Blood. There's so much blood - where is it coming from?! It's soaked through my clothes, dripping down my legs in bright streaks, a constant flow. I look around, but I'm the only one here. There's a thick forest canopy overhead and the sound of running water, but not another soul.
I'm completely alone.
Realization strikes me as I look down. Centered in my abdomen is a silver trident, through and through. I reached down to yank it out, but it's not budging. Wait? Is this the trident that was gifted to Finnick?
I pull at it again, desperate to get this out of my body. The pain is excruciating, each breath causing more blood to pour down my body. A cannon goes off. I realize where I am and I scream.
"Annie! Hey, Annie, wake up!"
My body bolted upright before I could process its decision. I'm covered in sweat, soaked rust ringlets forming on my cheeks. I grip the sheets - struggling to process how I got here. In bed. But I fell asleep on the couch?
Mags stands at the foot of the bed, the classic look of concern plastered across her face. She had nothing else to say, instead rounding the bed and taking a seat at the edge, patting the spot next to her. Without hesitation, I crawl forward like some sort of desperate animal, immediately curling into her to begin to sob. The tears came in a torrent, a true downpour as each one racked my body.
I try to stay quiet, to have a quick and hardly noticeable meltdown, but I could feel myself fighting against this. I want to rip out my vocal cords with purple fingers and wring out every ounce of this sorrow that still inhabits my core. I'm so tired of feeling this way.
Every anguished attempt to calm myself ends with a round of despair much worse than the last. Images flash through my head, as though my life is playing back in slow motion. How horrified Mom would be if she were alive to see this. How Kaia might turn into her, how I might damn her to the same fate if I don't find a way out of this. And Calypso. Callie is watching this all on a dusty tv that is only used for this occasion because the electricity costs are too high. She can't see me like this, she can't watch how hard this is and know that it was supposed to be her.
And with every outburst, Mags takes a veiny, aged hand and redirects me to the bend of her neck. She smells like oak and cotton and suddenly I am eleven years old again, swaying on the deck of Kaia's new boat with high winds and low tides. Mags is much smaller than I am - but she doesn't seem to mind. She's too busy running her hand through my - rather disgusting - hair, humming a lullaby and rocking slightly. I begin to question whether this is really for anything or if it is simply just suffering. It's not making me stronger, if anything, it's clawing it's way down every essential organ and leaving deep scars. The scars have no benefit, the suffering has no right. Suffering is just suffering.
"I," I choke, "I - I don't deserve you." It was a piece of a thank you.
She leans into my hair, laying a small kiss on my temple, and pauses. "You didn't deserve any of this."
My breathing begins to calm and Mags decides that's enough weeping for today. She stands, fixes my hair once again, as though she has done before every daughter that has stood before her, and wipes my tears with the back of her thumb.
"I don't mean to rush away. I promised my grandson that I would watch after Oleander - so I must check on him. We have," She looked out the window to analyze the passing flora, "two hours before we arrive. Finnick is perfectly capable of preparing you."
She patted my hand and pulled on it twice, a clear command to stand. I complied. She never let go of it until we hit the doorway of my cabin, nor did she let go of it while she waited on Finnick to arise. She only let it slip when he was already on his way down the hallway, his hair a mess, a brush in one hand. He makes eye contact with me and whistles - Mags and I roll our eyes at the same time.
"Make them like her." Mags demands once Finnick is finally in earshot. It's a funny sight, Mags is half the height and a quarter of the weight of the towering Finnick Odair. But here she stands, tapping one foot impatiently, a motherly look of disapproval.
"No problem, Ma." It comes out slow and sarcastic but loving, only verified when he leans over to kiss her cheek. Mags accepts this, slowly making her way to Ollie's room as we watch. And then it's just Finnick and I.
"Sooo," I bounce on the tips of my toes, "Mags already handled the daily breakdown. I guess you swoop in for the fun?"
He chuckles, pushing me back into the room. It feels oddly intimate, but I imagine everything to do with Finnick Odair is.
"You get to spend two hours with this," I gesture to myself as I walk backwards into the room. I catch my reflection and flinch, though I hope it's not noticeable. The half smile on his face says it is.
"Gladly," He purrs. My cheeks flush and I pray that he associates it with the episode.
I follow him into the washroom, choosing to sit on a velvet green chair that overlooks a mirror covering the entirety of the wall. Halfway up is a beige counter filled with more products than our local shops have in stock. It's quite extravagant, though obviously a show of wealth.
My reflection catches me off guard. I'm still healing from the bruises that I've given myself, but the girl staring back at me cannot be me. Her reddish brown hair is in knots, the fishtail braids no longer distinguishable. I would describe her as violet, the color beneath her eyes, across her arms, a description of the bruises still healing on her hands. As if I could somehow get any paler, she is. Sea green eyes are vibrant, the hue intensified by the amount of tears encircling them. This isn't me. But it is. Despite everything, it still is.
Finnick must have noticed the change in the atmosphere for he was quick to turn the chair to face him instead. I expect him to look away, to turn his face to the ground like everyone else has. Instead, he stares directly at me, no judgement, no hesitation.
"I'm going to do everything that I can to get you through this." It's hardly audible, but it's Finnick.
I throw my arms around him, not thinking, just willing myself to believe him. Believe that he hasn't said this to every other tribute that's come on this train. At the end, I'm another stranger. Briefly entering his life, just to die in an arena that will soon been immortalized. I wonder how silent the train ride back is.
He tenses, as though this movement is foreign to him. Slowly, he wraps his hands around me and holds tight. Unforgivingly tight, as though I might slip through at any second. Dust to the wind without a trace.
"I want you to remember me," I whisper and his fingers dig into my back, "I'm sorry that this may be me at my best, but I want someone to remember me. I'm terrified of being forgotten."
"Nobody is going to forget you Annie."
I pull back, staring at him with an intensity that I feel is vital. He just nods and wipes away a tear that I didn't know escaped. I wonder if the tributes are ever forced to see the arenas in person.
My head is resting against the back of his hand and there's that look again - that we both know you're going to die look.
"Are you going to turn me back around?" It comes out worse than I intended, and I account how this seems to be a pattern lately.
"No, I want it to be a surprise." His lopsided smile is back but the look in his eyes hasn't faded.
"Don't you have a whole team who does this for you? I'm nervous," I can't help but laugh with him.
"I've learned a few things in the amount of time I've spent with my stylists."
"So, the rustic, messy, half-naked Finnick Odair isn't the real Finnick?"
His smile drops slightly, but is still there. All he does is nod a quick 'no' as he reaches over my shoulder to grab a can of something that smells like alcohol. He begins to work.
I can't help but analyze him, the knotted expression on his face as he braids back my hair, the way he bites the inside of his bottom lip and narrows his eyes when it doesn't go how he wanted the first time. He's got an olive tone that looks real, confirming that he is still out at sea quite often despite the recent victory. Good. That's home, nobody should ever have their home ripped away from them. His eyes are always so distant, never quite here, but I can't pass any judgement on it.
"Who is the real Annie Cresta?" He asks in that low, velvet voice, just enough to break the daydream. I wish I could stop shivering every time he does that.
"Uh, I guess I have a sister, her name is Kaia. My dad is a fisherman, we all live together in a small home on the lower side. It's probably not the luxury that you're used to-," He raises an eyebrow at that, "-but it's pretty quite and right up to the beach."
He flashes his teeth in quite the smile, "It sounds like you have quite the view. However, I was asking about you. Not your dad, not your sister. But they sound very lucky to have you."
"Oh, there's not much else,"
"I don't believe that." He leans in close, practically a hum in my left ear. My eyes flutter shut in response and I hate it. I haven't had a friend in years, it's quite pathetic. Just as I make one, I'll disappear.
"Do you have any questions in mind?"
"Favorite color? Hidden talents?" He has dimples, they crease deeper into his silky skin every time he asks another question.
"Oh, hm, favorite color is red. I know you're probably expecting green and blue, some ocean theme, right?" I laugh and tap his arm, "but red is so rare where we're from. You can find it in the shells sometimes, or on lobsters if you're lucky enough to catch one. It's lucky to me, I think," I contemplate, "What's yours?"
"Blue."
I can't help the snort that ripples through the atmosphere. "Blue? Isn't that a bit ironic with the whole ocean thing and such,"
"Yeah. There's not a lot of it in the Capitol."
I instantly regret the teasing.
We sit for awhile, chatting about District Four, talking about what we miss most from home. Apparently, Finnick knows just the place to catch lobsters and promises to show me them someday. I scrunch my eyebrows when he looks away. Surely, he knows where we are. When his hand falls to his lap, passing my ribcage in it's descent, I flinch. It's his turn to look confused.
"Do you have nightmares? Or did you?" It slips out, but I feel lighter, honest.
"I do. Why," He pauses and scans my face, "are you beginning to have them?"
"I had one last night," I say. He waits on an elaboration, I wait on him to give his own, neither comes.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He's not looking at me anymore, instead staring at brush.
"Yeah, actually. Do you think it could help? Talking about it - I mean. I've never had many nightmares before, just .. just when there was the Reaping coming up."
"It could help. It depends on who you are."
I nod. "I had a dream that I was in the arena and someone impaled me," I sighed, debating on whether to continue, "and when I looked down, it was your trident."
I flinched as his brush tore through my hair a little too harshly. Resisting the urge to grab my hair, I stared at his harsh gaze. He was thinking, though his entire body was tense. Did I remind him all the people he killed with it?
"I would never hurt you." His ocean blue eyes looked away. I don't know what to do, obviously I overstepped here.
"I-I know that. You're my mentor. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up harsh memories or anything, I don't know why I dreamt it. It's silly, I g-"
"No, it's not. You're worried, it's normal." He finally looked back at me. I would give everything to know what's running through his mind, but I can't tell. He's wringing his hands and I reach out to grab them. He doesn't jerk away this time, instead opting to look past me. But he's here, and willing to let me offer a small amount of comfort. I rub my thumb across his skin - it's much softer than I would expect.
"Shouldn't I be comforting you?" It's above a whisper, but barely.
"I'm not coming out of that arena, Fin-"
"Don't say that,"
"I'm not, Finnick. It'll make it easier on me, on you, on Mags. I'm going in there to die," he squeezes my hands so hard that I'm worried they'll break, "and that's okay. That's what 1500 or so tributes before me have done. But you and Mags, you bear this pain. I can make it a little easier while I'm here."
His jaw is so tight that the outline of his tendons are visible, but he is silent. His eyes meet mine and its panic, confusion, and something else. It's the same look that animals in capture have before slaughter. But there is no threat here.
"You're going to try to survive, right?" My heart shattered.
"Of course. I'm not going to sacrifice myself," He flinches at my laugh, "but I'm being realistic too. I've come to terms with that, I think."
"I'm going to do everything that I can to get you out of there."
"Get Oleander out instead," I pulled away this time, "Seriously, Mags has been through enough. She doesn't need this too. Nobody will miss me anyway." I laugh, though it breaks at the end.
"I would. You shouldn't say that." His nerves are being stretched thin, but I feel that this is an important conversation.
"You would for a few months, maybe a few years. And you'd live, you'd forget. Mags isn't going to forget."
At this point tears are brimming his eyes and I'm utterly confused. Why is he getting so upset?
But then I remember that he's never have a tribute walk out of those woods. Or that desert. He's living the same nightmare over and over again, there's no end. This never ends. I'm not making it easier. I'm just reminding him.
Without a word, he gets up, gathers his items, and he leaves. I have to tell myself to close my mouth and bite my tongue. Copper and metal fills my senses as I watch his retreating form. The hallway is hardly lit, the sway of the train being visible. We hardly have any time left before we are in the Capitol, but I don't care. I didn't mean to hurt him. Why am I breaking everything?
I don't realize that I'm sobbing until I'm on the floor dry heaving. I don't notice when Ollie comes in, either. He has his hands wrapped around my body as I shake, gently repeating "what happened?" over and over. I cant breathe.