DISCLAIMER: I do not own any rights to The Hunger Games. All rights go to Suzanne Collins. I just play with her creations. :)
The Victor Who Went Mad
Chapter Three: Midnight Spirits
After dinner, we all sit to wait to watch the Reapings and to see whom we're up against. Finnick sits on the couch next to me, his arm touching mine. I smile to myself, thinking how any other girl in Panem would swoon if they were in my position.
Maybe I am swooning a little. Maybe if I weren't so caught up in everything else, like biding my time until I'm put in an Arena to fight to the death, I would be absolutely besotted with Finnick Odair.
But for now, he's a comfort; my mentor. A very young and charming mentor.
He sees me smiling and says:
"What are you smiling about, little Annie?" His tone is playful. He hands me a pen and paper; he had instructed me and Nixon at dinner to write down all I can about the tributes, so we can go over them together and size up their strengths.
I turn to look into those ocean green eyes. They are a beautiful color. I decide to go ahead and tell him what I'm thinking. My life is undoubtedly too short to keep harmless secrets. I was never good at hiding things anyway.
"I was thinking of all the girls in Panem who would be lovesick fools if they had the chance to sit next to you." I shrug, acting like it was absolutely no big deal, like I was unimpressed with the legendary sex symbol.
Finnick laughs, and it's a deep, lush sound. It makes the hairs on my neck stand on end….but not in a bad way. I wait for Finnick to comment on this, but he doesn't. He just nudges me in the side, smiles again, and turns to the television where the Capital anthem begins to play.
I look to Nixon and Mags sitting together, where she is motioning to him to watch the television. Every time I look at Nixon, I feel a knot in my stomach.. And once I start seeing my fellow tributes, I know I want to help Nixon in any way I can.
District 1's volunteer tributes, Rogue and Solange, are just as glamorous as one would expect from the Luxury District. Solange: Seventeen year old girl, gorgeous auburn hair, teasing bright blue eyes that I can see even from the tv, and a body that Jemma would be envious of. Rogue: eighteen years old with raven black hair, strong build, and dimples that tease when he smile. He looks into the camera with such confidence, such…sensuality. He's making love to the camera, for sure. There is always that one tribute whose the heart breaker. I jot down their names on my paper along with their age.
District 2's volunteer tributes are interesting. Twins Onyx and Lenyx.
"I see what they did there," Finnick says to Mags, who nods.
"See what?" I ask.
"They're trying to play off of siblings Gloss and Cashmere from District One."
"Cashmere won the year before you won, didn't she?" I ask
He nods. "And Gloss the year before her. Anyway, as I'm sure you're aware of, they have a lot of fans."
They do. I mean, every victor is at least somwhat popular, but then you have the Finnicks and Cashmeres and Enobarias. The ones who made such a huge impression that will never be forgotten, whose face you'll always see. Mags seems to read my thoughts and says:
"And these two," Mags indicates to the screen, "will got a lot of sponsors' just by the fact that they're twins."
I look back to the screen. Onyx and Lenyx, eighteen, both have dirty blond hair and coal black eyes. They look murderous. Onyx is huge and muscular and Lenyx, while slim, looks like she could break my neck like a twig. I feel a shiver run down my spine.
I blush when I see myself on tv. I feel even worse when they have to replay my response to hearing my name.
Unike Onyx, Lennox, Solange, and Rogue, who all immediately catch your eye, I look like a skinny little girl who could blow away with a gust of wind. I don't look sexy, nor mysterious, nor strong. I just look ridiculous and weak.
"'Yes?'" I see myself look up, confused. The commentators chuckle and make some joke about me being distracted. I feel my chest tightening. Then I'm up on the platform, tears in my eyes.
Everyone will think I'm unstable, a freak.
"Don't stress it." Finnick says gently.
"It makes me look stupid," I say through gritted teeth. "Stupid and spacey. Like I'm in another planet. No one is going to see me as a threat."
"You still have the Opening Ceremony, personal evaluations, and your interview with Caeser to make an impression, okay? We just have to figure out what your angle is…but we'll get to that later."
I nod, and keep writing down names, and the list keeps growing.
Malik and Circe from District 3.
Knox and Phoebe from District 5.
Bray, Skona, Quinn, Rhine, Penny.
There are so many of them. So many faces! Some of them are small and so fragile looking. District 12's Kol and Lilah both are so obviously malnourished, their cheekbones jutting out. District 9's thirteen-year-old Dru, whose adorable face and freckles make my heart ache.
"Finnick?" I whisper when the screen goes black.
"Yes?"
"How do you do it?" My voice sounds so small. "How do you kill innocent lives?" I'm sure he's been asked a thousand times. I'm sure he's sick of hearing it. I know it's probably a pointless question, but I need to know.
Finnick is silent, his lips pursed. I think he's going to ignore me.
"In the Arena…it's different." He says, staring at the floor. "You wont understand what I mean until you're there. But it changes. The adrenaline, the fear…your instincts take over and you do things you never thought you could."
I think back to when I watched Finnick's Games. I think of his first victim, a fifteen-year-old girl. I saw that trident go through her abdomen, saw the shock in her eyes as she realized what had happened, saw the blood widen and widen into a large circle around her wound, saw her cough up red and fall face down into the ground. Finnick had fell to his knees, a vacant, lost look in his eyes. Like he couldn't believe what he had just done.
I don't say anything else about it and neither does he. When the screen goes black, Lynx suggests Nixon and me get some sleep. We're supposed to be arriving in the Capital late tomorrow morning. I try not to think about that too much tonight.
I return to my room, slip into a pretty nightgown that I find in the drawer, and get into the bed.
I don't sleep; I don't have any medicine this time to pull me under. I toss and turn, just like the night before Reaping. That anxiety had nothing on what I felt now. My eyes sting and I pretend I'm back at home in my own bed. But I know it's pointless. After what feels like an hour of this I growl in frustration and get out of the bed because if I lie there any longer I'm going to scream.
I step into the hall and find it dark. I don't know what I think I'm doing; there's nowhere to go. Then I remember passing the bar car earlier in the day. I've never tried alcohol but I hear it can help relax you. I'll try anything.
I tread quietly on the toes of my feet, walking past the car where we watched the Reapings, the dining car, the car where we boarded the train, and finally the bar car. It's dark in here also except for the dimmed sconces adorning the walls. There are also more sofas in here. I head straight for the liquor cabinet and peer inside of it.
I have no idea what is what.
Brandy, whisky, vodka, rum, gin; the list goes on. I go ahead and take the whiskey, liking the color of it. I grab a glass and pour the amber colored liquid into it. I take a whiff. It smells really strong.
Here goes nothing.
I take a drink and gasp. It burns! I can feel the hot liquid sliding down my throat, warming it the whole way. Now I'm coughing.
I hear a familiar rich laughter and whip around to see Finnick lounging in one of the chairs, a glass of his own in his hand.
"Finnick!" I exclaim, my eyes widening. He's still wearing his clothes from earlier, which means he hasn't been to bed at all.
"Had a sudden craving for whiskey, did you?" He asks, his smile apparent in the dim lighting. Suddenly, I'm scared that this is against some kind of rule. He waves his hand, seeing my expression. "Don't worry, Ann. I'm good at keeping secrets." He takes a swig from his glass.
I exhale, relief running through me like the alcohol is, which is still bitter in my mouth.
Finnick gestures to the seat across him. I take him up on the offer and sit, pulling down the hem of my nightgown. It seems inches shorter now than when I put it on earlier. I'm glad I had the mind to shave my legs earlier.
I take another swallow of the drink. It doesn't taste better the second time. I grimace again, sticking out my tongue. Finnick laughs even harder this time and stands up.
"Here, hand it over." He says, holding out his hand for my drink. "I'll get you something you might like better."
"Oh," I say and hand him the drink.
He walks to the cabinet and rummages through it. Then he says, "Ah, here we go." I hear the clinking sound of bottle to glass rim, and he's back with another amber colored drink.
"Try this," he passes the drink to me, and our fingers graze. I'm surprised by the tiny shock that goes through my hand at the touch. "It's still going to be strong, but it tastes a lot better."
"What is it called?"
"Schnapps. It comes in a lot of different flavors."
I sniff it, and the smell is warmer and a lot more enticing. "What flavor is this?"
"It's called butterscotch."
"Never heard of it."
"It's good," he says. "Try it."
I do, and while Finnick is right in it still being strong, it tastes great. It's a very unique flavor to my pallet, and I find myself taking another sip. And another. Soon, I'm feeling warm all over.
"So…" I say, unable to think of any topic for conversation that doesn't revolve around the Games. And I don't want to talk about the Games right now. I just want to drink my alcohol and talk about something nicer than my imminent death.
At the word death in my head, images start to flash of what seems like a thousand different ways of me being killed. With a sword, my throat slit, dagger through my chest, spear through my stomach, arrow in my head, being choked to death by Onyx, being drowned in a river by Lennox, my neck snapped, being stabbed repeatedly..
I continue to drink, like it will wash away the horrific images in my mind.
"So…" he mimics me, bringing me back to the present. I focus on his face and nothing else, refusing to let more gruesome visions of my death to continue.
"So, Finnick."
He grins. "Yes?"
"I uh," I stutter. His smile is really pretty. Have I never really noticed it before? "I don't see you around Four a lot. Never, actually. I never see you." I'm rambling a little.
"Yeah, I don't spend a lot of time home anymore."
"Why not?" I take another drink. It burns less and less.
"Business…" Finnick says quietly, swigging down the rest of his alcohol.
I feel like I've said something to upset him a little, so I change the subject.
"What's your favorite fish?"
At this, he smiles. "To eat or to admire?"
"What's the difference?" I ask.
"Well, I love eating eel, but I love the way Orange Spotted Sunfish look."
My mouth opens. "You like eel?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Ugh, I hate eel." I shudder. "I hate the way they look, their texture, the flavor. It's a swimming snake!"
"Okay, well, what's your favorite fish to eat then?"
"Red Drum," I say. "My father is a canner but when he isn't working, he takes…took me out fishing with him. I'd get so excited when I saw we got a Red Drum. We made it a game to see how many we could catch…"
I drink more Schnapps, tears stinging my eyes gain. I don't know if it's from the spirits or the memories.
"We'd spend hours out there, just the two of us," I continue. "And then when we brought our catches home, Mom would clean them up and cook them for us. Being an only child, my parents are the only family I have. All of my grandparents are dead, and no aunts and uncles that I know of. They're all I have. I'm all they have.."
And they're going to lose me. I wonder if they'll decide to have another baby once I'm gone.
No. A firm voice says in the back of my mind. You're not giving up, remember? You're going to fight.
I glance at Finnick, hoping he didn't notice the escape of a couple of tears. He doesn't press further with my memories of my family, for which I'm grateful. Suddenly I wonder if he has family. I try to remember the interviews that they would have done with his family during his Games, but I can't. Does he even have family? I want to ask badly but I bite my tongue. It's none of my business. I opened up voluntarily.
I swig down the last of my drink, and I've gone from feeling warm to burning up. It's spreading through my chest, my legs and arms, fingers and toes. My head is heavy. I pull my hair up from my shoulders and to the top of my head with one hand, fanning my face with the other.
"Am I supposed to start sweating?" I ask, a little alarmed. I feel it beading on my head, the back of my neck, in between my breasts; everywhere.
"It's common," Finnick assures me, his eyes flickering from my face to my neck, I think. "I wouldn't recommend a second glass, though. We don't want you drunk, do we?"
"I guess not."
"But you'd like to be, wouldn't you?"
"Well, I just wonder what it feels like."
"It's not that wonderful, to be honest."
"You drink a lot?"
"Sometimes," he says. "It's relaxing. But I'm careful. I don't want to end up like old Haymitch."
"Haymitch Abernathy?" I ask.
Finnick nods, and in my mind's eye I see the perpetually drunk mentor from District 12. It must be hard, being the only victor there. Obviously he isn't doing too a good a job, since not one tribute from 12 has won since he won the games twenty years ago. But it's not really his fault at all.
I'm trying to remember how and when he won his games but my head is swimming. I put a hand to my forehead, moaning. "This feels weird."
Finnick stands, offering me his hand. "Come on, you little lush. Back to bed."
I take his hand and find it warm. Again, little sparks shoot up my nerves that I can't explain. I stand, and I realize standing up close to him how much taller he is than me. The top of my head barely reaches his the top of his chest. When I inhale, I smell whatever cologne he has on him. It smells more intoxicating than the alcohol running through my veins.
"You smell nice," I say. I didn't mean to say it out loud. I should be embarrassed. I'm not. These spirits are intense. They make me feel bolder.
"Why, thank you." He says in a low, seductive voice. He flashes me one of his famous smiles and takes my upper arm in his hand and gently leads me from the car.
"You're welcome," I reply. And he's laughing again.
"What? What is so funny?"
"You," he says. "Your politeness and your innocence. It's a rare thing. Hold onto that. In fact, that's who you're going to be your angle. Just be you. I'll talk to your stylists tomorrow and tell them not to make you over into something you're not."
We're outside of my door now, and I look up at Finnick. Up close, his face is even more beautiful. The camera, as much as it picks up his features, doesn't do him justice.
"But will they like me?"
"I'll do everything I can to make sure they love you," he says, serious now. "That's a promise. Now get some sleep."
I nod and walk into my room.
"Goodnight, Finnick Odair."
"Goodnight, Annie Cresta."
I close the door and fall into bed, feeling safe in the fact that I have someone to help me.
I sleep hard.
