Hi friends! So, here's another chapter for y'all before I leave for Gulf Shores tomorrow. Ahhhh I'm so excited! But I'm just as excited for you to read this chapter. THE TITLE IS FINALLY STARTING TO MAKE SENSE, GUYS. Overall, so far, I'm really proud of this chapter because of the symbolism it involves comparing Annie to an ocean of innocence, and how that ties into the title of the story, along with Annie being compared to the white seashells. I hope you guys like it and that you are starting to see the connections too. As always, review, comment, favorite, tell me your thoughts because I read every single one of them and love to hear anything and everything you guys have to say. So without further ado, here's Chapter 12.
P.S.- I have no idea how many chapters this story is going to end up being, so just roll with me if you can? You guys are the best. I definitely have plans to continue it for a while though.
P.P.S.- Who's excited for Mockingjay?! ME. I want a trailer. So badly.
Anyway, last note, promise. DISCLAIMER: I don't own the Hunger Games or these characters. Suzanne Collins does.
Chapter 12: Waking Up
Finnick
"What the hell?" I sputter.
The man clad in the standard, all-white uniform of a Peacekeeper is clearly not expecting my reaction. When Snow orders for something to be done or not, no one hardly ever contests it. And in the past, I've been the same way, right? Always cautious, always going to extra lengths to make sure the only person left who I was sure I loved, Mags, was kept safe. I'd never tried to test him after that first time I'd told him no. So why was now any different?
I reason with myself. It's because Annie is my friend. That's why I'm bending these rules for her. We've grown up together, and as stupid as I am for trying to patch up our friendship and return to the way things were when I know that can never happen-simply because of the world I live in- I at least want to protect her. She deserves this; she deserves for me to give this to her.
After all, she's the one who forgave me for giving up on her all those years ago.
The nervous man breaks me out of my reverie as he tries to sound official and firm, adopting a more commanding tone. "President Snow's orders, Mr. Odair."
I'm fuming. "Are you really meaning to tell me that after all I've done as a mentor, I really can't see my own tribute who has just won these Games? As far as I can remember, this has never been an issue before. She needs to see me, and I have plenty I need to discuss with her as well about these upcoming interviews and everything that she's required to do for the media." There. If I try to make it sound like I only came to discuss the practical issues that arise when becoming a victor, then maybe this hopeless pushover of a man will let me into these doors and through the ward to Annie's room.
"This is an exception. Your tribute is not currently mentally stable. She isn't talking at all. And she most surely will not want to discuss the consequences of becoming a victor. No exception. You are not allowed in."
My tribute. As if I own her. As if I have no personal connection to her whatsoever.
I'm just about to blurt out another argument when he stiffly turns and pushes through the door to the psychiatric ward. I catch a glimpse of white walls and dim light before the heavy, metal door thuds closed with a ring of finality.
It kills me that she's so close. Is he trying to taunt me just by opening those doors and giving me a brief glimpse of what I want most, or is he just simply too much of a douche-ass coward to continue to argue with me?
I'm guessing both.
The clock is ticking, and now I'm slumped on a hard, uncomfortable bench, the white wall behind my head acting a sort of pillow. I'm not willing to accept the fact that they won't let me see her. I've been waiting, I've been working for this, I've been fucking random strangers for this! What else can I do for Snow? How else does he want to control me before he gives me this one small piece of something that's genuinely, authentically mine? And I'm not talking about Annie, no. She isn't mine; she can belong to whoever she wants. I'm talking about this memory, this memory that should be so sweet and happy as I'm reunited with Annie, and Snow's tainted even that.
God, I want to kill him.
But as my fury ebbs and my trembling limbs begin to relax, a heavy weight, almost like a crushing sadness, settles onto my shoulders. And now that it's arrived, I think I'd take the fiery anger over this weighted, invasive misery in a heartbeat.
She promised me. Right before she went into the Games, as that cold glass slid between us, she promised that she would never leave me. Not like I did her. Has she left already though? Those two days when she lost herself, when she crumpled on the ground without eating or drinking, she had left. I know she's fragile: I had known that before all of this happened. But how is she now? Is she lost in her own world, trying to fight off horrible nightmares like I had to, like I still have to? Or is she alert enough to at least know where she is and know that I'm looking for her, begging desperately to see her? I have no idea. All I know is that she's in some freak Capitol hospital for the mentally insane, and that's the last place that Annie deserves to be. If anything, being in some cold, sterile white room with crazy, colorful doctors prodding her with needles is only going to fuel her instability.
She wouldn't leave me. No matter what's happening to her, she's my best friend. I can help her. If only these fucking doctors would just let me.
XXX
They still aren't letting me.
It's been a whole week, and they still keep saying the same things over and over again. Isn't talking… mentally unstable… just stares into space… My heart breaks for Annie, for what she's going through, but I'm mainly furious that the doctors think that keeping her confined in some type of psycho prison cell is going to get her to come out of whatever world she's slipped into, when that's clearly not the case.
Snow comes into my room the next morning.
I've been staying in my Capitol suite, the one Snow reserves as mine for whenever I travel here for my "duties", but I haven't gotten a good night's sleep at all. This morning, the sunlight is bright as it rises against the City skyline, and the expensive mug of coffee my Avox brings me hardly helps at all. To sweeten the taste, I plunk three sugar cubes in it, but it's still almost too bitter to drink. I gulp it down anyway.
That's when he comes in.
Unannounced, uninvited, and with a certain ease and cool calmness that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. He's wearing his all-white, signature lapel that holds his white rose, and his hair is combed over into a thin, slick gel.
"Good morning, Mr. Odair," he says leisurely, settling himself with care onto the loveseat in the sitting room. "I do hope your apartment here is still treating you well?"
"It is," I say through gritted teeth. I'm not about to give him the satisfaction he wants by asking him why he's here.
"Ah, how nice. I'm so glad to hear that."
There's a pregnant silence as I wait for him to simply stop with this stupid, small-talk shit and get to the damn point.
Finally after what feels like hours of silence, his voice, cold and snake-like, drops that warm, friendly tone and shows itself for what it truly is. Deadly, hateful, and emotionless.
"You know why I'm here."
"Actually, I don't." No reason why I shouldn't tell the truth.
His teeth clench barely and I can tell he hates that I'm able to be this unaffected by him. That's why his next words come out strained. "Your tribute, Annie Cresta, is not becoming the victor she needs to be. She's sitting in a bed, saying nothing unless it's to scream about a supposed night terror. So, Mr. Odair, her behavior is unacceptable. The citizens of the Capitol are getting restless and want to see her. If this continues any longer, they'll start to realize that Ms. Cresta isn't actually strong or powerful and was a victor merely by chance. And then they'll feel cheated. And that is also unacceptable."
My bones go cold at his words. The white walls suddenly feel suffocating, and an overwhelming urge to free Annie of this place, of Snow, runs through my veins, turning them hot with a fiery hatred. My next words come out unguarded. "Maybe, if your doctors let me into that room and allowed me to speak with her, she'd calm down enough to put on a show for your citizens and then be free to go home. Seeing a bunch of strangers doing things to her body and saying things doesn't seem like a very therapeutic thing for her."
He answers me without a beat of thought. "Ah, Mr. Odair. May I ask why would Annie seeing you in particular help so much?"
Somehow, my bones go even colder at his words.
'He's going to try to break you, son. He's going to try to use the people you love against you. Don't give him a reason to torment you. Don't let him see how much you really care about certain people that he could take away. Just do what he says. It might not be what you want, but it will save you.'
Mags' voice before her stroke comes back to me now, right after my family had been killed and I'd discovered the Capitol had been behind it. She'd been telling me to be cautious with my heart so that Snow wouldn't be able to see through my lies and target those I loved.
Is he doing that with Annie? Has he been watching us? The way we talked to each other, that time we spent together on the roof, that night I slept in her room? I shudder as I think of him seeing such personal memories that should belong to me and Annie alone. And they could be tainted by Snow.
Even worse, if he has been watching us, does this mean that he's realized Annie could be a potential target as well, a tool that he could manipulate and use against me by hurting her and therefore hurting me?
I don't love her like that! I want to scream. She's my friend, my best friend. Nothing more. Don't take her away from me!
But for Snow, that's enough. If she's a friend, he knows that he can use her to hurt me.
And it's killing me.
I can't see her anymore. I have to get her out of this hellhole, and then put as much distance as I can between the two of us. For her own good. For her protection. For her safety.
My mind is blanching. I need to respond. I've let the silence drag on a beat too long as these thoughts have rushed through my head.
"It's not like that," I spit out quickly. "I'm a familiar face, that's all."
"Oh, of course," Snow assures. But I know what he's thinking. He's seen the way I'm tied to Annie already. And he sees it as an opportunity.
"I will let you see her, Mr. Odair. But just remember, about a month and a half from now, you are scheduled for a two week visit. Carmelite Frank is having a party for her birthday and expects you. And of course other woman have also lined up, so you will be fairly booked in that time. I'll let my doctors know that you are allowed in. I do hope you are able to calm your mentally insane victor, Mr. Odair. It'd be a shame if she wasn't able to perform the way I want her to. She's so pretty already. Nicely filled out and virtually perfect, thanks to our full body polish. You may see her in a few minutes once a doctor summons you. And lastly, just be prepared to let Ms. Cresta know I expect her to be sitting with Caesar Flickerman in one week. The interview is key for post-Games publicity."
I nod, and then he's gone. Through the doors, into the ward, and probably leaving through some heavily protected back door because a few minutes later, a doctor returns without Snow. He looks clearly shaken, probably because he's just seen the President directly for the first time, but there's also a hint of annoyance written in his features. And when he leads me through the door with an impatient hand, I can tell that he obviously doesn't want me to visit.
But I really couldn't give a shit even if I tried. I'm rushing him, following his terse, tired directions as I turn corner after corner. Suddenly, a shrill screaming pierces the air and I no longer need the doctor's instruction. I follow the sounds of Annie screaming my name until I finally reach her room. Room 278. A cold, metal door with those bolded, black numbers holds my best friend inside. A shiver runs down my spine as I hear her screaming for me. She's looking for me. And I can't deny myself any longer. I have to see what kind of condition she's in. I have to see how she looks for myself, if her green eyes still have that scary, foggy unclarity that was there when those trumpets sounded.
I push through the door with a loud bang.
She's sitting up in the bed. Screaming her head off.
She's still beautiful, but in a more haunted, hollow way. Her skin looks perfectly polished and flawless, but paler and more sickly, not its usual bronze glow. Her waves of dark, chestnut hair are matted and wild but tousled in a way that makes her appear even more innocent and more authentically Annie than I thought possible. Her mouth pops into an 'o' when she sees me, and then her beautiful, green eyes focus on my face. They're piercing, staring at me with such a burning intensity that I wouldn't be able to look away even if I wanted to. They seem to show traces of that cloudy, unstable fog, but I can tell that she knows me by the way her eyebrows peek upward and her eyes flicker with recognition. She's suddenly silent, and a doctor to the left of her bed visibly sighs in relief, probably because the screaming has finally stopped.
We stand there for a few beats in utter and complete silence. The chilled, dank air of the hospital room chafes against my skin, but I don't care. I'm too busy staring at her like she's the saving grace of this world. I just have to make sure that she's okay, that she is physically able to sit in front of me without experiencing any kind of pain at all.
"Finnick?" she asks.
Her words are unsure as her mouth forms my name. She sounds so innocent, so little, so weak, almost like a child, that my heart aches for her and for all that she's been through. She's broken now.
But this, hearing my name fall from her peachy, soft lips, sends shivers of electricity down my spine. And that's when it dawns on me that she really truly is here. Not dead, like so many thought she would be. Not a dream, not an illusion. It's really her. And then I' m across the room, flinging her tiny body into my arms as gently as possible while she starts to sob. Her tears soak my shirt, but I simply don't care. I'm clutching her so tightly that I hope she doesn't have bruises later, and I can tell she's clutching me as hard as she can too.
That she remembers my name is simply enough.
Her small, bony hands are tangled into my hair at the nape of neck as she uses her other hand to create a vice-like grip on my wrist. With anyone else, I might feel uncomfortable by the sudden invasion and lack of space, but I only crush her closer. She smells faintly like herself still, vanilla and sandalwood, even though her paper-thin hospital gown exudes a strong, antiseptic air. My face is buried in her hair, my cheek just touching her cold, shivering neck, and I realize that the doctors here must have performed treatments on her hair too, because it's soft like liquid chocolate. The scar on her right knee from when she sliced it open with a fishing spear is gone, courtesy of that full body polish stuff or whatever the hell it is, but before I can panic too much, I notice that my favorite freckle, the light brown one that just dusts her left eyebrow, is still intact. And that one little dot makes a sense of hope rise within me; that this broken, confused girl can somehow still be the same Annie somewhere in there. The girl with the white seashells who smiles like the sun and cares for everyone as if they were her family. I want her back so badly that all I can do is pray she's still there.
"Annie," I say, finally breaking the long silence and her now-sniffles. "God, it's you. I've missed you… so much."
She only grabs tighter. "Finnick?" she asks again. She must want the confirmation that I'm really here. I squeeze her encouragingly.
"It's me, Annie. I'm here."
Her body finally sags in what must be acceptance, and maybe relief? I think she's opening her mouth, maybe to tell me all that's happened during her week in the hospital, but when her voice rings out, it's impossibly small and weak, a barely-audible whisper.
"I'm so cold."
An urge to protect her suddenly encompasses my entire body. These doctors haven't taken care of her like a real human. She needs me. And I need her, in my own way too, much more than I should already.
I push these confusing, forbidden thoughts out of my mind as my eyes rake the room for a blanket of some sort. There is none.
"Can you get her a blanket or something?" I ask a little too harshly, turning to face a young doctor that is probably around my age. He simply nods and flees the room, while I stare daggers at the other woman in the room for being cruel enough to simply ignore her patient's physical needs. Annie's arms are freezing, and her sallow skin is raised with rough goose bumps. It's also clear that the doctors here haven't been making her eat enough; she's extremely bony and her food sits on a tray to the side of her bed, completely untouched. A bowl of chicken noodle soup it looks like, with canned fruits and a loaf of bread-the manufactured, soft loaves of the Capitol—not the salty, rough bread of home.
"You need to eat, Annie," I murmur quietly, only to her. Abruptly, she's shaking her head.
"I can't," she whispers brokenly. "I've been trying and I can't. It makes me think of him. And the mountain…"
The room goes quiet as Annie struggles to find words. I'm just about to squeeze her tightly back into the circle of my arms and tell her that she doesn't have to talk about it if she doesn't want to, when her eyes abruptly fog into that scary, clouded mist of confused agony. Immediately, she's scooting away from me on the bed and her hands fly to her ears as her mouth screws up into an agonized grimace. I don't know what to do, but watching her fall apart like this seems unbearable. It makes me sick.
I try to reach out for her, but then the doctor, who is a stern-looking, middle-aged woman, stops me with the light touch of her cold hand against my arm.
"That's not a smart choice, Mr. Odair. I've been observing Annie all week, and when she goes into fits like this, it's really best to leave her alone. She'll come out of it in due time. The littlest things set her off and make her remember these past weeks. It'll pass; you just have to give her time. She might not want to see you for a while."
I blanch. I can't leave her, and even if I could handle the emotional stress of being away from her when she's like this, I wouldn't want to with the way she's already seemed to perceive this hospital: a cold, dark place probably filled with nightmares and bouts of insanity. I know she'd give anything to leave here, if I could just show her that I'm here to help bring her out of these spells or whatever else they should medically be referred to as. She's simply sitting on the bed, knees curled to chest, rocking back and forth and mumbling. It's terrifying. She promised she would never leave me.
So where is she now? Where's the girl that I've grown up with, so unbelievably kind and sweet that she'd cry over a dead fish that washed up on the beach in a storm? This girl sitting here with me seems so far away and much older, less innocent, aged with hardship and instability. And I can't stand it. I need my innocent Annie back, the one who reminded me so much of those white, pure shells that she collected on the beach. Not this sad, utterly misunderstood girl who everyone perceives to be insane.
She's not insane. She can't be. And even if she is, I just have to convince the doctors of her somewhat stable condition so that I can get her the hell out of here. Staying in this hospital room is most definitely not doing anything for her recovery process.
I watch her face begin to contort even more, and the worry pricks my heart, branding it with a knife-like sensation. She has to be okay. I have to do something.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I start to whisper stories, stories about us, from our childhood, but also stories that I used to tell her when we were kids, about Dreamland and that old fisherman's wife that haunted the beaches of 4 after her husband died at sea. My voice is soft and I know my lilting words might not make exact sense, but Annie's eyes are riveted on my mouth, on the words I'm speaking. I can't stop, especially once she removes her hands from her ears and listens intently, her eyes widening in recognition.
My whispers continue to pierce through the still, damp air, spoken like sweet nothings lulling an estranged, sad girl into a definite reality instead of her own hazy, alternative universe.
"Dreamland was beautiful, and everyone longed to go there," I say, my voice relaxing as Annie sags to rest her body against me, her sniffles still continuing to punctuate the story. The crumpled look on her face is gone, but I can tell she's still extremely confused, so I don't stop talking.
"It had a pretty beach, almost identical to the coast of District 4, but everything shone a little brighter in Dreamland; every living creature or object was more vibrant than anything in 4 had ever been. There were no nightmares. Just happiness. Huge, colorful flowers that bloomed in the brilliant sun and sparkling water that held an ocean of possibilities. An ocean of innocence. An ocean of pure beauty. Just like the radiant, young woman that visited there every night when she went to sleep. She was both innocent and beautiful, which was why more than anyone else, every night, she was the one who deserved to go to Dreamland. More than anyone else, she belonged there. And so she did, every night, for the rest of her life, visit Dreamland, until she died and then became a permanent fixture, one more happy soul that could rest forever on the shore of that beautiful beach, in the place where only the best dreams existed." By the end of the story, Annie's head has started to nod off, and I can tell she's about to fall asleep due to utter exhaustion. I lay her down gently and she stirs, stuttering a few more words before finally succumbing to sleep.
"Thank you for finding me, Finnick. We promised each other we wouldn't leave…"
My heart leaps in my chest at the thought of her remembering our silent, mouthed pact the day she went into the arena.
"Don't leave me…" I whisper, even though she's already asleep. Her face looks so peaceful now, softened by sleep. I kiss her forehead, and as I'm straightening back up to fix myself to the chair beside her bed for the night, I remember the doctor's presence.
She's staring at me with a gaping mouth.
"She hasn't spoken since she's gotten back tonight," she muses, jotting notes on her clipboard frantically. "I'll be back shortly. I'm going to discuss her progress with the other doctors. I'm Dr. Hans, by the way, Annie's head psychiatrist."
I nod dryly, and then she's gone.
My anxiety is uncontainable. I pace the floor, waiting for Dr. Hans to return, praying that what little Annie has improved can be seen as enough to send her to a quickie, last-minute interview with Caesar Flickerman and then home.
Only five minutes later, when Dr. Hans comes back in with a discharge statement and a notice from the Capitol that Annie's expected in her compartment tomorrow night in order to be ready for the Recap in two days, my throat constricts with a tight joy. Annie's sleeping frame is unaware of my utter disbelief as I gently squeeze her into my arms. She deserves to be away from all of this. She deserves to be home. And now, in just a few days, that will finally be a reality for her.
But the hardest part, surviving these next few days in the Capitol, is yet to come.