Author's Note:
First of all, I would like to say thank you to all the wonderful readers who have reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. I am so glad that you all like it, and it is definitely nice to receive some encouragement as a writer (especially in the face of rejection letters and such from publishers and magazines). I'd especially like to thank WerCub, mel, Stephanne21, Jada Ryl, and El (and anyone else I may have forgotten - sorry) for your amazing feedback and support. I hope this chapter, and the rest to come, live up to your expectations.
Secondly, just a fair warning - this is the most "adult" chapter so far. Nothing too graphic, but there are mentions of drug use, prostitution, and characters not wanting to be alive. Finnick is dealing with his demons, and Annie is struggling with her own...as much as we would all like them to be two teenagers in love, that's not where they are at this point. (But don't worry, they'll get there!)
Enjoy, and thanks so much for reading.
That smile haunts me over the next few days, and I have no idea why. I keep glancing at Annie out of the corners of my eyes, watching to see if she smiles, if only so I can figure out just what it was that her smile managed to do to my stomach. But she doesn't smile again.
I only glimpse shadows of it – the merest hint of a grin in the turned-up corners of her mouth – when she sits with Cinna in the morning and flips through his sketchbook…when she tastes hot chocolate for the first time, her watery eyes dancing with surprised pleasure…when I find her practicing her throwing knives in the conference room long past everyone else has gone to bed.
We develop something of an unspoken ritual, in the short days before the Games. I still have to satisfy my patrons at night, and I usually don't make it back to the training center until the tributes are waking up, so I hide in my bed, dead to the world, during their training sessions. But I make a concerted effort to show up for dinner each night, then mess around tying knots or nursing a beer until the Capitol citizens have gone out and the District Four crew has gone to sleep, at which point I make my way, as if by complete accident, into the sitting area, where Annie seems to spend a good portion of every night tossing knives against the wall, her teeth gritted in concentration, her brow furrowed ever so slightly.
I recline with my legs stretched out on the couch and watch her, giving her pointers until she has mastered the technique. Afterwards, I make hot chocolate for the both of us (adding marshmallows to hers, and a generous shot of rum to mine), and we sip our drinks while Annie stares at the city lights shining through the window and I stare at the steam rising from our cups, and as soon as I am finished Annie whisks the cups away to wash them no matter how many times Lydia has admonished her about household chores being the Avoxes' job. Then Annie heads to her room for another sleepless night, and I head out to whatever club or bar or posh residence my latest client has designated as our meeting place. Annie never asks where I am going (although a part of me that I can't quite explain sometimes wishes she would), but she always gives me a little, bobbing curtsy before she leaves, murmuring a soft "Good night, Mr. Finnick. Sleep well" as we go our separate ways.
The evening before the day of the tributes' interviews with Caesar Flickerman, I return from a meeting with potential sponsors to find Mags, Curtis, and Lydia in the conference room, their eyes glued to a television screen buzzing with Capitol propaganda, waiting for the official announcement of the tributes' training scores. Annie is nowhere to be seen.
"Mags," I ask, "where's Annie?"
"Nice to see you too, Finnick," Lydia reprimands, her voice deliberately pitched in a manner she must think is alluring. I completely ignore her.
"Room," Mags tells me. "Training over…showed Gamemakers…doesn't want to talk."
Yeah, well. We'll see about that.
I go down the hall to Annie's room, turning the doorknob without bothering to knock. But of course, the door is locked. I bang my palm against it a few times and call her name. "Annie. Annie! Anna-Marie Cresta, open this door right now!"
"Don't call me that." Through the door, her voice sounds strange, hoarse and choked off.
"Annie, come on. Please. I just want to talk to you."
She opens the door a crack. Her face is pale, as usual, and I notice that her usually shadowed eyes are red and unnaturally dewy. Has she been crying? Something wrenches painfully inside my stomach.
"I just wanted to see how you did today," I tell her.
Her eyes narrow. "I got a 12, of course," she says bitterly. "How do you think I did?"
"It can't have been that bad," I argue, sticking my foot in the door before she can slam it in my face. She gives me a significant look that tells me otherwise.
"What did you do?" I ask. "What we talked about?" The night before, we had decided she should stick mainly to knots and survival skills, but that showing the Gamemakers that she could handle knives would be beneficial, too.
She shrugs and gives a half-nod. "I threw the knives. Tied knots. Made a trap."
"That sounds alright."
"It was," she tells me. "Until I…the floor was wet, and I slipped, and I…well…I forgot I was holding the knife, and…it was an accident." She holds out her arm, which is dripping blood. No wonder her face is so white.
My own face falls. Hurting yourself during your private session with the Gamemakers definitely does not bode well for your training score.
Annie turns away, as if ashamed. "You don't have to say anything. I already know what a disappointment I am."
Whatever I was planning to say to her, it certainly wasn't that. I wonder, not for the first time, where exactly she gets such a negative impression of herself. From her family, maybe, or the Community Home? From all the kids at school who always teased her about her ragged clothes and drunken father? Or from the rest of us in District Four who almost entirely ignored the hungry little girl who desperately tried to sell her wilting flowers on the beach? I feel a sharp twinge in my gut and decide not to carry that line of thought any further.
"No, Annie. No. You're not a disappointment. Not to me."
She narrows her eyes at me, like I might be playing around with her, and I know that she doesn't believe me. "Come with me, Annie," I continue, reaching out and gripping her arm. "We need to get that cut cleaned before you get your score."
She winces, and I realize that I, being the idiot that I am, just grabbed her injured arm. "Oh God – sorry," I say. I really am hopeless.
She pulls away from me. "I don't need to see my score. It's either a 1 or a zero."
It's actually a 4 – which isn't that much better, to be honest. I have to practically drag Annie out to the sitting room to watch the scores with the rest of us, and even then, she refuses to actually look at the TV.
She won't let anyone touch her wounded arm, either, though Mags and I do manage to talk her into washing and bandaging it up herself. She wraps the clean linens tight around her cut, her hands sure and experienced, as though she has done this a hundred times before. My eyes drift to the scratches on her wrist from our struggle in the prep room a few days ago, and I once more remember the terrifying bruises all over her skin. Maybe she has.
Curtis earns a 10 – tying with the Career boy from 2 and the Career girl from 1 for the highest training score – and Lydia shrieks in excitement, clapping her hands together like a possessed woman and popping open a bottle of champagne. Somewhere in the midst of our little celebration, Annie silently disappears once again.
I want to go knock on her door again, but I can't – another note from President Snow is burning a hole in the pocket of my tight, faded jeans. Besides, I don't know what I'd say to comfort her, anyways. Even she realizes that she doesn't stand much of a chance to survive the Games.
When everyone else heads to their rooms, I change into a pair of even tighter pants made out of a shimmery, stretchy black material, slip on a strategically unbuttoned gold shirt, and head out into the night, wanting a decent night's sleep more than almost anything and wishing with all my might that whoever has bought me for the night won't be a freak with a bunch of outrageous fantasies she – or he – expects me to fulfill.
Of course, Finnick Odair's wishes don't tend to come true. Especially not where the Capitol is concerned.
I stumble back to the training center around three in the morning, desperately trying to keep from throwing up as I ride the elevator to what I think is the fourth floor. My head spins, my mouth is dry, and a sheen of sweat coats my face. I am alternately shivering and burning, my stomach heaving from some combination of alcoholic beverages and designer pills that I can't quite remember having taken. Malichai Romhearst, President Snow's Vice-Secretary of the Cabinet of the Something-or-Other, otherwise known as The Man Finnick Odair Really Hates Spending the Night With, always likes to "have some fun before getting it on," as he so eloquently puts it.
The elevator door opens and I fall to the ground. The room starts turning fast, then faster. Too fast. I vomit, over and over, the smell of it making me wretch even more. I want to brace myself, to somehow keep my spent body from falling face-first into my own mess, but my hands are shaking violently, and I can't even feel the rest of my arms anymore.
As if outside myself, I dimly notice the bloody bracelets ringing my aching wrists. The Vice-Secretary – what was his name again? – could only get off after handcuffing me to the bed. And – the throbbing of my swollen eye suddenly reminds me – letting off steam with a litany of hard, solid blows. I keel over again, my wobbly knees no longer able to even attempt to support me. Something hot runs down my cheek as my head collides with the tiled floor.
"Mr. Finnick?"
I know that voice. It is a girl's voice. Not a patron. Not a silly, frilly Capitol woman. It's someone I trust.
I hear the voice again, coming closer…or is it moving farther away? I sure wouldn't blame her – whoever she is – for running. I can't stand the sight of puke, much less the smell of it, and there's no way I would ever…ever…I can't remember what I was thinking about. I can't remember where I am, for that matter. My stomach heaves again as I throw up what must be the contents of every meal I have ever eaten. Sweat pours down my face and drips down my back, chilling me to the bone. For a moment, stars dance in front of my eyes, and I almost think I imagine soft hands against my forehead, holding back my hair as I vomit up the cocktail of drugs the man gave me. Then red, bright darkness rushes over me, and I see nothing more.
I wake up in my own warm bed to sunlight streaming through the windows and the salty smell of something homey and wonderful. I lie in bed, head throbbing, unwilling to open my eyes, afraid that if I do, the sea-salt smell will vanish and I will find myself, as I so often have before, in some seedy back alley bar, passed out with three naked women on top of me and a note from President Snow crumpled in my hand.
Beneath the pounding in my skull, memories drift aimlessly, unplaceable and impossible, vague recollections so hazy that I am certain they were nothing but a strange, drunken dream – unbelievably gentle hands holding back the tangled mess of my hair, wiping my face and mouth and neck with a cool cloth, stroking my sweat-slick forehead…a small, strong body supporting mine, a shoulder to lean on as I half-fell, half-dragged myself into my room…soothing words as someone held ice water to my lips and coaxed me to drink….a haunting, lonely sea shanty filling the cavernous emptiness inside me as I once more drifted off into unconsciousness…
"Here, Mr. Finnick. Drink this." I blink, eventually managing to open my eyes. Annie – a few Annies, to be precise – sways in front of me, holding out a tall glass of something golden and fizzy. I rub my eyes, forcing them to focus, and the three Annies become one – one small girl with frizzy hair and bloodshot eyes, a crumpled dress, and a look of worry and utter exhaustion on her face.
"Here," she says again, her voice barely above a whisper, for which my hungover brain is extremely grateful.
I make a face. "No…no beer." My voice is scratchy and hoarse.
"It's not beer, Mr. Finnick. It's ginger ale. It will make you feel better. And I made you some breakfast, too, when you feel up to it." She motions to my nightstand, where I see a tray full of toast, jam, fruit, and warm muffins. Despite the throbbing pain in every last bone in my body, my mouth waters.
I take the ginger ale and sip it. She's right – it does make me feel better.
As I raise the glass to my mouth again, I notice that my wrists have been expertly bandaged, with clean white gauze now covering the deep welts caused by the handcuffs. The wounds tingle slightly, as though they have been doused in antiseptic.
For some unknown reason – probably lack of sleep coupled with crashing down from last night's high – I feel my eyes getting tight, like they do before I cry. Which is ridiculous, of course; I'm love-'em-and-leave-'em Finnick Odair, trident-wielding playboy and ultimate sex god, the youngest victor to ever win the Hunger Games. I haven't cried since…well, since the day I was Reaped. But I make a point not to think about that day. Ever.
"I'm starving." Abruptly, I reach for the food, determinedly blinking back the water that is not – I repeat, is not – threatening to flood my eyes. Still groggy, my hand gropes blindly through the empty air beside my bed.
"Here." Annie hands me a muffin, and the instant I bite into it, I groan in unexpected and absolute delight. The muffin is hot and buttered and tastes of the salty seaweed of home.
"This…is amazing," I manage between enormous mouthfuls. Annie blushes and ducks her head.
"You should take these," she tells me, holding out two pills. Two aspirin, to be exact. I obey, swallowing them down like a compliant little boy, so unaccustomed to being cared for, so desperate to please.
"Lie down." I do. Annie takes a warm, wet washcloth and dampens my face, then my neck, my arms, my hands. My eyes drift closed, relaxed. Her touch is so alien, so soothing, so gentle – I abruptly realize that this is the first time since my mother's death that anyone besides old Mags has touched me gently, with no demands and no expectations. I have to forcibly keep myself from sighing, and I squeeze my eyes shut as they involuntarily tighten again.
The warm cloth – and Annie's hands – stop at my collarbone, and she eyes what's left of my sweat-soaked, puke-stained gold shirt with distaste. "You should shower and change your clothes."
"Yeah." My voice comes out unexpectedly husky. I manage to wiggle out of the disgusting shirt, tossing it on the ground and hoping I never lay eyes on it again. That exhausts what little energy I have, and I limply fall back into the pile of pillows.
Through half-closed eyes, I notice that Annie is stoically keeping her gaze off my bare chest. Her usually pale cheeks are rosy as she rinses the washcloth in a bowl on my nightstand.
"You can keep going, if you want," I purr, raising my eyebrows invitingly and gesturing to my half-naked body. Because I am comfortable being a piece of meat, even if I don't necessarily like it, and because I suddenly feel – well, I don't know how I feel, and because joking around by turning the attention to my unrivaled specimen of a body is the only way I know to cover up my embarrassed confusion.
Annie drops the cloth as though it suddenly scalded her hands. "Keep drinking fluids," she tells me, her quiet voice as matter-of-fact as a trained nurse's.
She goes over to the large chair in the corner. All the throw pillows have been pulled off it, the cushions are wrinkled, and a spare blanket hangs over the side, as though…as though…I feel a sudden spasm in my stomach that is either guilt or hunger. Did she sleep here all night?
She takes a roll of bandages from under the chair and comes back. "Um, Mr. Finnick…can I change your bandages for you?"
Suddenly, I don't want her here anymore. I don't want her helping me, treating me kindly, caring for me. Not when I don't deserve it. Not when I am such a repulsive, worthless, pathetic excuse for a man that I can't even deal with my problems on my own…that I show up drunk and bloody and high and God knows what else in the dead of night and make her feel like she is obligated to help me out…that by simply being in the same room as her, I am somehow corrupting gentle, innocent little Annie. Not when I know that she'll be dead in under a week, and there's no way I can ever repay her for making me feel like an actual human being for the first time in five years.
"You need to get to training," I tell her, my voice harsh. "I'm sure you're already late."
She looks confused. "Training ended yesterday. We're supposed to be with our mentors now. Working on…on strategy. For the interviews."
"Oh." The interviews. I'd completely forgotten, what with the pounding in my head and the nausea in my stomach.
I don't know how I'm going to coach Annie through her interview today. I really don't have the energy to deal with the Games right now. To be honest, I don't really have the energy to stand up right now. But I feel warm, firm fingers on my wrists, taking off the bandages and rubbing antiseptic ointments into the red, raw welts underneath, and I know I can't let Annie down.
She re-wraps my wrists, then takes an ice cube from the ginger ale and holds it to my swollen eye. Annie squeezes out more of the antiseptic and wipes it in a streak from my temple to my cheek, and I realize that I have a long, shallow cut there, too. It is more than a little disturbing that I can't quite remember how I got it.
"Did you get in a fight, Mr. Finnick?" she asks me.
I wish. I roll my eyes and shrug off her question. "Something like that."
"My daddy always gets in fights when he drinks."
I am a little surprised that she is telling me this. I have no idea how to respond. "I…I'm so sorry, Annie."
She gives me a weird look. "It's not your fault. Here. Eat some more." She hands me another muffin, which I attack with relish. Annie starts cutting up the fruit and putting it in a bowl.
When she is halfway done, her eyes glaze over, moving from the apple in her hand to the sharp knife she is holding. She stops cutting. Her gaze flickers to the window, back to the knife, to my bandaged wrists, to her own slim, bruised ones.
I know exactly what is going through her head.
Somehow, I find the strength to stand up. My head spins, but I don't have time to wait for the dizziness to subside. "Annie."
She doesn't seem to hear me. I watch her run her finger across the serrated blade, a distant, contemplative look on her face. The look suddenly changes to one of fierce determination, and I leap forward, grabbing her around the waist and knocking the knife out of her hand in a single swift move.
She cries out, surprised. I pick up the knife and clench it in my fist. "Don't, Annie. You can't."
She grits her teeth. "I can too." She sounds like a pouting child, and I would laugh if the situation wasn't so bleakly humorless. "I could. I could. And at least…that way…it would be my choice, instead of theirs." She tries to squirm out of my grip, but I hold her tight.
"Let me go!" She whirls on me, furious, and for a moment, I think she is going to start pounding my body with her fists. But instead she hurriedly lowers her eyes to the ground, looking anywhere but at me. I once again realize that my chest is completely bare, and make a mental note that even though going shirtless has become such a natural state for me, it really isn't all that normal. At least not in polite, non-Capitol company.
I let Annie go and carefully, deliberately set the knife down on the tray, keeping my gaze locked on her still figure. 'I know, Annie. Believe me. I know all about wanting control of your own life."
I abruptly feel like throwing up again, so I flop down on the bed, patting a space on the mattress next to me to indicate to Annie that she should sit, too. She eventually does so, but slowly, warily. I wonder if she thinks I'm going to yell at her or something.
"They won't let you…do that to yourself, Annie." For some reason, this conversation is hard for me. I don't want to imagine a world without the gentle young girl who helped me last night when all the patrons and fangirls who squeal meaningless professions of love and throw themselves at me at every turn were nowhere to be found. "They need you alive, for the Games. You know that."
She closes her tired eyes. "In the Games, then?"
I decide to be honest with her. I owe her that much. "You could do that. It's been done before. But you should know, there would be…repercussions."
And then I hesitate. Does it matter that District Four would have to deal with the ramifications of her rebellion, that whatever's left of her family could get into trouble, that her prep team would be banned from the Capitol's glitzy parties and Mags and I would be punished in some way? Shouldn't she be allowed this last wish? Shouldn't she have the right to die as she chooses? It's not like anyone in our District has ever even noticed Annie, much less protected her. Why should I give her the burden of protecting them now?
"Would they hurt you, Mr. Finnick?" she asks, picking up on my hesitation. "And…and Cinna and Mags and D-Daddy?"
I'm not sure how they could hurt her father, short of cutting off District Four's entire supply of alcohol, but I know that's the last thing she needs to hear right now. Instead, I nod wordlessly, her concerned words playing through my head again and again, like a song stuck on repeat. I know it's vain and arrogant and incredibly Finnick Odair-like of me, but I can't help but feel pleased that she worried about me getting hurt before she thought of Cinna.
"But you should do what you want, Annie. We can all take care of ourselves. And…well, you deserve…" I trail off, uncertain of what I really want to tell her. She deserves to make her own decisions, that much is certain. But what she truly deserves is a long, healthy, happy life, a life of comfort and plenty and opportunity, a life away from drunken fathers and neglectful brothers and cruel classmates…a life without even a whisper of the Hunger Games threatening her world. And nothing that I say can ever give her that.
She shakes her head firmly. "No. I couldn't. Not…not when you…You're hurt so bad already, and if someone hurt you more…" She presses her hands to her ears and shakes her head so violently I am afraid it might fall off her neck. "Stop! Stop! Make it stop!"
"Annie. Annie, calm down." I carefully pry her hands away from her head. "It's alright, Annie. It's…it's all gonna be alright." I pat her on the back awkwardly, and she gasps in pain. I remember her bruises and change tactics, rubbing small circles on her back instead.
She drops her head into her lap and sighs dejectedly. "I know it's not," she tells me. "But when you say it...I almost believe you." She looks up at me then, her eyes wide and desperate and utterly lost. "I wish I had your confidence, Mr. Finnick."
I have nothing to say to that. I can't tell her that I am probably the least confident person ever to walk the streets of the Capitol. I know she wouldn't believe me, and I know I could never explain.
We sit in silence for a while, but the silence is strangely comfortable. I pick up another muffin – my third, or is it my fourth now? – and slowly peel it apart with my fingers, relishing the warm, salty taste of it on my tongue. "You're a terrific cook, Annie."
She shoots me a sad, wry grin. "Too bad there won't be a giant oven in the arena."
I smile back at her, cringing as the cut on my face stretches painfully. "You never know. And there are always ways to improvise with the resources available to you," I tell her, going into full-on mentor mode. "Hot rocks or water warmed by the sun can heat food just as well as –"
Annie shudders violently, and I stop talking, uncertain. "Mr. Finnick?" She gives me a distressed, pleading look. "I…I have one day left. Can we please not talk about…about the G-Games?"
"Of course, Annie." How could I deny her that?
And then I get an idea. "Hey, tell you what – you don't have anything scheduled until prep this afternoon. So let's both get cleaned up a little, and then you can come back here, and we can just hang out. I've got a bunch of movies, and I think I have some books and board games somewhere, too –"
Annie's eyes literally light up. "You have books?"
What does she think, that just because I spend more time in the Capitol than out of it, I don't know how to read? Okay, I did drop out of school at the age of sixteen, but that certainly wasn't by choice. I'm not entirely brainless. (Though I'm sure Johanna would be quick to dispute that.) "Yeah. You can read all day, and try to relax, if that's what you want to do. And I'll order some lunch for us, alright?"
"Okay. I…I'd like that." Annie gives me a shy smile, and my heart thumps erratically in my chest, making it difficult for me to breathe. I'm definitely having some sort of overreaction to whatever drugs I took last night.
Half an hour later, Annie and I – both freshly showered, with damp hair and clean, fresh-smelling clothes – sit across from each other on my window seat, playing an old game called Risk and eating popcorn. Annie is solidly whipping my ass, and rather unsuccessfully trying to keep from grinning triumphantly each time she takes out another one of my troops.
"Annie, this is a strategy game, and you're great at it. Look, if you use the same type of thinking in the arena, you can –"
She shakes her head, cutting me off. "No. Don't talk about it, remember?"
"Okay." I notice that her hands are shaking, and I reach out, wanting to – to what? Touch her? Wrap my dirty, calloused fingers around Annie's soft, tiny ones? Take her little hand in my own and tell her that she has nothing to worry about? I freeze and turn my motion into something else, grabbing more popcorn and overeagerly shoving it into my mouth. Annie gives me a quizzical look, but says nothing.
I do not mention the Games again. Instead, we play Risk and watch a movie – some sappy love story about a rich girl and a working-class boy trapped on a sinking ship, because I don't think Annie could take a bloody war film right now – and Annie goes through my meager collection of books, telling me which ones are worth reading and which ones I shouldn't bother with, her face and voice becoming animated as she describes her favorite novels in great detail. I learn that she loves to read, and I suddenly remember seeing her name at the top of a list of test scores hanging on the wall at school. I am not at all surprised.
Sometime after noon, when we are both sleepy, lounging back against the sun-soaked cushions of the window seat and letting our lunch digest, Annie insists on changing my bandages again. I half-heartedly protest, insisting that I can do it myself, but the memory of her tender touch is so strong in my mind that I don't really put up much of a fight. She is just finishing tying a new set of clean bandages around my wrists when I sit up with a startled jerk.
"Annie, where's my bracelet?"
"What?" I glance down at her – she is staring out the window with that faraway look in her eyes again, like her mind isn't really present in the same space as her body.
"My bracelet, Annie. What the hell did you do with it?"
"I…it's…" Her face turns ashen and she looks frightened, but I can't bring myself to care. If she lost it, or threw it away, she'll have a lot more than the arena to fear.
I seize her by the shoulders and shake her, distraught and angry. "Anna-Marie Cresta, where the fuck is my bracelet?"
Her eyes fill with panic, and I instantly regret my harsh words. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Finally, she raises a limp hand and points to my dresser. I rush over, relieved to find my ragged rope bracelet sitting there, on top of a notebook I have never used.
I touch the worn rope, comforted by the bracelet's faint sea-scent and the familiar feel of the knots under my fingers. Then I realize that the once-frayed ends have been expertly tied together again, and that the old rope shines as though it has been carefully polished.
My throat constricts uncomfortably. "Annie, did you –"
I turn to her, and immediately wish I hadn't. She is huddled in a corner, as far from me as she could possibly get without leaping out the window. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her body, and she is trembling uncontrollably. Unshed tears burn in her eyes, and I instantly feel like the biggest jerk in all of Panem. I'm sure no shortage of people would be eager to point out that that is exactly what I am.
"Annie, I…I didn't mean to…" I groan and run a hand through my hair as I try to explain. "This was my District token, from my mother. She made it for me, before…well, before…everything…and I never take it off, not in the shower, not when I swim, not ever. So when it wasn't around my wrist, I thought it was gone, and I just – I just freaked out, Annie."
Motionless, barely even breathing, she stares at me, almost through me, her eyes wide and watery.
"You fixed it for me, didn't you?" I ask, kneeling down beside her, careful to keep my voice soft.
She flinches away, banging her head against the wall behind her. "P-please…don't h-hit me," she stammers out in a quaking whisper.
I can't remember ever feeling like a worse excuse for a human being. And coming from a guy who murdered little children with a trident when he was only fourteen, that's really saying something.
"Oh, Annie…" Self-loathing floods through me as I move away from her and sink down onto the foot of my bed. "I'm not going to hit you, Annie. I…I just want to tell you how sorry I am. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I shouldn't have…um…used those words." I'm not used to apologizing, especially not for swearing, but I can see how deeply I have upset her. I don't know if I can set it right, but I have to try.
She just keeps staring at me with those huge, indecipherable green eyes of hers.
"Mr. Finnick hates Annie," she declares at last, her quiet voice sad and certain.
"No…"
"Mr. Finnick wants to…to kill Annie?"
"What? No, no, of course not. Never. Annie, I –"
"Mr. Finnick hurt Annie," she tells me, still using that strangely remote tone. Her hands clutch at her shoulders, right where I grabbed her. I drop my eyes, thoroughly ashamed.
"I didn't mean to, Annie. I swear. I was angry – I was being stupid. I thought…God, Annie, I don't know what I thought. I'm so sorry." I move towards her, trying to make her realize exactly how awful I feel about this whole thing. My fingers barely touch her curled-up hands before she jumps as if shocked, scooting further back into the corner, cowering against it as though she can melt into the wall if she tries hard enough.
"A-Annie needs to leave," she announces, standing up and slowly backing out of my room, as though I am a wild animal who might attack the instant her back is turned.
I hear the door click shut behind her, and I slump forward, my stomach churning, my head throbbing once more.
I have never felt more alone in my life.
