After dinner, we are allowed to do what ever we want. There's separate rooms for each of us, and also a big common room. I decide that perhaps I will go take a nap and just settle into bed when a knock comes at my door.
I open it, not really knowing who to expect. When I realize that it's Finnick, looking both bored and amused, an expression that only he can pull off, I am surprised.
"Can I help you?" I ask, still confused.
"I think the real question," He says, leaning towards me so he's only inches away from me. "Is what can I do to help you."
Immediately, I am annoyed. I know better then to take a step back, though. That would signal weakness, and I feel like this is a sort of test. So I carefully place my hands on his chest and gently push him out of my personal space. It is not an aggressive move, just a slight shove a few inches back.
Finnick smiles.
"So," I ask, finally taking the bait that he's been dangling in front of me. "What can you do for me? I mean, besides annoy me."
Finnick laughs, looking even more amused. "Well, that depends. You see, my services do not come cheap."
It takes me a moment to realize what he's implying. Everyone knew about Finnick's exploits. His many lovers in the Capitol. It was rumored that they even though they were his lovers, he always got money out of it. That he took pleasure in sleeping with women when in return they paid him with either gifts, or money.
He is soliciting sex to me.
So I do the only thing that comes to mind. I raise my hand to slap him across the face, but he is a Victor of the Games, after all, and his reflexes are extremely fast. Before I come close to his face, he grabs my wrist in a hard lock.
"What was that for?" He demands. This is the first time I've seen him anything but cocky, smiling, or amused. Except for when he was in the Games.
I jerk my hand out of his grip and rub it. It's a little sore from his grip. "How dare you imply that I–" I stop for a second, getting upset about it all over again. "What kind of person do you think I am? And, just so you know, I have no money. My family is poor. Not that I would ever, in a million years, even entertain the thought of paying you for sex. You sick–"
"What?" Finnick asks, suddenly even more upset. "I didn't mean that."
"Then what, exactly," I ask, my eyes narrowing. "Were you suggesting?"
"That I try and teach you a few things before you go into training. Give you an edge that you don't have." He says angrily. I can see that what I thought truly upset him. "I was going to try and help you so that Dash will ally with you!"
My eyes widen a bit. Now that his true intentions are clear, I feel like an idiot. And, more than that, I feel like a terrible person. I have insulted him, when all he came to do was help try and save me life or, at the very least, prolong it.
"Sorry." I choke out, finally finding my voice, which felt stuck with guilt. "I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have jumped to that insulting conclusion." And I genuinely am sorry.
Finnick's eyes narrow. He turns and takes a step away, but turns around after a few steps.
"Personal feelings aside, it is my job to help prepare you for the games. If you want my help, come on. I'm only offering it this one time." He tells me and, without a word, continues down the hall.
I run after him.
Together we walk silently through the car until we come into the kitchen. I look around, amazed that such a huge space was set into this train. It didn't look possible.
I spot a plate of cake, sitting in one corner, but don't dare touch it. Finnick notices me staring at it and cuts a piece off and puts it on a plate for me.
"Thanks." I say, and take a large bite of it. It's beyond delicious, of course.
Finnick goes through all of the drawers, obviously looking for something. He finally finds it, pulling out a wicked sharp looking knife. He hands it to me and I take it, careful not to cut myself or Finnick with the sharp edge.
Then Finnick turns to a large box shaped thing. I have no idea what it is, but when Finnick opens it, I can see it's filled with dead animals.
"I knew they had to carry it somewhere on the train." Finnick said, digging around in the box.
It takes everything in my not to get sick at the site of all the dead animals. How could I kill someone if I can't even look a dead cow in the eyes?
After a few disgusting minutes, Finnick pulls out a semi-large animal. Not as big as a cow, but much larger than a turkey. I've never seen it before.
"It's a pig." Finnick tells me. "And you are going to use it to practice."
"What do you mean?" I ask him. I stare at the thing for a minute before I realize what he means. "I can't!"
"You can," He says harshly. "And you will. If you want to live, that is."
"Fine!" I shout, angry. I wasn't the type of person who was good with hurting things.
Finnick led me out into the common room again and put the pig on a table. I stared at the thing, horrified. It was sick looking, sitting there, dead. I would have nightmares about this picture for weeks, I just know it.
"I want you to throw that knife as hard as you can at the pig." Finnick tells me.
Fighting the urge to vomit, I hold the handle of the knife tightly in my hand. Then I bring it back and, putting a lot of weight into it, throw the deadly thing in the direction of the disgusting dead animal. And it misses.
By a lot.
"You're doing it all wrong." Finnick tells me.
He walks over to the knife, picks it up, and brings it back to me. This time he makes me hold the blade, not the hilt.
"You put too much power into it last time, that's why the aiming was so off. There's no point throwing it as hard as you can if you're not going to hit anything." Finnick says. "Try again."
And I do, this time throwing it a lot more gently. It bounces off the face of the pig, like rubber.
"Try a little lower." He says once he hands the knife back to me.
I don't know how long we practice for, but it's at least an hour before I can even hit it low enough for Finnick to be happy. But even then the knife just bounces off again.
"I can't do it!" I say, frustrated. "How many times do I have to fail before you realize this?"
"Until you get it right!" Finnick snaps.
I think I'm probably the one person in the world who aggravates Finnick. He's usually so carefree about things, but in the short time I've known him I've upset him too many times to count.
Angry at Finnick, at myself for failing, at the Capitol for putting me through this, I angrily throw the stupid knife again.
And, with a sickening squelching sound, it drives itself into the chest of the pig.
That's also when I finally lose hold of all the food I'd eaten today. I ran, hand clutched to my mouth, to the nearest bathroom.
"Annie!" Finnick calls through the bathroom door. "Annie!"
"Give me a minute!" I shout back, my throat hoarse from vomiting.
After searching the bathroom for something to rinse my mouth with, and coming across a bottle of liquid that smelled strongly of mint, I read the back of it and did as was instructed.
Then I made sure my breath didn't smell anymore, and opened the door. Finnick stood there, looking furious.
"What?" I ask him, shrinking back a little. This angry, Finnick is very frightening. It's hard not to picture him skewering people with his trident. That's how I felt, skewered by his eyes, which were so intense that I couldn't look at them for too long.
"What is wrong with you?" He thundered. "How are you supposed to survive if you can't even stab a god damn pig, that's already dead, without flipping out?"
"It was repulsive!" I snapped back.
"So?" He shouted. "It's going to be worse when it's an actual person! How are you going to handle killing someone still alive? You're not!"
"Fine then! I'm helpless!" I screamed. "Then leave me alone and let me die in peace!"
"No!" Finnick shouted, though he was being considerably less loud now. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged be back into the common room.
He removed the knife from the pig, which left a thick trail of blood that didn't look quite normal, probably because the animal was long dead. Finnick handed me the blood knife.
"Go up there and stab it. No throwing this time. I want you to slit its throat. And no throwing up this time!" Finnick said, still looking extremely furious.
Thankful that there really wasn't anything left in my stomach to throw up, I approached the pig.
"So you just want me to..." I trailed off. I looked at the pig and raised the knife, feeling sick and stupid.
"Pretend it's an enemy and kill it !"
I closed my eyes, grabbed the head of the pig, which felt rubbery and disgusting, and pressed the blade of the knife hard against its throat. Then I slid it from one side to the other.
When I opened my eyes, there was a deep gash along its throat and a steady trickle of blood was flowing from the wound.
"Think you can handle doing that to someone alive?" Finnick asked me, watching me closely.
"I don't know." I replied honestly. "Part of me says no, but then another part says that, if it was life or death, I might be able to."
"It is life or death." Finnick says seriously. "So you'd better be sure you can. Practice throwing it some more. I'd rather you not get close enough to have to stab anyone. With your size, if it came down to hand-to-hand battle, you'd probably lose."
"Thanks." I muttered sarcastically.
Finnick and I practice my throwing skills until my hand cramps but I always sink the knife into the pig. By now the pig looks unrecognizable with all the stab wounds it has.
"Can we stop now?" I ask.
"Sure. I don't see how we could improve anymore, anyways." Finnick says, sinking into one of the plush couches.
After putting the bloodied knife on the table beside the pig corpse, I join him on the in the world has ever felt as wonderful as that couch, and before I even realize it I've fallen asleep.
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