The fog of sensations engulfs me. Every sense elusive, overridden by the metallic bitterness staining the inside of my cheeks. I try to ignore the taste, but it's a desperate attempt to tether myself to anything beyond the desperate man in front of me.

Dad lingers in the doorway after watching my fit of panic, a specter of disdain and lost sympathy, a relic of who he was before it all crumbled. Had he held on, perhaps, even just a bit, he may have embraced us - no, me, actually. He still harbors love to Kaia somewhere in his hatred. Instead, he turned to a mistress in the form of liquid fire and drowned in his sins. It's all wishful thinking, anyway. The thought that our family would never not be the epitome of what happens after The Games.

He leans, hand clenching the doorframe's remnants, oblivious in sickness, wrapped in spite. He scrutinizes me in his drunken haze, comparing every twitch of my form to hers. His face twisted into something that looks remarkably like resentment.

"Your mother did this to you." It comes out with venom. He's slurring so much that anyone else would not catch it - but I've been here before. His words have long slipped down my throat is battered sobs and carved themselves into my very core.

"Nothing to do with you at all. She's ruined every ounce of you."

His words are harsh and the corners of my mouth begin to taste like salt. I force myself to relax my jaw, resisting the impulse to react. He lingers, waiting for my resolve to crumble. He wants, no, needs proof of any signs of weakness in order to justify his brigade. When the seams start to fray, he takes his opportunity.

"I was told women from Seven are strong. Were you strong enough to watch the Games last year, Annie? A woman from Seven dominated that fucking arena. She is what I was told. And I got stuck with you,"

He spits and it lands at my feet.

"Your mom had the looks, I'll give that crazy bitch that. But fuck, her bloodline is tainted." His gestures punctuate his words. Even in death, she bears the burden of his rage.

He forgets to add what was unsaid. Every fiber of your being reminds me of her and I cannot stand it.

"I'm fine, I'm okay."

I repeat and we pretend that my voice didn't crack twice. I try not to acknowledge that he wants me to beg for forgiveness for being born from my mother. The distance between the foot on my bed and the hallway seems immeasurably large, freezing, but I try my best not to quiver. I fail at that, too.

I'm too busy shoving my face between my knees to notice his retreat, instead it's signaled by the sound of a slamming door and the attempted start of a dying boat engine. Seemingly, it begins my opportunity to drag myself to the wash.

I catch my reflection in the shards of recently broken glass. Inside this house, my reflection burns.

I grab a chunk of ice from our small insulated fridge and forcefully breathe through my mouth. The smell of fish is too apparent for my taste. Combined with an uneasy stomach still recovering from our fight, I refuse to take the chance to inhale the slimy scent, instead focusing on my thoughts as I hold it beneath my eyes. Ice helps with swelling, though I question why it seems less efficient on swelling associated with tears.

The pain of the ice begins to settle into my bones. It's chilly, painful, and soothing - but does a poor job at distracting my swirling thoughts. Today is the day of the Reaping - where Districts 1 through 12 send two tributes to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. It's supposed to be some sick and twisted way for punish us for our rebellion against the Capitol 70 years ago. Everyone knows it runs much deeper than that, but I'm used to paying for the sins of my ancestors. The ultimate fault of existing where someone claims that we should not.

"This is the first year that you took out tesserae. It's not going to be you. Even if it was, someone would volunteer."

I don't bother to turn, instead opting to watch Kaia in the mirror. The scorn of pity looks less vicious in the reflection.

"I'm going on the boat before the reaping. Come." Her voice carries a demand tempered by sympathy, the illusion of choice offered. She steps forward, pulling my body towards her in what little comfort she knows how to give.

And it is comforting. Kaia is the only sense of security that I've felt for a very long time. I'd like to think that I can offer the same to her, though I have a hunch that she's too busy being protective to benefit from it. She pulls away and stares at me, unapproving but lacking judgement.

"Sit down." She ushers towards the closed toilet as she reaches for a drawer. I follow her instructions, ignoring how heavy the air feels.

Kaia moved in silently, a gentle hum echoing through the small enclosure. I kept my gaze averted, trying to avoid meeting my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I didn't want to confront the bruises on my skin, the dark circles beneath my eyes, the sickly pallor that had become a constant. But despite my best efforts to evade it, glimpses of my reflection taunted me in the periphery.

Kaia's comb moved through my hair in patient strokes, her silence a comforting gesture. We didn't need to talk about it, this was a common reality.

"I'm sorry, Annie," she whispered finally, her voice laced with empathy.

"It's not your fault, Kaia," I managed to murmur, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.

She shook her head gently, the comb stilling for a moment. Opting for silence, she began braiding my rust shaded hair. I watched her olive hands dig into my locks, going through the motions that she surely has memorized. Separate the top half of my hair, then create a fishtail braid on each side, meet to create one large fishtail. I can't help but let out a small giggle at the irony of choosing this specific style.

"Alright. Yeah, you're alright. Let's go."

Kaia moved through the decrepit shed, each footstep a sure marker of her location. It had seen better days. It was likely to never see them again. It seems like the only thing we are capable of is destruction here. Everything around us seems to twist, snap, and shatter before we follow suite.

The entrance creaks open, my attempt to follow halts abruptly as we approach the run-down boat. The sensation of the sand against my bare feet offers a comfort that is rarely given and I try to soak in this moment. Just in case my name is drawn from that crystal bowl, I want to remember this.

Kaia strides closer, exuding the grace of a victor, easily maneuvering through the dock to fetch our swaying raft. Her presence demands reverence and I say a silent thank you to the spirits of the sea for offering her this protection. Towering and dark-haired, she embodies the hue of olive skin—a testament to a life lived in the sway of the waves. She's long been ineligible for the Games at 22 and I begin to suspect that the spirits only look after their own.

She begins to unravel the ropes attaching the boat to the dock and I consider asking if she needs any help. I refrain, knowing that I struggle with the strength required but also that she would immediately deny any aid. My pale skin is already beginning to act as a reflecant in the sun, not appreciating the harshness that comes with daylight. It's such a harsh reminder of my inability to fit into the Career Districts, a black sheep among wolves.

She looks so happy in this moment. Her entire body stretches towards the waves as they splash aggressively today. The spirits know, today. Kaia doesn't seem to mind; instead, she seems to greet the splashes with a warm welcome. It doesn't take long for her yellow sundress to be stained with sea salt. It's an obvious reminder of the day, once again, our usual attire tucked away and our best hanging by our bones.

I sink my feet deeper in the sand and soak up yesterday's warmth that is still clinging on. There's a boat, much more expensive than we could ever dream of, floating in the distance. Otherwise, we are alone. It's not surprising. While many of us take solace in the water, too many families are whispering goodbyes and cooking favorite meals in their comfort of their homes. We did that once. A long time ago.

Kaia taps the boat's wooden boards, wordlessly urging me to snap out of it. Move. I climb aboard and hug my knees back to my chest. The sun has barely crept in and the air still bites at my skin. It's a reprieve from the sweat and panic of this morning. I hardly notice when she pushes the small vessel further into the waves.

"I'm going to miss this." I murmur, though I'm not sure whether I'm talking to myself or Kaia.

"Miss what? You're so much like mom is, Annie. You worry too much."

"Like how Mom was."

"Like how Mom was."

There's an understood silence. I lean back, hoping for the sun to consume me. It begins to feel warm - then manifests into a burn. I wasn't meant for this district, not in the way Kaia and Dad are. Mom was from District 7. Large, ever expansive, and much, much colder.

"Do you ever miss her?" Kaia is the first to break the silence. I contemplate whether she can read my thoughts or if the look on my face gives it away.

"Sometimes. It depends. I don't know."

And truly I don't. Mom - a mix of honeyed coasted florals on good days, ash and whiskey on bad ones. She'd wander around with crimson pouring from her skin, a glaze over her eyes that verified that she wasn't fully aware of the things in front of her. But in her daze, in whatever nightmare consumed her from week to week, she would brush my hair and sing lullabies. She would rock herself from heel to heel while throwing her arms over me, matching her rhythm to the boats that swayed through the window. And we would be silent. And we would pretend to not notice the smell of blood in the air, or how rough the gauze was against my skin.

"Do you know why? Why was she like that, Kaia?"

Kaia's features soften, hesitancy evident, her eyes going distant before allowing in a deep breath. I decided to lean back into the hull, letting myself be set aflame with my eyes closed. This small act of privacy is the best I can offer.

"Maybe not today. Or any day. There's never a good day to talk about Mom unraveling, I guess," she scoffed. I'm not sure who at.

"We had an aunt - a tribute in the 59th Hunger Games. In true District 4 fashion, she teamed with the careers. With us. We are the careers, you know. Despite how shitty our life is here." The lack of hidden cameras often gave Kaia an increased confidence and rage.

"She made it pretty far, I've seen the games. I found an old copy of it before we found Mom with a piece of rope wrapped,"

Anger surges, her breath hitching.

"Forget it. But I found the copy. She was stabbed - repeatedly. Mom watched it, lost it. It was easier for Dad to protect you, you were still young. You didn't get it yet. Me? I would catch her in the middle of the night, curled up on the couch, a copy of the games flashing from the TV. Over, and over, and over..."

I rolled over to take a peak at her, only to see her trying to catch her composure. Decided it's best to bury my face in folded arms instead. This is already hard, and she doesn't need someone staring at her in pity to make it worse.

"She was stabbed in the legs. The tribute from 2 threw knives that hit its target but not with the intended accuracy. She bled out slowly and was left to die. The recording has her screams, her begs for someone to kill her. Nobody did. Sometimes I would find Mom on the kitchen floor, carving her legs."

I winced.

"Sorry. She was in a lot of pain. She's not in pain now."

"Dad is."

"Yeah."

"I look just like her," I move my head to rest in my folded hands. "He has a hard time with it. I see the way he looks at me."

She leans back and doesn't deny it. But we know. With every sway to the rhythm of the ocean, every soft lullaby in the pitch black of our home, every breakdown.. every unraveling.

"I wish Mom fixed it rather than handing it to me. It feels like some sick generational curse."

"Maybe it is."

"Maybe. When we were little, I always loved how Nana would pinch me, telling me that I was their own piece of District 7 in District 4. They seemed so proud that we represented our parents, that you represented a piece of Dad and I represented a piece of Mom" The last part came out dirtier than intended. Kaia holds her tongue.

"Then she took a kitchen knife and carved herself to pieces in disgust with herself."

"Funny how that turned out. I'm the embodiment of a drunken abuser, you of a self-destructive lunatic."

We laugh and let that be.

The sound of the ocean surged forth, filling the gaps in conversation with its ceaseless rhythm.

The boat swayed softly, the water's rhythmic motion matching the anxious beat of my heart. I can't shake the weight of today. This is my last chance to avoid the reaping. Kaia made it unscathed, even taking more bread than I did, and she was safe from the horrors of the Hunger Games. But today, I was the one facing this stupid, cruel lottery. I wonder if they'll try to make it interesting this year, purposefully rig the draw to someone's family to make it interesting. My skin seems to burn in response, as if the sea begins to whisper a silent reprimand. They seem to do that every year, purposefully pulling a handful of specially picked opponents for the arena, often composing of prior victor's families or government officials children. It's a harsh reminder of the control they keep over us. They never admit to it.

That likely wouldn't happen this year, or maybe it would, but nobody from District Four has made it past the Cornucopia since Finnick Odair. A 14 year old is considered a child in the games, the Capitol's show that they can brutally murder the youngest of our children without resistance. A sharp stab collects in my chest as I recall his games, he was too young to understand that type of pain. But he won, and he survived, though surely benefiting from the help of a wealthy family's training capabilities and hailing from a Career district. He continued this luxurious life, if you don't believe in the rumors, that is. Whispers between the women of our district, spoken behind closed doors of how the Capitol sells him off in return for his defiance. The defiance of refusing an agonizing death for show.

The reaping loomed closer, and I grappled with defiance versus fear. The pain and suffering was inevitable - how ethical is it to wish that it was someone else? I am weak, a poor contender and representative from our district. But then again, who is prepared to fight for their life against 23 other contenders? No - 23 children.

If you've even made it this far, I'm so thankful for your support of my writing. I am definitely not an author! However, I felt like Finnick and Annie's story never received the love that it deserved. Granted, the Hunger Games isn't centrally focused around a romance but rather political power.

I am going to try to keep as close to the books as I am capable of doing while only offering small changes. I felt like Annie's weakness in other fanfictions (though I love them so much!) are too pronounced, and The Hunger Games series offered limited background as to her emotions outside of breakdowns. I always imagined Annie to be as strong and capable as Finnick - just with severe PTSD.

As a heads up, one of the major changes will be that Johanna wins the 69th Hunger Games rather than the 70th. My personal flaw is that I love her too much to exclude her. Also, I really want to be able to flesh our her and Finnick's relationship as there was simply not enough time in the movies to be able to do so.

Thank you so much for the support! I'll add a shameless plug that it helps others see my work if you favorite/follow/review, but it's totally okay if that's not your style :)