Thank you HogwartsDreamer113, Jamez S, PainAndPanicReportingForDuty, Guest and QuinnDeRavensborough for reviewing! :)
The last two/three chapters may have confused you - sorry if I didn't write it out clearly! Marlene was not brought back to life by the Capital. She had severe injuries in which the Capital surgeons treated exceptionally by using their very funky technology. As for why her cannon rang… coming right up :)
XL. Photographs
"It's my fault, isn't it?" Marlene asks, shooting me a glance. "Your sister, I mean."
"Not really," I mumble under my breath, staring out the window as the train slowly inches to a stop in front of District Four. It's not just home anymore - it's where my entire family's died and each death had been somewhat related to the Hunger Games. The one guilty person is me.
"It is," she insists. "I'm not stupid, Odair. Snow talked to me. I knew that if I applied enough force against the tracker, it would jam and the cannon would go off. I knew there would be consequences, but I didn't anyway. It's my fault, and I'm sorry."
"You did it to survive."
"Yeah, at the cost of your sister."
I flinch at her persistent tone and look away, sighing as I push past the Capital paparazzi who have once again, managed to arrive earlier than us. "Get outta my face, losers," I hear Marlene say from behind me, undoubtedly shoving people off their feet.
Marlene or Annie?
I'm Marlene's mentor - I'm supposed to be the one to introduce and welcome her into the Victor's Village of District Four. I'm supposed to help her settle in and guide her training career. Would it look bad if I ditched Marlene for my family?
Upon noticing my mental conflict, Joseph clamps a hand down onto my shoulder. "I've got it from here. Go."
For the first time, I don't hesitate. The main door opens just as I push against it with my palm, and I stumble inside. "Audrye!" I exclaim when she shushes me. "Is she okay?"
Mags sits on the couch in our living room, knitting away with Annie laid down on the other couch. She has two blankets wrapped around her and tucked under her chin. "She's fine," Audrye replies. "The poor girl finally fell asleep - well, she cried herself to sleep but it's better than no sleep."
Pressing my lips together, I ask the one question that's been on my mind ever since last night. "What happened?"
I take a seat beside Annie and watch as Audrye shifts Cordelia from her left hip to the right. Mags inhales loudly and sends me a small sympathetic smile, her light green eyes soft and caring. Audrye passes a sheet of paper to me. It's a shade of white that's so bright, yet pale that it makes me squint. The still intact sheet is tainted with red script. It seems metaphorical - the red representing blood and strife. Releasing a shaky breath, my heart thuds as I read the first line.
Finnick;
I know, I know. You're probably thinking: But suicide isn't the answer! Well, too bad. It's the answer for me.
I know this must be hard for you, Annie and Mags. Tell Mags that I'm sorry; I've already left a letter for Annie. I know you'll be blaming yourself but please, don't - it's not your fault.
Do you remember when we used to sit by the beach next to our old home? When we laughed over anything and everything? What happened to those days? And then, we'd race each other to the island off shore and you'd always beat me, laughing in my face after. But, what happened? What happened to my brother? You're not the Finnick I grew up with anymore and despite how hard you try to get back up onto your feet and to be that person, it's never the same. You were so teasing, immature and fun back then. You still are sometimes, but you've grown more mature, more selfish and more reserved - unless you're in the Capital. I despise seeing you on TV when you're not home, holding onto women - strangers - and it hurts to know that you prefer their company over mine.
But after everything that's happened, brother mine, I still love you. You've always been my inspiration and my rock, and I hope you live your life to the fullest.
My suicide, however, doesn't concern all of this. This is the best way. This is the best way to avoid getting hurt, and to solve everyone's problems. No one can hurt me this way - I won't be named 'Finnick Odair's loser sister' anymore. I'm a bit of mess, aren't I? But I believe, that you and I are both messes. No one has a brother-sister relationship like ours; we tease, we laugh, we care and we create memories that last forever and a day. We don't need to work hard to support each other, we don't need rely on each other for everything single little thing in life, and we certainly don't need anyone to rip our bond away.
I'm not scared. I consider myself lucky to escape such a twisted environment, which seems to resemble a dystopian novel.
I believe in a heaven up above and if by any miracle that I make it there, I'll see you there.
Love,
Rhea
PS, Annie likes you too
Scrunching the note up into a paper ball, I glare at the carpet and stand up. "This isn't her handwriting," I say, making my way out of the house. "It's definitely not her." As unusual as it is for a girl, Rhea's handwriting isn't neat, immaculate and straight. Her writing's sloppy, hard to read and cursive - and she hates the colour red. She doesn't believe in God or heaven anymore, and she most definitely, doesn't believe in miracles.
Ignoring Audrye's protests to come back, I slam the door shut behind me. My mind tells me to go back into the house, to be beside Annie when she makes and to be her moral support. My legs, however, seem to have a mind of their own and betray me, and I find myself running down the familiar footpaths that wind towards the eastern region of the district - even after all these years, I know the path like it's the back of my hand. The putrid smell of raw fish reaches my nostrils and the view of a more secluded beach appears in my vision.
I come to a stop in front of two small, but cozy houses, which have been abandoned - my old home and Annie's old home. There've been several people who have asked us if we were ever planning on selling them and every time, we've replied with a no. Fumbling for the key under the doormat, I unlock the door and step into the house I'd deserted three years ago - the house where I left all my treasured childhood memories, the place where I'd grown up.
As I sweep my hand across the top of our kitchen table, my fingers pick up the dust particles which have gathered over years of isolation. This table was where our parents taught us games. A stack of dusty cards lie messily on the far side of the table, beside three intact, lavender candles and a vase of fake flowers. A torn but useable chandelier hangs on the ceiling above, its dim light illuminating the room. The living room's still the same and as I pass by our parents' old bedroom, I hesitate for a moment before shaking my head and walking past it. From when we were small, we'd been taught at school that it's disrespectful to enter anyone's bedroom but your own. No matter how important or desperate the situation was, we'd have to knock on the door and wait patiently. If I were to be brutally honest, I'd stopped that ever since my own Hunger Games but for my parents' sake, I leave the door ajar without a peek.
I enter the bedroom I'd once shared with Rhea. Everything's still untouched. Her bedsheets are tidy, mine are sprawled all over the place. A drawer of our cupboard still sticks out awkwardly. The photo frames still hang above our beds, and the games we used to play still lay on the ground, unmoving, as do a few of our childhood books. There's a musty smell in the room, after years of no fresh air coming in from our closed window, but it still smells like home.
A triangular prism with a pictures frame on each surface, barely half the size of my palm, sits on Rhea's side of the small table between our beds, and I pick up, holding it between my thumb and index finger. The metal frame's rusted now, brown replacing the original silver colour, and the edges are jagged. I blow the dust that's gathered on the pictures away, and examine each picture, smiling as I do so. The first picture is a family photograph. It had used up quite a bit of money, but it was worth it. I was thirteen and Rhea was eleven, and the two of us stood in front of our parents, with Father's arms wrapped around Rhea and Mother's wrapped around me. I remembered whining in embarrassment: "Mum!" I'd protested. "I'm thirteen, not a kid anymore!" But, I'd smiled anyway.
The picture was taken in the middle of one of the hottest summers in District Four. My freckles were more prominent at the time and my skin was so tan that it almost seemed to be orange if I were to compare myself to my paler peers. Rhea's hair was bronze, just like mine, but she'd also had a few streaks of blonde hair from being in the sun too much. Our parents looked young - sure, there were a few wrinkles here and there, but their eyes didn't hold the worry and concern that only appeared after I'd come back from my Games with the heavy burden of Maya's death on my shoulders. And then, the grey hairs appeared, as well as more unnecessary wrinkles and concern for their son, who'd returned as a stranger.
The second picture is of Rhea and Annie when they were ever younger - perhaps, around ten. They're at the beach, giggling to each other and pointing out into the ocean at a boy swimming. The same eyes, the same hair and the same smiles but now, Annie's eyes, hair and smile are broken and pained. How did I lose so much and so quickly?
The final picture is one that I'm familiar with - of both myself and Rhea together. It was taken only a day before the day of my reaping, and it had been Rhea's last day of primary school. We'd celebrated over a family dinner with the Cresta's and she'd been over the moon because 'school's the biggest bore of my life'. The next day, she'd ended up bawling her eyes out over me.
I'd failed to keep her safe. The reasoning of her death may not be for anything I'd done, but I'd still failed. I'd failed Maya, Mother, Father and Rhea, and next, it's probably going to Annie - and I don't doubt it for a second, because of how I seem to continuously make reckless mistakes in my life. Setting the photo frame back onto the table and walking out the house again, I lock the door behind me and walk along the beach around the corner.
The humid breeze tickles my skin as I look out at sea, the familiar scent of the combination of sea and salt reaching my nose and I breathe in, wistfully. I do visit the beach often, but I had returned to this one in particular for a while now, and all the memories I'd built up come flooding back to me - when everything was perfect.
Stripping down to my boxers, I dive into the water headfirst. I race against no one in particular towards the island about six hundred metres away. The cold pulls me out of my thoughts and I streamline, swimming against the current as I pull my arms up out of water, one by one and pushing my palms backwards through the water. The adrenaline pumps through my veins as I surge forward, mentally urging myself to go faster. A few clumps of seaweed float on the water uselessly and I push them away in an attempt to avoid getting tangled in a mess, kicking harder. I only lift my head above the surface when I'm in dire need of oxygen - the coolness of the water feels infinitely better than the scorching of the sun.
When I reach the island, I turn back. This time, I swim with the current and I find myself back at the shore in what seems to only be a matter of seconds. I don't go home just yet. I sit on the sand and watch as the sun sets, the sky illuminating into warm shades of orange, pink and purple over the horizon. With a sigh, I pull my shirt and shorts back on, and turn back to my old house, wondering if I should sleep there for the night or not.
I don't. I go back home to where Annie is.