As evening fell, my anticipation of the Quarter Quell announcement began to build. As I'd said to Finnick – the possibilities were endless. My guess was they'd either take all boys or all girls from the Districts, or make adults compete. It would be interesting to see what could happen with the adults – would they sit and refuse the bloodshed? Protest? I'd love to see the faces of the Gamemakers if that happened. They'd probably just stir them up with something, like an earthquake.
Or a flood…
I hop into my shower and turn in on full blast, hoping the drumming water can drown my thoughts, but the sound of rushing water only engraves the memories deeper into my mind. I hurriedly throw on a blouse and a pair of jeans, pulled on my sneakers and run over to Finnick's house, my hair billowing in the evening breeze. I don't bother to knock – he never knocks when visiting me.
As I enter the living room, I see Finnick has laid out a table of snacks in the centre of the room – small bite size chunks of fish speared with cocktail sticks, tiny pieces of hard candy smashed up into smithereens, cheese and crackers and strawberries submerged in sugar. All my favourites. It amazed me, how much he knew about me, when we're so different. Him, strong, confident and adored and me, quiet, enclosed and misunderstood.
Don't forget delusional. I'm never allowed to forget that.
At that moment, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and I spun around to see Finnick in the doorway holding two glasses of what looked like mango juice. Winking, he held one out to me and I roll my eyes at his joking cockiness. Yet another difference. We both collapse on the foam-white sofa as the huge television rises from the wooden floor. We begin to chat and make jokes about Caesar Flickerman's new powder-puff lilac hair and President Snow's mannerisms, and only go quiet when the audience stands as Snow takes the stage to announce the Quarter Quell. We hold our breath as the box is brought out, and the president's booming voice announces:
"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."
That's all I have to hear. I sit in shock for several seconds as anger overrides my system. I hear Finnick trying to say something to me but rage only leaves a humming in my ears. I storm out of the living room, slamming the door as I run out into the cold night. The sky is illuminated with stars I don't notice as I sprint to the beach and fling myself full force into the waves. I swim out about 500 metres before I look back. Finnick is fast approaching, screaming something at me. Ignoring him, I plunge myself into the icy water, not bothering to pause for air. Why? I'm just going to die anyway. As I claw at the water with my bare hands, swimming further and further beneath the surface, I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness. This is a good way to die. My way. One final act of insanity for them to remember me by. I feel my vision darkening, but I still thrash at the water, determined to fill my lungs with the blissful salt of the ocean. The current stings my eyes and my ears bleed with the pain of the pressure, and I can feel the vibrations of waves rippling behind me and I know Finnick is hot on my tail. However, I've always been able to 'swim like a salmon in spring time', as my mother used to tell me, and I quickly paddle away and duck into a reef. As the shadow of the swimmer passes by, I begin to feel nauseous and weak; this never happens when I'm swimming. Something is seriously wrong, and as I look down dreamily, the last sight I remember is the deep gash on my shin and the poisonous sea urchin's spindly thorn sinking deep into my leg, as the world turns black.
