I do not own The Hunger Games.
Finnick Odair is precious.
The Girl With The Green Eyes
Foaming Levity and Madness
And then, by the smallest of increments, life gets immeasurably better.
Annie begins to eat, actually eat.
The smallest portions, yes.
But she eats.
Not fishcakes, exactly, her favorite childhood food, not yet.
But she does eat.
And drink.
Not sloppy slogs of Frilly Tutus or Raspberry Divine Kumis.
But water.
Real water.
Real drinks of water and other nourishing liquids.
Little by little.
Independently.
Enough that she, thankfully, . . .
"I'm really proud of you, Annie."
. . . no longer requires intravenous hydrating to stay alive.
"Mags is proud too."
And she sits.
Outside.
In the sunshine.
In the ocean.
Not deep into the dangerous waves, the terrifying, sucking, crashing, drowning waves.
But just there at shoreline.
Warm seawater gently washing over her feet, her legs, her hips.
Sits in her soft, free flowing clothes.
Red hair long and loose, lifted, and danced by the briny breeze.
Small smile upon her face.
Approaching peace and contentment, the Games and all their horrors hypnotized away by the ceaseless rise and fall, ebb and fall of the ocean, of the continuation of life, of the world.
Beyond the control of President Snow, the Capitol, all wild and free and upon itself.
Annie, dear, darling Annie.
Green eyes reflecting the blue and white of the ever undulating water.
Mixing up the colors, kaleidoscoping them in her eyes.
Seeming content to sit there on the shoreline, just enough to be played with by the ocean water.
It is safe there and Finnick is often by her side.
If not Finnick, Mags.
She often sits so long in the salted seawater, she prunes.
Fingers and toes wrinkling up, whitening.
He could worry for her, worry for this.
But there are much worse things to worry about in regard to Annie and her thankfully continued and improved existence.
And she's made so much progress he feared she would never make, he decides not to make an issue of it.
He has inquired, casually, . . .
"Is the house okay?"
. . . as to her seeming avoidance of the house itself.
What was once her Capitol provided sanctuary, now seems a prison in her eyes, her stance, her lack thereof within.
So far as Finnick could tell.
"Everything alright?'
For she had not answered directly.
"Mmhmm."
Only rubbed her nose carelessly, tucked a few auburn strands behind her ear.
"Yes."
Only to have them work their way free again almost immediately.
Dancing and floating their way across her face.
And she had tucked . . .
"Are you sure?"
. . . them away again.
She adds a nod this time, seeming to be not quite able to form coherent words.
And he waits awhile to give her time.
Finally she speaks.
"Yes. It's fine.
He waits.
"I just . . . I just . . . it doesn't feel like home."
"It feels strange. Like . . . somebody else's house."
"But heavy. Thick. Suffocating."
Yes, he understands.
That's the point of it, isn't it?
The walls, the ceiling, the very foundation seems to whisper, surresh, every moment.
You live here because you killed.
You live here because everyone else died.
You live here because President Snow owns you now.
That is the point of the Victor's Village.
It is not a reward, as it is shallowly presented to be.
It is a sentence, a life sentence.
"Yeah."
A trap.
"Yeah. I know."
And there is no escape.
She is never alone at the water's edge, never abandoned or disregarded.
And sometimes even with these safe supports about her, she is overcome anyhow.
Peace and wistfulness and levity suddenly cracking and falling away, like the shell of a boiled egg.
Rosy cheeks paling into a rigid death mask, eyes viewing some unseen horror.
Light rhythmic breath disintegrating into gasps and hitches of panic and rising hysteria.
It is these times he knows she is back there, back on the killing field, under the blood dripping bush, or in the swirling, sucking, drowning water of the flooded arena.
When he is with her and the daytime horrors take hold, he reaches out an arm, wraps it carefully (she is a fighter in her desperate, feral blinded fury) around her.
Wraps it and holds on tight and warm as she so often turns her face away from her outer vision and inner eyes.
Turns her face away from the horizon, the ocean, the world, so big, so frightening, so overwhelming.
To the reassurance of his close, contained comfort.
Presses her face to the side of his neck, to his chest.
Presses and stays, drawing in and away from that which seeks to drive her further into madness.
Or at least that's the way it seems to Finnick Odair.
And in those moments, he sits in the warm sunshine, in the frothy, temperate waters of the wandering world.
Sits and holds her.
Sometimes speaking, sometimes staying quiet.
Always there.
Annie.
So long as she needs him.
Thanks to DinahRay, gracious reader, you.
Thanks to the silent readers as well. :)
