SPOILERS FOR MOCKINGJAY
Okok. I am going to BLAST you guys with Hunger Games fics. TO people who are waiting for Liquor, I am SO SORRY, I could have a new chapter ((OR TWO.)) finished by now, but my mother walked up to me and told me she wanted to read the Hunger Games.
The first book is now in her possession. And she says she may toss it out a window if I keep nagging her to read faster.
So I'm going to do a bunch of different Hunger Games scenarios from different POV's. I'm calling them SnipFics. Like. Snippets. And Fanfiction.
OK SHUT UP YOU GUYS KNOW IM A LOSER.
So to begin, Annie Cresta! I am naming the child Adam, ok? I just feel like his name should be Adam.
~ Chae~
Annie Cresta
Those Days
There were hard days. There were impossible days.
On hard days, I would take a piece of rope from under the mattress and knot it. Over and over again, knots. Tied, untied, knotted, freed, united, separated. Every knot I could imagine from a time in a District went into that rope, and then came undone. If I tried really really hard, I could imagine that my fingers were Finnick's. That my frail, pale digits were transformed into his muscular, golden ones. And if I imagined hard enough, I could see a lock of that auburn hair. I could almost make out those amazing sea green eyes too.
If I imagined hard enough.
But on impossible days, there was no imagining.
On impossible days, there was a child who needed to be taken care of, who had a mother who was out of her mind and she was aware. On impossible days, the screaming of a one year old and his tears would quickly turn into the sound of a crashing dam. The sound of water spilling. The sound of screams filling the air. The sound of arms flailing, and wet, dark, flowing hair, just trying to get by.
On impossible days, I heard the oceans I had grown up on. On impossible days I found somewhere to nest and closed the door and turned off the lights and covered my ears and closed my eyes and rocked back and forth, back and forth singing a lullaby to myself that the screaming child from down the hall really needed to hear.
On impossible days, a knot was the last thing I wanted to see, so I quietly shoved the rope deeper under the mattress.
Fully aware that come the hard days, I would be swamped –DROWNED- in that same mattress, screaming for it to return to me.
Screaming for Finnick Odair to come back to me.
And his child.
And his wife, who all needed him so much.
Once upon a time there were impossible days, and I took it out on the baby.
Not to hurt him.
Just to assert the fact that he knew the truth.
On hard days, I told him stories of his father. How his smile would make any woman fall for him, but mine had done something to make him trip himself up. How back in our district, we would sit on a fishing boat or a beach and talk about nothing but everything.
On hard days, I did everything I could to make sure Finnick Odair still existed, and always would in my child's life.
On impossible days, I told him stories of the Hunger Games. Of my Games. Of his father's Games. Of Mags. I told him about how Daddy had to go back into the Arena a second time, because that "mean old dunder head president of ours" had been out to get him. I made Daddy sound like a super hero. I told him about my lovely time in the Capitol. Lovely. I told him about the mission to destroy the Capitol. I told him about his father's death. I asked him questions about why all my closest friends seemed to end up headless in another world without me.
On impossible days, I did everything I could to make sure Finnick Odair stayed dead, and would always be a defeated super hero in my child's life.
Our child's life.
On impossible days I wouldn't be able to sleep. Because I would envision my partner's head being torn off in the Arena. And as if it were some cruel queue, Finnick would be next in line with a pained look on his face as he bent over at the makeshift guillotine and-
And things that I don't want to talk about because I can hear the ocean's current rising in my head as if I were one of those mystic conch shells that my child loves so much.
Our child loves so much.
And when I couldn't sleep I would venture into my child's bed-
Our child's bed.
And snuggle up next to him and hold onto him. As if I were comforting him. Although he looks just like Finnick and I can tell that he has the exact same nature as his father in knowing that I was using his discomfort to stunt my own discomfort. And he acts distressed just for me. And I rock him back to 'sleep' although I know he's watching over me just like his Daddy is from wherever up above and beyond or down and below could be.
And at that particular moment I wouldn't be able to think of a lullaby for him, so I would whisper sour little nothings into his young ear.
"Dear Adam, Adam, I have secrets to tell you."
"This is something that I've told you before but you must keep forgetting."
"Did you know that your Daddy isn't real?"
"Did I ever tell you that I am crazy and he isn't coming back for me?"
"Adam, did I ever tell you that you don't have a father?"
"Fall asleep now Adam, because perhaps in your dreams you do."
"But you will never have a father. You never even had one."
"There's no Daddy for you anymore."
There's no husband for me anymore.
There's no Finnick for anyone anymore.
…Agh. I always cry when I think about Finnick and Annie and Adam. I get so upset thinking how Finnick would have been such a perfect dad, but Adam would never even know.
I'm sorry.
I have to stop now.
~Chae.