The worst thing I did was hide. I have no idea what kind of idiotic mental lapse made me do it, but for some strange, idiotic reason I chose to melt into the shadows and watch the bloodshed. Then again, I'm not exactly known for being logical. The world knows me as the crazy victor from District 4. The one who stood by and watched as her partner was beheaded.
The coward.
And to be totally honest, that's how I view myself. It's the reason I'm like this – totally and completely off-the-rails crazy.
I'm not saying I'd go back into the arena. Never again. I just wish I'd done things differently. If I'd used those stupid blow darts, maybe Ryan would've won. He'd be more of a victor than I am. I can picture him - parading around the Districts, everyone cheering in admiration, coal black hair waving in the wind and deep brown eyes sparkling with enjoyment. He'd have been in his pure element. He would've done amazing things with his power, while I'm pouring it down the drain as the crack in my psyche gets bigger and wider every waking moment.
As the sunlight streams through the window of my cottage in the Victor's Village, the same thoughts run through my head, the same every single morning. I feel like I'm living a lie. Panem doesn't know me as who I truly am – a scared, vulnerable little girl. They insist I 'need time to forget'. I'll never forget. How could I? At the moment the sword met his neck, his eyes landed on me. He spotted the flash of brown hair and green eyes as I dove behind the rock to save myself. His last sight was me abandoning him.
I reluctantly crawl out of my bed and trudge to my dresser. I pull out a pale blue dress, the same one I wore for my reaping five years ago. It's lightweight and breezy, perfect for keeping up my 'good girl' image. Portia still calls me occasionally to remind me that even though I'm out of the arena, the Capitol cherish their victors and each individual personality. I had to keep it up, or God knows what they'd do to me. Again, back to the 'living a lie' cliché. Sometimes I forget who I am, and that scares me more than insanity.
As I exit the room to get something to eat, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. A swish of coal black hair, a sparkle of emerald green eyes. People tell me I'm pretty. 'Just like her mother, she is,' was the usual comment. That, and as I'd heard people in the Square mutter, 'a tortured beauty'. I stop, backtrack and see my reflection gazing back at me, eyes big and inquisitive. I tilt my head, and the girl in the mirror copies. I drink in every detail of myself – pale, porcelain skin, waved ebony hair, blushing cheeks and thin waist. Just one glance and you'd know I was from District 4, I look the same as everyone else, and yet I'm looked at like a goddess. With an exasperated sigh, I turn away from the girl in the glass.
I walk out onto my porch and admire the sunrise – golds, pinks and bronzes illuminating the ocean, dancing around on the surface and playing on the crest of the waves. Taking in a deep breath of sea air, I glance around to see if any of my neighbours were awake yet. Mags' house was empty of any signs of life, so I assumed she was still asleep. That only left Finnick. As my eyes reached his sky-blue deck, a strong pair of arms snatched my waist and threw me up into the air. With a scream, I plummeted back to Earth, landing in the strong, tanned arms of Finnick Odair. With a wink, he set me down and playfully bowed.
"Good morning, m'lady. How may I be of service?" he asks in a boyish manner.
"Really, Finnick? Grow up and stop doing that – you'll drop me one day!" I muster every muscle in my face into an annoyed frown, but Finnick's deep blue eyes bore right though me and I end up cracking a smile.
"See? You can't stay mad at me, Cresta," he says teasingly. I wish he was easier to disagree with. But he was my mentor, and he practically saved my life. I was a little girl, just turned fourteen, no combat experience whatsoever and no clue what was going on. If it wasn't for Finnick, I'd never have managed. He taught me how to look at the people of the Capitol without bursting into fits of giggles at their stupid 'fashion' sense, he taught me how to make Caesar Flickerman (and the entire country of Panem) want to worship me as their nation's sweetheart, but most importantly he taught me how to survive in the arena. Although I was at an advantage with the fact that around 60% of it was water, I hadn't had much experience in foraging for food on a beach or desert. He showed me how to tap the water from cacti, how to gut and cook a Jabberjay and how to tilt the odds into my favour, just as that ditzy announcer Effie Trinket tells us every year. I owe everything I have to Finnick Odair.
We decide to take a morning stroll on the Village's private beach; probably the best part about living in District 4 is that no one's ever far from water or the ocean. And that's how we like it.
"So, Cresta," he's forced to shout over the crashing waves, "do you want to come over to my house tonight to watch the Quarter Quell announcement?"
Is that tonight? I'd completely forgotten about the mandatory viewing – that could've been nasty. Missing mandatory viewing is a big deal to our Peacekeepers. Although, they'd probably just think I'd had another 'insanity turn'.
"Yeah, I'd love to!" I giggle. I know for a fact almost every girl and woman in Panem would love to be in my position – rubbing shoulders with the totally gorgeous Finnick Odair! The thing is, he's never been that to me. He's just been…Finnick.
We walk for a while until the sun comes up and the sight of bustling fisherman appear on the beach some metres away from us. We turn back towards the village and walk in silence. I hear Finnick's breath increasing slowly, and I can tell he's nervous.
"What are you thinking about?"
He stops walking and stares at the sand. I notice there's a small, blue crab playing by his feet, scurrying back and forth without a care in the world.
"What do you think the Quarter Quell will be this year?" he says quickly, snapping his head up and looking me straight in the eye. I feel a jolt of electricity – his eyes can do that to you if the light hits them just right. It's magical, how those orbs of blue can make you feel alive with a fire you didn't know you had. They're inspiring.
"There's no way to know," I mutter in a defeated tone, "The Capitol are sick minded people – it could be anything."
He sighs, then carries on walking.
"That's what I was afraid of."
We walk in silence, hand in hand, for the rest of the way. Not speaking, but still understanding.