I wake up with her head on my chest, pillows on the floor, sunshine filling the room, and the smell of bacon wafting on my face. She rolls over, instead nestling in my arm, but she hasn't woken up from a nightmare or spoken in her sleep all night long, and neither have I.
The clock on the wall says eight thirty, and I can hear murmured conversations in the dining room. Slowly, I get up and get changed, throwing on the first clothes I can find, sure that Avery will change me later. Today is one of the three training days.
Katniss is leaning forward, in deep conversation with Avery, their voices hushed. As soon as I walk in, their voices stop and they look at me.
"What?" I ask, defensive.
"We're discussing what you two are going to wear today," Avery says smoothly, although I know she's lying.
"I promised him I'd go down and visit him today," Katniss says, standing up. I don't need to ask who she's referring to. Obviously, she'd want to be with him.
"Are you sure that's safe?" I ask.
"He's unconscious," she answers sharply, and then softens. "My advice for today is to not show them your full strength, leave that for a surprise in the arena. Do not shoot an arrow until your private session with the Gamemakers, understand? The same goes for Matilda. She's small, let her climb things. Do the boring stuff like camouflage and knot tying. It might just keep you alive. You will have the advantage in the arena, trust me." She gives me an awkward hug before leaving.
"She sure knows a lot that she never told me," I mutter, sitting gruffly at the table and piling food on my plate.
Avery smiles wearily. "She's been through this twice, Finnick, and she has your father to worry about. Cut her some slack."
Matilda walks in just as I'm finishing, scratching her head and squinting in the bright sunlight. "Why didn't you wake me up?" she demands, sitting across from me. I notice she's wearing one of my t-shirts, three sizes too big for her, and sweat pants. She looks beautiful.
"You look cute when you're sleeping," I answer, forgetting Avery is there. Tilda blushes and looks down at her food.
"Are we going to be matching again today?" she asks Avery.
Avery winks and stands up. "Finnick, meet me in your room when you're done, I'm going to go get the clothes."
Awkward silence fills the room. "Look, last night…" her voice trails off.
"Was the best night I've ever had?" I ask quietly. She peers up at me. "I better go meet Avery. See you in a bit." I lean across the table and kiss her forehead before walking into my room, surprised to find it spotless.
"Don't look at me," Avery says, holding up her hands in surrender. "It was like this."
"How'd you know it was messy before?" I ask with a smirk.
She rolls her eyes as if this is obvious and unzips a bag, pulling out an outfit I can't see. "She's beautiful, you know," she says as she tailors me. "Hardly needed any makeup."
"What do I do, Avery?" I ask suddenly, desperate. She looks up at me, not needing me to explain.
"What do you feel like you should do?"
I let that sink in and contemplate it for a while, never coming to a resolution. By eleven, Avery is done with me. The outfit I'm wearing is one I recognize. The same one my father wore to the training. I look at Avery, eyebrows raised.
"Just a little reminder of what your father did," she whispers, and strokes my cheek before walking out.
Matilda is dressed in mother's outfit, her hair braided again down her back, a few strands dangling in her face. I brush one away and she shivers at my touch. Silently, like we're moving in the forest, we ride down the elevator to the training center.
I repeat what mother told me to Tilda, but her eyes seem distant. The other tributes are almost all there, standing around, some cowering and some pacing around, ready to grab the most leather weapons. All look at us as we walk in. I suddenly know what to do, what angle to play up, how to make the audience love us and start a rebellion before we fight to the death: I grab Tilda's hand. It's such a contrast to the other tributes, who are standing as far away from each other as possible, that I want to laugh.
Tilda looks up at me, clearly startled at this simple gesture, and then squeezes my hand.
A dark skinned, tiny lady tells us the different probabilities of our deaths in the arena, but I don't pay attention. The Gamemakers are sitting on a platform above us, and all their eyes are focused on me. I smile and wave, and they blink in surprise. Evidently, I've developed Peeta's ability to charm a crowd with a smile. Tilda snorts beside me. The other tributes are shifting around, eager to get to the weapons. The Careers are still together, still a team, even though it's been so many years. I wonder if any of their parents were victors.
And then I see her, standing behind everyone, arms crossed.
"Ginnie!" I whisper, as soon as the lady let's us go. She turns, not seeming at all surprised to see me. How have I missed her?"
"Finnick," she says evenly, nods once, then leaves, going to the station made for reflexes.
"She's hiding herself," Tilda murmurs. I look at her. "She doesn't want people to notice her, and her designers have done a good job of that." She gestures with a nod to her outfit, a tight, plain black workout suit that seems to blend into the background. It still doesn't manage to hide that unfading beauty of hers though.
"Why would she do that?" I ask.
Tilda rolls her eyes. "You play it stealthily, very quietly, hiding behind people's backs or right under their noses, and they forget you're even there. You can walk home a Victor buy killing the last two people. Unlike us, who have caused so much commotion and talk. They're going to come after us first." She looks at the Careers, who are throwing spears right into the dummies stomachs. I shiver and take her hand again, guiding her somewhere far from them. To my surprise, she laughs.
"What?" I ask, defensive.
"Finn, the Games haven't even started yet and you're already trying to protect me." She lets go of my hand. "Please."
Falling silent, I let her guide me to the camouflage station. I could do very well at this, but my eyes keep darting over to the impressive set of bows and arrows. One of the Gamemakers seems to see this and nods me on, silently telling me to go there.
"No," Tilda orders sharply, looking at the Gamemaker. "Listen to your mother."
Sighing, I turn my full attention to my arm, which is supposed to look like the bark of a tree but looks more like muddy water. Cursing under my breath, I wash it off and storm to the knot tying area, where the instructor looks pleased to have someone. Concentrating on tying the perfect knot for fishing keeps my mind off the bow, and Tilda leaves me alone for a while, going off in a separate direction. I can't stop my eyes from darting to her every few minutes, though, and I have to agree with her. Some of those Careers are three times her size, and they know how to use the most deadly of the weapons, and sometimes that includes their hands. It doesn't ease my fears that the boys are looking at her like she's a doll standing in a store window, and I clench my fists and tighten the knot I'm working on.
I sense a presence nearby just as I'm finishing the first knot, but don't look up, determined to keep interactions between the tributes and I to a minimum. But my guy instincts take over, and I look up, suddenly hoping it's someone I can pick a fight with, and sigh with relief when I see the dark hair. I gape at her as her fingers fly across the string, making the hardest knot with ease in a quarter of the time it took me to even understand how to make it.
"Wow," I breathe when she finishes, and the trainer is looking impressed as well.
Ginnie looks at me, unsmiling. Her eyes are framed in black eyeliner, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, giving her the impression of a cat, a very lethal cat. "I grew up in District 4. It was either you learned how to make the knots and catch the fish or you starved." She tosses the string behind her and walks along, carefully avoiding the Careers. Matilda narrows her eyes at me as I follow, but doesn't say anything.
She pretends to ignore my presence while she bends over and picks up a bow and arrow. Then she asks me, "Teach me how to shoot."
"Sorry?"
Ginnie rolls her eyes. "How am I going to catch food, with my bare hands? They," she nods at the big tributes. "might be able to, they're monsters. But I prefer to kill my food the right way."
"If you're lucky they'll throw us in a fish tank," I tease. A flicker of a smile appears on her face.
"Teach me how to shoot," she repeats.
"Can't," I say simply.
"Why not? You're Katniss Everdeen's son and you're telling me you can't even bring down a rabbit?"
"I'm not supposed to shoot anything," I say.
I realize how close we are. Her breath smells like peppermints. "Why? Are you dangerous?" the way she says the last word makes me think she's not referring to me with a bow and arrow.
"Hey Finnick! I need help with this!" Tilda calls, and Ginny gets off of her tip-toes and walks off.
Tilda doesn't speak to me until lunch.
"I didn't do anything!" I exclaim, exasperated, as we're about to sit down at a table, but all she does is roll her eyes. I get a sudden string of inspiration from a quick glance up at the Gamemakers and lean down and peck her on the lips. Tilda looks confused for a second and then sits down, ignoring the fact that all the other tributes and the Gamemakers are looking at us, mouths open.
I sense the air change after lunch, the Gamemakers are getting bored, and everyone seems to sense this. The Careers are showing off more now, straining themselves more and more. An idea suddenly forms in my head and I hide a smile.
I spend the next few hours climbing. Artificial trees much like the ones in 12 and metal bars are made for climbing, and I wonder if they modeled these after Katniss's climbing expertise, but I dismiss the thought. The Capitol wants nothing to do with her, they've made that quite obvious.
Just climbing the branches and jumping down becomes tedious after a while, and slowly, I start doing different tricks I picked up in the woods. Being a skilled hunter means being able to climb, and I mastered that quite easily. Tilda and I would climb to the peak of the trees and look out to see if any game was nearby and if it wasn't, we would become reckless. We progressively start doing tricks, flipping off branches and onto other ones, trying not to make a noise.
Who would've thought I could use those skills to taunt other children?
I flip off the branch impressively, farther and more graceful than I've ever done before, and the Careers leer at me. One of them tries to climb up, but falls after five feet. I snort and climb farther up, hanging back from my feet so I'm in a back bend. I even see Ginnie smile.
"I thought your mother said not to show off," an amused voice says. Tilda peaks out from behind a branch, not much higher than I, a small smile on her lips.
"I'm just testing my natural abilities," I retort. She laughs, leans down, and kisses me. I momentarily forget where I am and go to wrap my arms around her, and fall onto the mat underneath us, breathless.
"Loverboy," a girl with brown, curly hair says, rolling her eyes.
"Much to your disappointment," Tilda retorts. I notice she hasn't gotten up from sitting on my lap, her arms around my neck. In fact, she pecks me before getting up, playfully pushing my chest.
We're dismissed just a little while later. "Who is this Tilda?" I ask her when we're in the elevator.
Her romantic mood hasn't diminished, she smiles and tugs at my collar. "Why?" she breathes. "Do you not like her?"
I smile and pull her towards me. "Do I look like I don't?" Just as our lips meet, the elevator opens and Katniss is standing right there, arms crossed.
For the first time, we don't jump apart. I put my arm around her hip and walk her into the living room, in unusually high spirits.
"So, trees?" Katniss asks, quirking an eyebrow. She's been crying, I can tell, and she hasn't slept.
Neither of us saying anything, and the silence builds and builds. Katniss seems to refuse to break it, just sitting there with a tight, fake smile on her face. Eventually, Tilda says, "I'm going to shower," and leaves the room. I wonder if she's set it up so Katniss and I have to talk to each other.
She's still bent on keeping the silence, and I, having her same sense of stubbornness, sit back and cross my arms. I guess Katniss is the bigger person here, because eventually she says, "He's not getting any better."
Something pops inside of me. I stand up, using my full height for intimidation. "Well, how is he supposed to? How is he supposed to be getting better when we're locking him up in the same place he went insane? Send him home, Katniss! Can't you see nothing good is coming out of him staying here?" I yell, and I see Tilda stick her head out of the door. Katniss looks like I smacked her across the face. "I know you want to believe that he will come around, but let's face it, it's been a good twenty years and he still hasn't gotten over it."
Not knowing what good I could possibly do here, I march to my room and slam the door with all my might behind me. I stare at the room, thinking of the damage I've caused out there, and punch the wall, forming a big hole. I'm vaguely aware of the blood pouring out of my knuckles, the pulsing pain, as I throw things around the room, cursing the Capitol with any foul language I've ever learned. Fancy plates are lined on shelves, and I take them and throw them against the floor.
I don't know how long my rage lasts, but when I have nothing else to break, nothing to throw, the door slowly opens and Tilda walks in, looking like she's intruded on something. Gingerly, she takes my hand and drags me to the sink in the bathroom, washing it off with warm water, and neatly bandages it. She throws everything off my bed and makes my lie down, and then proceeds to clean up the broken plates, never once saying a word. I think I see a tear fall on the floor at one point, but can't think for the life of me why she's crying.
It's only when the room is spotless and she's sitting at the edge of my bed does she speak. "I've never told you why Gale and I aren't close." When I don't say anything, she proceeds, telling me how he yelled and cursed at her for wondering why she didn't have a mother. It makes sense, the way she looks at him like he's a murderer, in a way he is. He murdered her childhood, he killed the bond the two should've shared.
"I see the same thing happening between you and your mother," she says.
I quirk an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I think you take for granted how vulnerable she is. You believe she's so strong and powerful, and in some ways she is, and she was once strong and powerful, but she's tired now, Finnick. She's exhausted from all this. Don't make the mistake that I did."
"What was your mistake."
"I didn't forgive. I should've forgiven him, I should have tried at least, but I never gave him the chance, and he never gave me the chance to try. Forgive her, she's just tired of the war that's raging around her, she doesn't need you to make it worse."
"I've never been good at being nice," I mutter, and she smiles. "That's always been Prim's job."
Tilda kisses me, leaning on top of me and gently running her fingers up my face. "Good night," she whispers, and leaves, leaving the scent of cherries behind her.
I know sleep isn't coming to get me, and I give up eventually and get up, throwing on a pair of clothes. Peacking into Tilda's room, I can hear her usual mumbling and light snores, and leave, not wanting to wake her. Katniss has fallen asleep on the couch, and I look at her. She looks younger in her sleep, not so worn down, more like the young, radiant girl in the arena. I brush a piece of hair from her face.
Peeta creeps into my mind, along with a sharp pang of guilt. If I were going crazy, I'd want someone there with me, someone to remind me that I was sane. Katniss has tried, but she's not doing any good. Something tugs me out the door and I press the button on the elevator labeled with an i. Not entirely sure why, I press the button and ride the elevator down, to the middle floor, and sure enough, it's the infirmary.
It's a long, clean, sterile smelling floor with dim lights. I almost consider leaving before a nurse walks out of the door.
"Yes?" she asks in a sharp voice, as if I've interrupted her night shift. She has mint-colored hair and lilac colored eyes.
"Um, I'm Finnick Mellark, can I see my father? Peeta?" I ask.
She raises a blonde eyebrow. "You're telling me that your daddy is Peeta Mellark?" Her eyes widen in realization when she looks at me carefully. "You're the boy on fire," she whispers.
"Yes," I say, grabbing it.
"He's in room six," she says, and watches me as I walk down the hallway.
Peeta's room is comfy, and not so terrifyingly perfect as the rest of the hospital. He's lying in a long bed, various patches attached to his arms, making the monitor by his bed beep and whirl. I hate the sound, and resist the strong urge to tear the plug out of the wall to shut it up.
Pulling up a chair, I sit by his bedside, feeling like an idiot. Why did I think I could help him? It's like pushing against a brick wall, you can try and try and try, but you will never make a dent in it.
"Hey dad," I say, desperately wanting to stop the sound of machine buzzing in my head. He doesn't respond, but I wasn't really expecting him too. They've obviously put him under some medicine that knocks him out, because he'd be too much of a threat if he were awake. I can feel it wearing out though, his heart beat is faster, his fingers twitching randomly, searching for a throat to grab that isn't there.
"Remember when I was nine and you bought me that new bike, and I wanted to take it down the street?" I take his hand in mine. "And you told me not to do that because the road was too steep and I'd get thrown off? And I did it anyway, and I fell and broke my ankle, and while I was lying in bed for four weeks you hardly left my side, and you stayed and held my hand?" I have to mask the tears behind my voice. "Well, know I'm staying with you and holding your hand, because you're hurt."
Maybe it's my imagination, but his hand squeezes mine.
I don't remember falling asleep, but a hand jerks me awake from a terrible dream about the ocean taking me under. I look up and find the nurse's fake purple eyes, and find them full of tears. Confused, I snap my head towards Peeta and find his hand has gone still.
"No," I say urgently, getting up. "Dammit!" I yell as the machine gives a deadly long beep. "Dammit, no! You swore you'd never leave her, you bastard!" I scream, thinking of Katniss. "You always told me never to break promises! Why are you leaving her? No! No!" The nurse tries to comfort me with a pat on the shoulder, but I smack it away, a little harder than I meant too and she goes flying to the floor, but I don't care. Anger and betrayel fill my body and I throw the monitor to the ground with one hand, yelling every foul name I can think of. Eventually, anger turns to sadness and I fall to the ground, crying and saying, "No, no, no, no…Oh God no."
A big, burly doctor comes in and grabs my shoulder. "There's nothing we can do, son. The shock of the hijacking got the best of him. Go to your apartment." I think he feels sorry for me, but I don't listen to him.
"No…"
I don't know how long I sit there, lying on the floor, head in between my knees, not able to cry, not able to breathe, not able to care. This is so unfair, so terribly and coldly unfair, the whole mess of it. After everything, everything he's been through, there's this, the cold end to it all.
When my mind starts whirring again, my senses still refuse to kick in, I'm still unable to move, and nobody has made an effort to help me. If they have, I'm so far gone that I can't even respond.
Where do we go after death? I begin to wonder. I always thought we just….we just died, but what if there is something out there, something bigger than this, and there's no hurt, there's no pain. I'd like to think that there is, but something about a cold, dry sleep, never knowing what is going on around you, is more comforting than the prospect of being in a beautiful place for eternity. After all, eternity is a very, very long time. What do you even do for eternity? Yeah, sleeping forever is a nicer option than living for eternity.
