tangles. For the first time, since the last reaping, I pick up my mother's old hair dryer and use it to style my hair, like she did five years ago. I pin it up at the sides an let it flow in waves down my back. When its manageable and untangled, it reaches the small of my back. It is the color of dark sand, after it has been wet with the tide.
When I finally stumble out of my room, wearing a sea-green dress that reminds me reluctantly of Finnick Odair's eyes, and with a fresh layer of make up on, I look completely different from the girl who left the house in the morning. But on the inside, I am the same. Terrified of the future, scarred from the past. My brother wordlessly hands me my breakfast and I eat it slowly, taking in each homely bite and savoring each little flavor.
The siren sounds as I swallow my last bite. Panic grips my body, but I relax quickly. I kiss the top of my father's head, but he still doesn't move. Instead, my brother grabs my hand and pulls me outside the little house.
"Be strong," he says, hugging me. Tears flood my eyes and my throat and nose begin to burn, but I take a deep breath and push away.
"I will," I say. He kisses the top of my head and I set off down the street into the main square.
As usual, the stage has been set up. There are several chairs in rows of four. The first row is all that is visible and has one chair for the mayor, one for Mags an elderly victor, one for Alessa Charm, the District Four Capitol escort, and one for Finnick Odair. Alessa and Finnick are talking, laughing, flirting. Not once, but twice, I see her hand rest a little too high up his thigh and his hands are touching her face a little too often. I feel ashamed for some reason.
All the children gather in. I see some new faces, but for the most part, everyone is the same. A siren sounds again and everyone falls silent. Alessa comes up to the microphone and gives her usual little spiel about the Capitol and the games. Everyone knows it by heart, but she still speaks because she is required too. Her eyes dart back to Finnick everyone once in a while, who gives her an annoyingly smug little smile. But she finally finishes.
"All right then," she says, "Ladies first."
She reaches her hand into the glass bowl. I find my heart is banging in my chest. My hands begin to sweat. All of a sudden I am too cold, but I am sweating. My stomach is clenching and my fingers are trembling. I can't breathe. Alessa lifts a small slip of paper out of the bowl and the world goes on pause.
"ANNABELLE CRESTA!"