A/N: All original Hunger Games material belongs to Suzanne Collins. The rest is mine.
"Get up!" my father yells, yanking open my bedroom door. He's never in a good mood. "You're not going to be late for another day of training." A shell falls from my dresser as he slams the door.
I have to pry myself out of bed, my body still aching from yesterday's extra mandatory training sessions. The Acadamy tries to add them in the last week before The Reaping so potential volunteers can get a few hours in—or realize they don't belong. But it's mandatory for all.
I pick a long-sleeve uniform from the top drawer of my dresser, despite the summer heat overwhelming the otherwise perfect day. I grit my teeth as I tug its limbs over my bruises, their splotchy purples and green covering my forearms. It's not as bad on my legs, just the remnants of a larger gash. Those who don't know any better will assume I got it during training. It might even get me an extra minute for my water break.
The wall shakes as I hear a crash, the end of a scream muffled out behind the panes of my door. I take a deep breath before slinking down the hallway where my parents are fighting, yet again. His right hand locks around her neck as he pins her to the wallpaper, already fading under the daily washing of our housekeeper; dirt, scuffs, sometimes blood. A potted plant soils itself on the floor beside her, water dripping down the floral design as if a gardener.
"You fucking bitch!" he roars, his snarling teeth up to her cheek as she whimpers.
Her kitchen stool is knocked over and her eye is already growing a purple tint. He usually only ambushes her when he's drunk, saving most of his anger for darker hours, but it's only eight o'clock. He must have felt provoked when coming home from the twirling bar, sticking his pension under the arm of naked women. Her blue eyes clamp closed with fear, dispelling the tears as she waits for what comes next.
He pulls her closer, but before he can swing again, I rush across the room. "Don't touch her!"
"Why don't you butt out of this?" he shouts, knocking me out of the way. His arm meets my nose and my back hits the ground with a crack. Blood drips from my nose and forms little puddles on the white tile as I find my footing. I'm slow to stand, still beat from training, but flick the fluid from my nose before interjecting again, stepping strong between them.
"Why don't you lay off?" I growl, my aching knuckles clenching to a fist.
"Just go," she pleads, reaching for my face to stroke, red smearing on her thumbs as she inspects my face. Her face is desperate, stopping me from going any further. "I'll be fine, Finnick. Just go. Please."
I don't want to leave her with him, but I have no choice. We both know that if I stay he will only get worse. It always does. I brush off my uniform and walk out, slamming the door behind me, marching angrily to the sidewalk, the sun in my eyes and mocking. Girls stare at me and giggle to themselves the entire way. It's not uncommon, but pretty annoying.
When I get to Kai's house, his mother answers the door.
She is a petite woman. Her face is dotted almost entirely with freckles, hard to differentiate her actual skin tone. The peak of her nose looks dusted with fresh pink from a sunburn, but the rest of her generously tanned after hours in the sun. Her deep brown hair sits loosely braided on her shoulder and pecked with a daisy at her left ear. Her eyes shine a subtle green color, like the Hydrangeas that grow in the inland patches of the district. She wears a simple long light gray cotton dress that reaches the floor and a white braided rope tied around her middle. Her unpolished toes peek out from under the dress in tan sandals.
"Oh, Finnick," she invites, sympathetically. "Come on inside and let me clean you up." She doesn't yell until the door closes, knowing not to alert the neighbors of what happened. "Kai, grab my rubbing alcohol!"
"On it!" he assures, grabbing a stool from the other room and sitting it next to the kitchen counter. I sit down and his mother rushes to the sink with a small cloth to wet.
"Is it as bad as it looks?" Kai asks, his eyebrows knit together tight with worry. He knows it's free-fight today at The Acadamy. Everyone of age in the district will be there to take part in training.
"No, I just didn't land right this time, I guess," I say, looking down at my exposed knee. The old scar has split again, tinting my leg a washed orange and exposing a chunk of pink tissue. Kai's mother was the one who patched me up three weeks ago for it, an old sweater between my teeth as she poured the alcohol on to cleanse it before stitches.
She comes up by my side and pats the wet cloth against my face. "Does it hurt?" she asks, concerned. I shake my head and she brushes my cheek with her hand. "This might sting a little," she warns, taking a cloth and cleaning out my leg. I wince, at first, but it isn't as bad as the first time. Sections have healed. It's the remainder that has split. Eventually, my face relaxes, new thread laying a track across my knee.
Kai offers me a leftover seaweed roll from their breakfast before we walk to the rest of the way to The Academy. It's not that far away, but by the time we get there, it is packed. District 4 has a reputation for succeeding in The Games, so they always open up The Academy the day before the reaping for all of those eligible. No one has to go to classes. It's organized free-fight. That way, if someone who doesn't normally attend gets picked they won't make a fool out of the district like in non-Career districts. There will still be some sort of advantage.
I go up to the weapons table and grab a silver trident; my specialty.
"Hey, check out that girl," Kai says, nodding towards a girl in the corner.
She's doesn't look like much fo anything special, tall and bony with long knotted brown hair, but she sure knows how to use a machete. In just a tan tank top and shorts, she kicks her sandals to the corner for combat, her feet moving off the floor with immediate agility. I'm mesmerized.
"She's almost Academy material," he adds.
"Why isn't she here?" I ask. Everyone who has a chance at winning is usually evaluated and placed in the Academy when they turn 10.
"Her mom can't pay for it," Coral smirks, her blonde bob resting sleek by her shoulders. She's the third to our trio, running around the ocean as a pack since we were toddlers. "She's too drunk most of the time to pay attention to her, never mind put up tuition." She crosses her arms and narrows her cool blue eyes at the girl, a twinge of jealousy behind them as the room watches her.
"Yeah, I think her father's the one who they found dead with the salmon last year. I guess, you never really get over something like that," Kai says. The girl slices the dummy's arm off and back around to its head in one swift move.
"Maybe that's what makes her so good."
Training gets out early so we can go home and get ready for tomorrow. The three of us walk together back to the village. We laugh and pretend to test each other in hand-to-hand combat practiced today. Coral tries to jump on my back at one point, but when I wince Kai plays it off as though he must have gained on me during our sidewalk jokes.
"So who do you think is going to volunteer this year?" Coral asks, playing with the scarlet pigment on her lips like bubblegum she's chewing.
"I've got 10 aureus* on Romeo," Kai says. "If he doesn't get 'picked' he's definitely going to volunteer."
"I don't know. What about Emmett?" I ask him. They are both pretty good, but Romeo is not showy about his skills like Emmett. He has some of the best scores The Academy has ever seen, but he doesn't seem like the type to volunteer. To do that takes more than guts. To bargain your life for the sheer joy of torturing others on live TV is not for everyone.
"You guys are such idiots," Coral teases, tucking a shock of blonde behind her ear with a smirk. "It's going to be Finnick." Kai and I look at each other more confused than anything. "Don't tell me you haven't thought of it."
Coming from District 4, we're taught to know that the games are not always fair. The spiel about peace is rubbish. It's all about attention, territory, and power. Around here, where people train to be prepared when picked, the drawings are often rigged. Being the Mayor's son, that only ups the expected entertainment value and therefore my chances of being picked. Little do they know he doesn't care.
"I mean, the Capitol does love the drama," she smiles, shaking her hands around. "That's why they let us have The Academy," to give them something to watch.
My face stiffens as I start to explore the seriousness of what she just said. The idea of killing complete strangers for the Capital's enjoyment is entirely is unnerving. Some here find it exciting, but not nearly as many as in District 1 and 2. we simply know how to survive.
"I'm sorry, Finnick. I didn't mean it like that," she says, coming around the front of me with apologetic eyes. My usual light demeanor is gone, set by sullen possibilities. "But how amazing would it be to get picked? To be the youngest victor? Just think about it!"
"I can't right now. I have to get home," I say, though Kai gives me a look, knowing I'm lying. "I'll see you guys tomorrow, okay?"
"Perfect," Coral laughs, giving me a lingering kiss on the cheek, pulling Kai along the road beside her.
When I finally get to my house, I hesitate before opening the door. I come in and see my mother sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in her hands, staring into thin air. Her hair is a frizzy mess and her under-eye circles are so dark they blend into the bruises from this morning. I can see a bloody gash on her leg peeking out from under her long flowing black silk skirt.
"Oh, Finnick. H-how was training?" she asks, struggling to get the words out, offering me a seat next to her. "Do you want anything to eat? I might have some grapefruit siesta salad in the icebox."
"No. That's okay. I'm pretty tired," I say. I point to my father's office in the front corner of the hallway. "Where is..."
"He went into town for business. He should be back home soon," she says.
At that note, I take a deep breath and shuffle toward my bedroom, closing the door softly, as not to jinx anything. My shoes and uniform peel off of me like a sticker that has been sitting in the sun. I grit my teeth as the gray spandex inches off my arms, replacing it with a white tank top and khaki shorts.
I freeze.
Shards of glass and shells cover the ground beside the dresser. I pick up a broken picture frame, the picture inside crinkled and almost fully revealed from under the broken glass. The frame itself is chipped at the corners and roughed up a bit. I look at the picture inside, a photo of me and my mother making a sandcastle on the beach. We both look happy, something I haven't seen in a while. I place it gently back my dresser, making sure that it does not wobble on its newly found short end.
I lay down on my bed staring at the smooth plain white ceiling for hours, letting its simplicity bore me to sleep. By the time I wake up, it is late, but not dark yet. I go over to the door to jimmy the lock like usual, but something seems to be jamming it. I hear a small whimper from the other side that seems to dissipate, but I know it was there. My father must have gone to sleep, leaving my battered mother to clean and cry.
I pace back and forth around the room trying to think of a way to open the door, but a gust of wind blows, knowing my window up a crack, letting in a lick of the sweet ocean breeze. Before I can fully think it through, I grab a blue cotton sweatshirt from the chair at my desk and climb out the window, towards the unknown.
*I took the liberty of making the currency of Panem the aureus, otherwise known as one of the most popular coins of Roman times, made of gold. I figured since Panem was based on Roman society and economics, it made sense.
A/N: I hope you all liked it. I'm always trying to improve my writing in any way possible so PLEASE REVIEW.
Also, I tend to reuse some of my own original characters in other fanfics so you can have fanfic of a fanfic feel, then all existing within the same universe, so if you want more check out Flightless birds, Forbidden, or Clove.