Thank you so much for your reviews, Luke777 and ALK! To answer your questions...
Luke777: This is not going to be an alternate universe. The books were awesome as far as I was concerned, and I don't really feel the need the change them in any way. I just got the idea for this character and thought it might be an interesting side to the story.
ALK: Analeigh does not know what her husband makes Finnick do. Or, if she does know, she chooses to ignore it. There are a lot of things she chooses not to see as you will hopefully pick up on in the next few chapters. But there is also more of Finnick later, so I hope you enjoy that!
I hope you like the next chapter, and please review!
Chapter 2
I am choking. My throat is clogged with a thick smoke. I can't breathe, can't see, can't think. My whole body trembles. I am trying to reach the door but it is always just out of my reach.
And suddenly I am awake, gasping for air. The sun is pouring through my window, the sounds of a busy day filtering into my room. I look over and see Valeria beside the bed, her face sympathetic, her arm still outstretched from attempting to shake me awake. The nightmares have returned.
I quickly get out of bed and rush to the bathroom, throwing cold water on my face. I'm sweating, the hair stuck to my forehead. My heart is racing, my lungs still screaming for air although there is plenty. I take a long, slow breath and stare at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are hollow and pale. My hair is a complete mess. My stylists will surely complain loudly about my appearance and how much work they have to do. But they must do a great job because tonight is the parade of the 24 tributes for all the Capitol to see, and I will be beside my husband in a seat of honor.
The day goes by in a blur. I don't remember much and really could care less. It's just another event for the Capitol people to get excited about. Panem et circenses. Bread and circuses, what our country is named after. My husband is the best at giving this city both. Before I know it, I am in front of the entire country and the President is rising to give his speech. I realize I didn't even pay attention to the parade, although that's not necessarily unusual. For me, it's better to completely ignore the tributes. They are just going to die anyway, so it's best not to remember their faces. The televisions run 24 hours a day during this time of year, and although I am forced to watch the reapings, I can almost tune the games out completely. One of the good things about being left completely alone, I suppose. Ian keeps me updated on the major events so I can effectively carry on a conversation with other Capitol citizens, but mostly I hide out in the gardens or the city library.
They keep showing two of the tributes, though, on the large screen overlooking the square. Even during my husband's speech, there are their faces. I look down at the chariots in front of me and see it is the District 12 tributes. That is not a district typically known to create excitement. But this boy and girl are exquisite, holding hands, smiling, and fire billowing out from their costumes. I remember their reapings. The girl…Katniss Everdeen. She volunteered to be a tribute in the place of her sister.
I lean back in my chair, hating myself for remembering this. Now, I know her name and her face and a story about her life, and it's going to be that much harder when I hear that she has died. But, I suppose for her it is better this way. How I wish a thousand times over that it had been me in the fire instead of my sisters. It's much better to be the one leaving this world than the one left behind.
The city library is my favorite place outside of the gardens. I walk in and wave a quick hello to the aging librarian. His white hair falls into his eyes but he pushes down his glasses and nods to me before returning to his book. There is a room all the way in the back which must be from the original structure built before the Dark Days. Not many buildings survived the first war and what did was often so destabilized that they were torn down. But somehow, this room was left completely intact and the rest of the library was built around it. It holds some of my favorite and most interesting books. I think the rest of Panem has forgotten this place even exists or else most of these books would be burned.
There isn't any electricity in this room, and the only light comes from a single window close to the ceiling. It's dusty and smells of mildew, but I inhale deeply. Everything here is familiar and yet untouched. It's the one place I know for sure I am not watched or listened to. I linger at the tall, unsteady bookshelves, pondering over which book should be my next conquest. Some of the books are so old and yellowed they look like they might crumble at any moment. Finally, I choose one. One that I have looked at for a long time but feared to read even in this dimly lit room. To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I see on the front cover that it won the Pulitzer Prize, and although I don't know what that means, I know it must have been a much revered book before the fall of the world.
I sit down at the square wooden table in the center of the room. My chair squeaks and leans to the left as I sit, but it is comfortable enough. Soon, I am lost in the town of Maycomb, Alabama and the stories of Scout, Jem, Dill, and Atticus. My eyes only move from the pages of the book when Ian pulls it down from my face. I open my mouth to complain, but quickly notice the light in the room is getting dim. It must be late afternoon. I carefully place the book back on the shelf, never daring to carry it home with me, before letting Ian lead me away.
That evening in my room, the television is still showing replays of last night. I watch all the tributes with interest this time and the crowd's reaction to each of them. District 12 received the most cheers by a long shot. They were also the only tributes holding hands instead of ignoring each other. I wonder if it was just a trick for more sponsors or if they wanted to of their own accord. As they pull away and the camera returns to my husband and I on the balcony, I see something in his eyes that I did not see the previous night. A burning fire in those usually cold eyes, practically staring down the District 12 tributes. I can't imagine what he sees in them that makes him hate them so much. It's as if he knows something that I do not.
The week goes by slowly. Again I am in front of the crowd for the tribute interviews, and I put on the act I always do. I smile, I wave, I pretend to be interested in what each of them are saying. But it's only something I've perfected through years of practice. I start to pay attention only when the crowd starts making a fuss about the male District 12 tribute. He has declared his love for his district partner, Katniss. The crowd goes crazy for the star-crossed lovers but I am not impressed. I've seen many tricks to get sympathy and therefore more sponsors. This is the most original idea, but it is still just a ruse. I remember them holding hands during the parade. They are very smart…or very well prepped. I wish I still believed in true love, but I look over at my husband, smiling handsomely, his hand clasped protectively over mine, and know that I simply don't anymore. I lean over and place a soft kiss on his cheek to bury those thoughts lest they show on my face.
The Hunger Games start on April 21st. It's the only chatter I hear outside the mansion. I'm actually thankful for the Avox servants and their inability to speak just so I don't have to hear about it anymore.
Every spare moment I get I am in the library. In the stories of Tom Robinson and Boo Radley and how they are perceived by the children, I can't help but see the faces of the tributes. I wonder how they see us.
Ian keeps me informed while having the decency to be brief about it, and day after day, I hear that both the tributes from District 12 are still alive. Coriolanus was having many long, private discussions with Seneca Crane, the head Gamemaker, and I believe most of them involved the supposed star-crossed lovers. They had numerous admirers in the Capitol and were creating quite a buzz. And it seemed that the more attention they received, the more disheveled and angry the President got. I would catch glimpses of him stalking through the mansion, his shirt untucked and his hair in tangles. Ever a man of appearances, it scared me to see him like that.
One day, Caesar Flickerman came onto the television with his dazzling smile and announced that if two tributes from the same district were the last remaining survivors, they would both be declared winners. And for the first time in almost 18 years, I sit down and watch the Hunger Games.