The Girl in the Sea
By Seabreeze
Chapter 1
A/N: What up, Hunger Games fanfic readers? I wanted to give the how-Annie-and-Finnick-came-to-be thing a try. Probably over done, but I don't really care. I'm re-reading the books to make sure I don't contradict anything, but I'm excited to take some creative license. I really hope you enjoy, so please review
"Did you love Annie right away, Finnick?" I ask.
"No." A long time passes before he adds, "She crept up on me."
Mockingjay, page 174.
Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns all. Especially the characters and the basic plotline and the above quote.
The morning of the Reaping, I woke early and crept out of my room, making sure to be especially careful outside of my father's door so as not to wake him. I stole out of our little house in the hills and took the familiar path that twisted through the sparse woods down to the shore. I avoided the docks, not that anyone would be working them, if only because I associated them with rushing, tanned bodies and the smell of fish.
I wanted nothing but the sound of the crashing waves on the sand, and maybe a gull or two.
As soon as those waves came into view, I felt a possessed grin slip across my face and I pulled my shirt off over my head and tossed it onto the sand, breaking into a jog. I kicked my shoes off next, and had to pause long enough to get my pants off before I was sprinting in my underwear straight into the water. It was just cold enough to make me gasp as it hit my body, but that and the roughness with which it battered my skin were more than worth it for the way the salt water seemed to drain my body of all stress and fear for the oncoming events of the day.
I swam for a solid hour before I knew I was pushing it. I had to get back home and get ready, after all. But leaving the sea had the opposite effect of entering it, and as I rang the heavy salt water out of my hair, I felt terror start to freeze back over my heart. I grabbed my clothes and shoes and jogged, barefoot, home.
Father was not especially pleased when I walked into the kitchen, dressed again but with wet hair and the distinct smell of saltwater, but he merely shook his head.
"Wash your hair. Breakfast will be ready when you get out." He said.
Reaping days always made him tense. Like me, I think, the stress just seemed to consume him. I didn't argue him, and when I came back down there were two plates on our table with chunks of bread, the milky gruel we ate for every meal, and slices of fish arranged on them.
Even in District 4, fish was a specialty. Seeing it on my plate only made my stomach flip over – we only ever ate fish on Reaping days.
"You look nice," father said as I sat down. My hair was still wet, though it no longer smelled like I had just swam in the ocean, and I had on my best dress. It still didn't exactly qualify as 'nice', though. You shouldn't look nice when you feel like your heart is making its best bid for escape inside your chest.
"Thank you," I said, my voice softer than I had anticipated. We ate in silence after that.
I wonder if every house across Panem is like this the morning before the Reaping. Certainly not in Districts like 2, but in some, I'm sure it's worse.
Reapings have always had this affect on my family.
It doesn't help at all that my mother was killed on Reaping day three years ago. It was my very first Reaping – the first one I participated in, anyways. Mother and Father were on edge, and though I wasn't particularly worried – the naiveté of a 12 year old – the fact that my name was in the drawing for the first time that year made my parents nearly hum with fear.
In the end, of course, I wasn't chosen. But another 12-year-old was, and I guess the stress of it all just became too much for Mother. When the boy – whose name I didn't know, though I recognized his face – started making his way up to the stage, she just seemed to lose it, screaming that he was just a child and begging for someone to do something. She broke free of my father's arms and started to make her way up to the stage, too – maybe to pull the boy back, maybe to try and argue the injustice of District Four offering up a 12-year-old sacrifice.
We won't ever know, because one of the peacekeepers shot her in the back, and she was dead before she hit the ground.
Dissention never goes over too well here in District 4.
I can't bear to sit around and do nothing, so after breakfast I go for a walk along the beach – after Father makes me promise not to get in again. Even now, though, the smell and the sound of the sea does little to calm me – it's the walking that does me any good at all, because at least it's something. An exertion of some sort. Long before I'm ready, it's time to head back to collect Father, and face what we are dreading.
When we reach the Market Center – where most of the trading is done, and more importantly, where they hold the Reaping each year, with it's back to the sea – we sign in, and it's time to go our separate ways.
"See you later," is about all I can handle, and before I can run off, Father takes my hand and squeezes it, not quite looking me in the eyes. It breaks my heart a little, so I reach up and kiss him on the cheek. "Later," I repeat more firmly, and I make my way into the sectioned off area for the children, and then further in to find my age group. I seek out my oldest friend, Emm. Her coppery hair does nothing to distinguish her from any other curly-haired girl our age, but I find her anyway, and when she sees me she gives me a tight smile and takes my hand. I'm grateful for something to hold on to.
On either side of the stage are the two glass balls that every District uses to draw names for the Games. In any other situation, I'm sure they'd be pretty, but the sight of them makes my pulse race.
In between the balls is a podium, and on either side of that, chairs for our Mayor, Les Sealie, and his wife; the District 4 escort, Imogen Gild; and the Tribute's Mentor, Finnick Odair.
Like the glass balls, Imogen and Finnick are both nice to look at, but the sight of them makes everybody nervous.
Les Sealie comes forward and begins to read the same thing he reads every year at the Reaping – the History of Panem, and the history of the Games, and the reason we're all here today. How we're lucky compared to some of our ancestors, who knew war all the time, and not just once a year.
He finishes, and Imogen comes forward. Too quickly, it's all happening so quickly. That just means it'll be over sooner, I tell myself.
Imogen is the most glamorous person anyone in 4 has seen in person. With golden hair that falls in perfect curls and waves to her waist and sparkling violet eyes – those can't be natural – she looks so out of place, though she isn't quite as altered as many from the Capitol.
"For District 4," she says, her clear sweet voice echoing around the crowded but deathly silent Market Center, "The Hunger Games begin now. May the odds be ever in your favor!" she says, and I expect in that in a perfect world, a cheer would break out. It does not, though we oblige her with tense, polite clapping. "Ladies first."
Imogen makes her way over to the glass ball on the left side of the stage, and Emm's fingers grow hard around mine. We'll both have bruised hands after this, no doubt.
Imogen draws a name out and reads it aloud, followed by the customary silence. I didn't hear it. There's a moan somewhere back in the crowd, and I quickly look around me. Everyone is staring. I didn't hear the name. Who got called? Emm's fingers clutch at me even harder, and Imogen repeats the name.
Annie Cresta.
I'm a tribute. Emm and I stare at each other as tears fill her eyes, and I realize belatedly that the moan belonged to my father.
Imogen calls my name a third time, and I work my hand free of Emm and make my way towards the stage. Towards Imogen and Les and Finnick; towards my own death. Now my father's sobs mingle with the sounds of relief and gossip. My own eyes are wet – when did that happen? – as I take the stage, and Finnick Odair throws an arm around me and pats my shoulder, whether in congratulations or consolation, I don't know or care.
I'm a little bit out of it when they call District 4's male tribute, and it's not until he's onstage do I realize that it's Adem Miller, the son of a man who works alongside my father.
It's not a good day for us Dock kids.
Panem's anthem plays, Adem and I shake hands, and we are immediately whisked off by the Peacekeepers to the City Hall – just on the far South side of the Market Center – and I'm put in a room by myself until my father comes in.
The tears are still streaming down my cheeks, but I feel numb when my father wraps me up in his arms like I'm a little girl again. I realize with a little shock that this means my father will lose everything. Wife, daughter, both taken from him at the Reapings. I snake my arms around his neck. It means the same for me. I'll just be dead a lot sooner.
Father is nearly incoherent, but for the time allotted this farewell, we can only hold onto each other. There's nothing to say that isn't already well known between us. We are all each other has. For a short time, I find peace and comfort in the moment – being cradled in my father's arms like a baby. For just a minute, letting myself slip into the deception that someone can take care of me. Can keep me from harm.
It shatters when the Peacemakers come in. Time's up. Father does not take this well, and when he starts showing signs of a fight, I yell the only thing I know might stop him.
"Daddy!"
I haven't called him daddy since I only came up to his knee. He stops, and the Peacemakers make it clear by the cock of their guns that if Father does anything but walk away peacefully, it's over for him.
"Daddy, stop." I say. He doesn't turn around, but he doesn't move, either. "Daddy. I need you to be good." Why? How can I make him save his life? "I need a reason to come home." I say, my voice breaking.
I know I'm not coming home. But I need to know he's safe and okay. I need that. Father turns and wraps me up tight in his arms one last time.
"Okay, baby," he says, stroking my hair softly. "Whatever you say."
The Peacemakers pull him off me and escort him away. We strain to watch each other, but they put an end to that immediately by locking me in the room alone again.
Moments later, Emm comes in and we cry together, and I make her promise to look after Father. It's only then that she calms down, and I think having something to do for me is the only thing that helps her walk away when our time is up.
Before I know it, Adem and I are being driven to the station, where we'll board a train to the capital. Unlike me, Adem does not have tears soaking the front of his shirt, but his eyes are red and he looks exhausted. I want to talk to him – about what, I have no idea, but I feel like he's the only one in the world I can talk to right now – but I wait, because Finnick and Imogen are in the cab with us, chattering away. Adem stares out the window desperately, but I can't make myself look. The familiar roads and views of the sea – my sea – are too much to watch being taken away from me. Instead, I take a moment to tune in to Finnick and Imogen's conversation.
"…of course, neither of them are particularly interesting, so it will be fascinating to see what you have to do to get them sponsors."
"We'll have to see what the prep teams can do with them. The girl I think we can turn into something, I'm just not sure what yet."
Wonderful.
Fortunately, it isn't long before we reach the station, so my time staring at my hands and pondering the length and shape of my nails isn't too drawn out.
Several Peacekeepers escort the four of us – Imogen, Finnick, Adem, and I – to our personal train. Right away, Finnick takes Adem to his room and Imogen takes me to mine, so I have to wait for another opportunity to pull Adem aside.
My room, it turns out, is nicer by far than my entire home in 4. The bed is big enough for at least four people, but apparently it's all mine. The room comes stocked with my own bathroom with one of those showers for bathing, and a closet full of clothes I am encouraged to wear.
We have several hours until dinner, but before I can decide to find out where Adem's room is, I've passed out on my giant bed. It is the heaviest, blankest sleep I've ever had, as if for hours, I simply stop existing. If I felt anything, it would be relief for feeling nothing at all.
A/N: Had to stop there. I know nothing cool happened, and I like fast-forwarded through the Reaping. Stick with me, though, I'll make it worth your while.
Please review me! I'd appreciate it
-SB