I do not own The Hunger Games.

Finnick Odair is precious.

The Girl With The Green Eyes

Forever Broken


"No! No! Please! Don't! Argh . . . guh . . . ar . . ."

And the pleas are cut off, the begging for one's life.

Only gargles remain, strangled exhalations.

Because Finnick Odair, age fourteen, has driven sharpened point of his spear as deep as he can jab it into the chest of the very last Tribute (besides him) to be left alive in this accursed Arena of the Sixty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games.

And that Tribute, gargling and drowning in his own blood, can do nothing but writhe and claw and tangle himself further in the vined net Finnick has captured him in.

Finnick stays strong even as his traumatized mind refuses to reel . . .

Dead. Dead. He's dead. He's dead and I'm the last one. He's dead because I killed him and now I've won and I'll get to go home now because I've killed him and the others too-

. . . as he desperately keeps his weight on that golden killing spear of the District Four fishermen.

Until the gurgling stops and jerks and twitches and jolts fade.

And the cannon sounds and the music plays.

And the booming voice of the Hunger Games god blasts in his ears . . .

". . . and gentlemen of Panem . . ."

And he'll never be able to look his mother in the eye again, his brother, his great aunt.

". . . your victor . . ."

Because he's alive because he's killed them and they're dead because of him and if he hadn't netted them and stabbed them and drowned them . . .

". . . for the Sixty-Fifth Annual Hunger Games . . ."

. . . he'd be dead in the water instead . . .

". . . from district four . . ."

. . . and all he wants to do is go home and stare at the ocean until he dies of old age.

". . . FINNICK ODAIR!"

But instead he just stands there swaying on the beach of hell.

Until the voice stops booming.

And all the lights go out.

And someone comes to pick him up.


He jolts up out of the dream, pouring sweat, stomach churning bile.

Career Tributes are trained not to care, are trained to kill and survive.

But no one ever explains to them once it's over how to keep on living.

And that's the tough part.

They teach you to rip people apart; they don't teach you how to put yourself back together.

Smiling for all the cameras, interviewing with Caesar.

". . . after driving that spear of yours into the hearts of your competitors, Finnick, I mean, how are you able to keep yourself so grounded and strong afterward?"

It's all show, Flickerman. All show. I'm dead to the core.

"Well, Caesar, I think it goes without saying that I had to keep my eyes on the prize, and, uh, you know, my heart closely guarded."

At least I pretend to be.

Forcing himself to look anybody and everybody in the eye and smile as though he hasn't got a care in the world.

All with a churning gut and a blackened heart.

And a mind full of blood and mayhem.

I wish I could die, I just wish I could kill myself.

But he can't.

Snow said that if anything 'suspicious' were to happen to him, all of his family would be worse than dead.

Broke. Starving.

Destitute.

Wandering the streets homeless.

So he smiles, he preens, he charms.

And he hides everything inside.

And he absolutely . . .

"Hey, are you okay?"

. . . positively . . .

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine."

. . . with a doubt . . .

"Have a bad dream?"

. . . or the blink of an eye . . .

"No. I don't dream."

. . . admit to anything . . .

"Everybody dreams."

. . . he doesn't . . .

"I don't."

. . . have to.


He'd staggered to the kitchen.

Practically run right into her.

And run away again.

Because what's the point?

She's going to die.

They all do.

And if she's doesn't . . .

"Okay. Well, good night."

"Goodnight."

. . . she'll be broken anyway.


Finnick Odair, man of joy, right?

But he's been through alot.

And now the Hunger Games are coming up again, huh?

Anyway, happy holiday season to you, whatever you celebrate.

We're just glad you're here. :)

Thanks to readers and reviewers of this story. You're very gracious. :)