But why?
That's the first thing that comes to mind. Why, out of all the victors, have they chosen to look out for my son? I mean, I would, but obviously I'm biased - I'm his father. Could Katniss have something to do with this? Maybe she convinced the others to save Peeta? There's simply no other explanation. Why are they even picking a tribute to save in the first place? Human instinct is to save yourself. These people are going against everything the Games stand for.
On the screen, the woman who took the mutt's fangs for Peeta lays dying and wheezing on the beach. Peeta and Katniss stay beside her while Finnick watches the trees. In case those rabid monkeys return.
Up close, the victor seems to be twitching, her bone-thin figure sprawled on the sand, her gaunt eyes staring frantically at nothing. Her choice to have drug over food shows in her ribs. A deep sadness washes over me as I watch her struggling to leave this life. Katniss looks a little lost as the woman grips her fingers, but Peeta steps right in. He's so gentle as he speaks, stroking her hair like he does Katniss. He understands that this is simply another dying human being. I think that might be guilt shining in his eyes.
"With my paintbox at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby's skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water."
I can so clearly see every color that he describes. I hope the dying tribute does too. She's watching my son with eerie intensity, hanging on to every word.
"One time," he continues. "I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for sunlight on white fur. You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of colors. One by one. I haven't figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of blue here or purple there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air."
As she draws her final few breaths, the morphling takes her hand, which is covered in blood, and paints a delicate, crimson flower on Peeta's cheek. A thank you. A goodbye.
"Thank you," Peeta murmurs. I can hear how gentle his voice has become and there are tears in his eyes. "That looks beautiful."
I touch my own cheek, overcome by this sweet exchange between strangers. He doesn't even know her name - and I've yet to hear Caesar say it. That bugs me about the announcers. They adore the strong tributes, the beautiful ones, but never the critically disabled or broken. And the ones they adore are really just faking that exterior of champion. The Games don't end when they leave the arena.
Peeta's kindness and his empathy are so rare to see in people these days. It stimulates something in my chest. It takes me a moment to realize it's pride. That's my son. The whole country is watching him treat this shattered, sick, dying woman with the same care he shows everyone else. When the woman's hand drops limply to her side, Peeta takes the dead victor's body in his arms and floats her in the water.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry." He gives her a final stroke, then returns to Katniss for some comfort.
The morphling. Mags. People seemed to be dying all over for him today and I can see on his face that he knows it.
The losses are weighing heavily on the trio. None of them want to move. They're covered in blood, salt and gore; numbness seems to be blocking out their reasoning. So, they clean their weapons, tap a tree, and drink some water in almost silence. Their blisters have begun to scab and all three victors are itching the dark crusty bumps. Eugh.
"Don't scratch," Katniss advises, flexing her fingers hungrily. "You'll only bring infection."
Spending the night on the beach doesn't bode well. In open sight, right in the path of danger, it's a very stupid idea. But it's almost two in the morning and there's not much time left to sleep anyway. My own eyes are heavy, but I can't bring myself to leave the screen. Too much has been happening.
Katniss offers to take watch, but Finnick says he'd rather do it. In the last few hours of the darkness, he allows himself to grieve over Mags. Now that the action has ceased and there's a lull, I realize how much she meant to him.
"Well, we see a very different side of Finnick Odair," Claudius Templesmith says. "Our favorite, beautiful, trident-wielding victor does have a suffering side after all!"
That comment really pushes my buttons. He's Finnick Odair. First of all, nothing he'll do will cost him sponsors. Have you seen the guy? Second, are they implying he's weak? The boy lost the person who he treated like his grandmother. He's entitled to a night of grief. On the beach, he whispers a thank you before his hands begin to weave the long grasses into bowls and mats. The moonlight catches the tears sliding down his cheeks. A deep hatred begins to brew for the announcers, even though it's what the Capitol has been doing for years. They're so safe, so removed. How can they sit and say these things?
I catch a few hours of sleep myself after that. I doubt the Gamemakers will send anything else tonight and a few hours are better than nothing.
I expect to miss a little bit of the morning's events, but I don't. When I wake, Katniss and Peeta are still sound asleep, curled up next to each other on the beach. I check in with my older sons, do a few trades at the bakery, then return to the screen. Why? I don't know. It's a powerful magnet and I'm just a tiny particle - everyone in the districts is. We're trapped, glued to the Games, unable to stop watching the horrific things happening to our children.
It isn't until mid-morning that Katniss stirs. Finnick, who hasn't slept at all, is waiting down by the water. His eyes are still rimmed with red, but she pretends not to notice. He's cracking open shellfish with a stone, then letting their messy insides fall into one of the woven bowls. "They're better fresh," he says as she approaches.
"Are they up?" my wife asks, coming into the living room at the sound of voices. It's been a pretty slow morning as far as the Games are concerned, which gives us some time to breathe.
"Yes, Katniss is. Peeta's still asleep, but after everything that happened yesterday, I think it's in order."
"Are the other boys dealing with the bakery?" She comes over and sits next to me.
"Yeah, I said I'd join them again in a bit."
Katniss is examining her scabs from the fog blisters, rinsing them in the water. They must still itch because both she and Finnick are stretching their blood-caked fingers, trying to resist the temptation to claw at their skin again.
"Hey, Haymitch," Katniss snaps as she storms back into the beach. "If you're not too drunk, we could use a little something for our skin."
"Can she do that?" I ask. "Call out to her mentor?" There's not really a rule against it, but I'm not sure the Gamemakers would be too thrilled with her breaking the fourth wall.
"In case you haven't noticed, Katniss really doesn't give a damn about rules. That girl does what she wants when she wants to do it."
That's true. And it seems to have worked because a parachute floats down a moment later.
"About time," Katniss grumbles, but she's smiling so the tone doesn't really seem all that threatening.
Finnick and Katniss open the tube enclosed and begin to smear dark, oily ointment on their their scabs. It must smell because both of them wrinkle their noses. The result is two creatures that could have crawled from the pits of hell. Greyish-green and covered in knobbly scabs. But their faces relax some and they stop fighting the urge to scratch, so I guess the medicine's doing its job. The two seem to be in better moods, too, relieved of the intense discomfort. It turns out Finnick likes to banter almost as much as Katniss.
"Poor Finnick," Katniss croons mockingly as the former surveys his skin in horror. "Is this the first time in your life you haven't looked pretty?"
"It must be. The sensation's completely new. How have you managed it all these years?"
"Just avoid mirrors. You'll forget about it."
"Not if I keep looking at you."
A question lurks behind my lips, but I can't seem to force it out. There's so many potential consequences. But I need to talk it over with someone. Confirm that it's not all in my head. At last, I make up my mind to just do it. "Have you noticed?" No turning back now.
"Noticed what?" My wife's still focused on the arena where Finnick and Katniss are now trying to scare Peeta by putting their ghastly faces up near his.
"How people keep sacrificing themselves?"
I've gotten her attention. "You saw it too?"
"Yes," I assure her. "First Four, then Six."
"What made them do it, do you think? The announcers seemed convinced it was two coincidences."
"I - I can't -" I gives her a pointed look. I just wanted to see if she'd noticed it, too. She can't forget we're still being watched. There's no harm in observations, but as soon as we start giving opinions we're in trouble. I suddenly realize how dangerous this topic is. Why did I even bring it up?
But my wife's always been a little reckless. "Who cares? They've already taken Peeta. What else can they do to us?"
Lot's of things. I can think of about fifty possibilities right off the top of my head. Kill her. Kill me. Whip us. Take our remaining boys. Burn the bakery. Everything from murder to torture spins itself conveniently behind my eyelids. I try to signal her to stop talking, to shut up.
"Sorry," she mutters, the anger subsiding. "I think that the sacrifices are a coincidence, just like the announcers said. You're out of your mind." The last phrases are said with a monotonous, bored tone that's fooling no one, least of all me.
I sigh, turning my attention back to the Quell. Peeta's awake now, thanks to the two green-grey monsters. Katniss and Finnick are doubled over with laughter, pointing at Peeta's startled and mock disdainful expression. They collect themselves, take another look at his face, then lose it again.
"Not funny," Peeta says, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Katniss is holding onto Finnick to keep herself upright. "You - your face -" she pants in between laughs.
Another parachute arrives with bread just as Katniss and Finnick are finally catching their breath. The recognition of the bread wipes the smile clean of Odair's face as he examines the bread. It's from his district, clearly tinted a seaweed green. But he doesn't voice any of the depressing thoughts that must be circling inside his head. "This will go well with the shellfish."
"Come on," Katniss laces her fingers into Peeta's. "I'll help you put on some medicine, too. It looks awful, but I promise it helps."
"I was hoping for a morning kiss," Peeta says, pretending to be affronted. "Instead I get you two varmints in my face."
Katniss rolls her eyes and opens the tube of ointment. "Prepare yourself, this reeks."
Peeta's scrunches his nose up as she begins to rub a glob of the stuff into his arm. I find myself smiling. He's made that face so many times before - like when he'd have to clean the ovens or when the eggs or milk would arrive spoiled.
Still, a groan of pleasure escapes him as the medicine sinks in. "Oh, it feels so much better," he sighs. "I think I took off a layer of skin last night itching."
"Yeah, my fingers were all bloody," Katniss says, working up the arm. "But apparently, Haymitch didn't take the hint to send us something until I called him out."
"He's probably drunk," Peeta laughs. He glances down at the arm Katniss has almost completely covered. "Looks like I'm dying or something."
"You don't notice it after a while." She squeezes some into his hand. "Here, help me. We've got a lot of skin to cover."
While they slather my son in the ointment, Finnick's skilled fingers finish shelling the shellfish.
Breakfast is the closest thing to a pleasant meal that I've seen so far in the Quell. The trio jokes and crack each other up. For a moment, I forget we're even in the Games at all.
"Your face when we woke you up, Peeta," Finnick reminisces. "You'd have thought we'd attacked you or something."
"Well forgive me, it's not normal to be woken up by decomposing monsters."
They all laugh, licking the juice from the shellfish off their fingers. The sun's already risen high in the pink sky and the ocean laps at the sand. If you ignore the jungle and what's waiting inside, it could be a pleasant day at the beach with friends.
"Do you think we'll scare people off with this nasty stuff?" Finnick holds out his arm like a zombie.
"Maybe," Peeta laughs.
"But doubtful." Katniss takes a sip of water.
Suddenly, all three sit up straight and turn towards a sector of the arena. It's vibrating and trees can be seen crashing down or bending in half. The camera splits and we see water pouring down into the jungle. One of the victors who didn't join a "main alliance" screams and sprints away from the incoming breaker. But the water just scoops her up, throwing her under. It doesn't even matter if you're a strong swimmer now - the magnitude of the wave is too much. The victor gasps, spewing water from her lungs until she can't hold her head above the water any longer. When it hits the existing ocean, the surf comes up far enough to carry away Katniss, Peeta, and Finnick's discarded jumpsuits.
Well, looks like they'll be in their underclothes for the rest of the Games after all.
"Look," my wife points. Another group of people have staggered out onto the wet sand. They're bright red and I immediately recognize them as the Seven and Three alliance. Judging from the color, I assume they've been doused in the blood rain.
"What's happened to them? Why didn't we see?" I ask.
"Oh, they showed it earlier. You were still asleep. They got caught in the blood rain. One of the men, Seven I think it was, hit the force field, but they didn't have a Finnick to save him. Besides, the blood practically suffocated the rest of them. They've been trying to get to the beach ever since."
"Oh." That explains why they look so exhausted. The woman from Three, Wire-something or other, is stumbling around in circles, while her counterpart lays on the sand.
The other girl, the only Seven tribute left, stomps her foot and shrieks in irritation. "Stay still!" she screeches at the deranged woman. "Don't you want me to keep you alive? Because I have no problem killing you now." The girl shoves the Three tribute over, her frustration getting the better of her.
Finnick, Katniss, and Peeta have blended into the tree line and are lurking in the shadows now, looking to one another for a cue. They're too far away to recognize who's arrived and the newcomers all look the same anyway from afar - bloody red.
Finnick is the first to move. His face brightens. "Johanna!" With great bounds, he begins to run for her and the rest of the party.
Great. I guess the temporary relief of supposed friendship and laughter has ended.
We're back to the Games.