Welcome to "Skin & Bones" - thank you so much for even clicking on this little piece of my thoughts.
I felt like Finnick and Annie's story never received the love that it deserved. I struggle with the helpless & hopeless idea of Annie- I love the fanfictions that display her this way, but I want to take a more 'strong, independent, but broken' version that I personally feel like would be more likely to be Finnick's counterpart. There's a line in Mockingjay where Katniss reflects upon Annie, quoting her as unstable but not as mad as described. I'm taking this and running.
So here we are. This is my own personal love letter to every women who has gone through immense trauma but is still lovely, still strong, and still just as capable.
I'd love if you can play this while you read! watch?v=DFuFDdL9sl4 - paste into Youtube
For a moment, a fog engulfs me - the moisture circling around my head, sinking into my skin, drawing itself down my throat. The rise and fall of my chest takes an effort that's far more immense than it should be; the scent of dust and clay is suffocating. I want to reach down my throat and force my lungs to work myself, to stop this insufferable shivering and panic in its wake. Instead, I force my eyes shut until stars begin to dance and squeeze myself in a way that looks as though I might break if I let go. I think that I might. A loud crash from an adjacent room causes my teeth to clamp down on my tongue, a thick metallic bitterness fills my mouth. One, two, three four. I am here. Four, three, two, one. It will be over soon. I try to ignore the taste, but it's a filling my mouth at a pace identical to the man storming towards my open door.
I snap my eyes back open, though the initial view is blurry from tears. We stare in silence as I blink them away. Dad lingers in the doorway, gripping a jar that makes my nose instinctively scrunch. It's strong and spilling down the edges, his breath smelling of spoiled fruits and sour wheat. The glass is cracked, its contents running down the edges and over his olive skin. He's sticky and sweating, hardly upright. This is the first that we've seen him in days. He's usually off somewhere quiet, too busy drowning in his sins to realize the amount of time that passes.
His anger is evident as he scans me up in down, assessing the damage of my latest outburst. He is a specter of disdain and lost sympathy, every judgement he casts is clear in his expression. His tall frame leans to the right, hand clenching the doorframe's remnants, oblivious in sickness, wrapped in spite. I wait for it to break under his weight. It groans and creaks but remains steadfast. He silently scrutinizes me in his drunken haze, comparing every twitch of my form to hers. He doesn't need to speak to show this, his green eyes narrow and his mouth is held in a snarl. 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 in battered sobs and carved themselves into my very core. I choose to focus on folding my hands in my lap rather than his torrent.
"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. I can't help but fidget awkwardly, clawing the wooden base of my battered bedside. The rotting wood easily finds a home beneath my fingernails, releasing the smell of moss and oak. He seems frustrated that I don't take the bait and entertain him. I'm far too tired to entertain this any longer. He is exhausting.
"You look just like her. Why don't you do yourself a favor and start acting like her?"
He spits and it lands at my feet. Even in death, she bears the burden of his rage. I've spent countless hours staring at the ceiling, listening to the crunch of broken glass beneath thick boots, desperately wondering how he ever got to this point.
He forgets to add what was unsaid. Every fiber of your being reminds me of her and I cannot stand it.
"I'm fine, Dad. Really. I'm not going to end up like Mom." 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. He died with her, whatever is left is not my father. It's all he can do to stay breathing. I stare back, though it only adds fuel to the fire and he sneers. 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. The likelihood that he comes back soon is next to none, but I refuse to be here when he returns. It begins my opportunity to drag myself to the wash, subtly wiping up liquor and spit, dragging along an old sock as I move. I catch myself in the shards of recently broken glass littering the hallway. I pass a mirror - I turn away. I do not want to look at her - and she does not want to be seen. The reflection burns.
I keep moving, albeit slowly, as though I feel like I am at risk of crumbling at any given second. Maybe I am. This is all routine at this point. I stop at the edge of the hallway, staring out two double doors that look directly at the sea. One door is left open from his sudden retreat, making his voice still audible in the distance. He's struggling, angry with the quality of his boat and grappling with a fishing line. I've long given up any hope that he brings anything home. Thankfully, District Four is so abundant with ocean life that hardly anyone ever goes starving. I'd be incredibly unlucky if I lived this life anywhere else.
After ensuring that he's too far out to notice my appearance, I grab a chunk of ice from our small insulated fridge and forcefully breathe through my mouth. I'm fine. I just need to calm down. Things are better then. 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. The burn of the ice begins to settle into my bones and I welcome the pain, a change from the usual shroud of nothingness. However, it does little to soothe the thoughts ricocheting in my head.
Today is the day of the Reaping - and my breath hitches at the reminder. Every year, the Capitol brings a dainty lady with sharp cheekbones and a shrill voice to choose the name of a male and female tribute to represent District Four. The unfortunate who are selected are forced to participate in the Hunger Games. I try to forget that we haven't won since Finnick Odair won the 65th. Last year was an open arena designed after a desert - naturally, our tributes perished impressively fast. A shiver trails its way down my spine.
"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 my sister in the echo of the class. The scorn of pity looks less vicious in the reflection.
"It doesn't make it any less tragic."
"No, it doesn't. But you have to learn how to accept things. Some things are just how are they are, Annie," She pauses and bites her lips, carefully choosing her next sentence, "I'm going on the boat before the Reaping. Come." Her voice carries a demand tempered by sympathy. It's an illusion of a 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 wash and I force myself to comply. I sit on a closed porcelain, she digs in a drawer; the air is suffocating. Kaia moves in silently, a gentle hum echoing through the enclosure. I kept my gaze averted, trying to avoid meeting myself in the bathroom mirror. I don'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. I didn't deserve that. She knew it too.
She shook her head gently, the comb stilling for a moment. Her lips separated, paused, before opting for silence. Instead, 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. I wonder if Mom taught her this - or if she sat alone on the floor of her room braiding the hair of her dolls in anticipation for this moment. She separates the top half of my hair, creating a fishtail braid on each side. I try not to flinch when she pulls it tight. She hesitates, thinks, and decides to meet the two to create one large fishtail that sits on the scrunched waves of the bottom half.
She snaps the elastic before looking in the mirror.
"Kaia, it's so pretty. Thank you so much," It comes out in a whisper as I meet her eyes. My auburn locks are braided neatly, small babyhairs lying flat and in control against pale skin. For the first time in a long time, I decide not to avoid analyzing my appearance. Most of the swelling around my eyes have begun to fade, giving way to a much calmer blush and path of freckles. I look away when her eyes fall to the floor.
"Alright. Yeah, you're alright. Let's go."
Kaia moves 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. I use this moment to decide an outfit for the day. Typically, everyone dresses in their best attire for the Reaping. I'd like to think that we're dressing our best in respect. The reality is that we're dressing how we want our family to remember us if they never see us again. To leave a good memory, to leave a memory of being clean and loved. I suppose if today is the last day that I am seen, I want to go out wearing evergreen.
I shake my head, as though the force will clear the thoughts from my head. They don't. I stand patiently at the door, listening to Kaia's chaotic movements. She's always been a force to reckon with, quick and cunning, as if nothing would ever find a home beneath her skin. I know it does, but I still find myself often wishing that I could have been more like her.
Ignoring the ghost in the hallway, she snaps the front door open and rushes out, running towards our docked boat. I pause in the doorway, watching. Kaia is much taller than I am with a thicker stature and muscles to match. She has on a rosemary themed dress, though it's already covered in saltwater and stains. We're the exact opposite and I resent it. Brunette and darker toned, similar to our parents. I was wrong from birth. While she's 22 and has long been ineligible for the Games, she would have thrived. Ugh. I want to rip my brain from my skull at the thought. I cannot bear to imagine where I'd be in she had.
I begin to follow, though several paces behind her. Just in case my name is drawn from that crystal bowl, I want to remember this. Weather worn slabs of wood and the smell of salt in the air, screeching fowls in the distance as they fight against the waves. This is home.
She looks so happy. Her entire body stretches towards the waves as the tide pulls aggressively today. Kaia doesn't seem to mind; instead, she seems to greet the splashes with a warm welcome. She pulls her hair into a bun as the heat begins to soak into us, already over pretending to care about her appearance. She doesn't need to. If it weren't for us, Kaia would have already gotten out of this slum, maybe moved several villages North and lived with a family much better than ours. But she's stuck here, tethered to us, our hands pulling her underwater with us. I've often thought of leaving, disappearing in the night, just to force her to begin to care for herself rather than me. I would have done it too if I wasn't convinced that she'd stay to take care of Dad.
She deserves so much better than this life.
"Are you coming or just going to stand there?" She laughs, trying to splash me but falling short.
"Do I have a choice?" I take a step forward with my words, though cautiously.
"If you don't, I'll drag you and you'll mess up all my hard work." She teases and inches closer, threatening. She isn't bluffing. I can't help but break out in a smile.
"I suppose I have no choice."
Stepping onto the small raft, I take notice of the lack of vessels in the water. Dad has long disappeared, the only remaining boats being ours and a rather large one far on the horizon. Most people are home with their families, praying silently to the deities of the sea to spare their own. But that's not how this works. Two families will go home to empty beds, a missing body at the dinner table. You need to stop thinking about it. I take a deep breath, bunch up my dress to avoid the stains Kaia will inevitably cause, and drift off to sea.