ANNIE & FINNICK

CHAPTER 5

Disclaimer: Honestly, do I look or sound at all like a rich, award-winning author? I didn't think so.

A/N: Well, here it is. And, I just realized how long it took me to update that one. Hehe, only a couple weeks, right? Sorry. So, here's the next little bit of Annie, and the awful perils she faces in her games. =) And this is the part that I recommend that my lovely readers leave some reviews – it makes me happy, and is very motivational (motivation = faster updates).

Now that I've begged and groveled for reviews, I can tell you this:

ENJOY.

I awake in the morning to a scorching heat, the sun beats down on my back and I can already tell it's burned red. I try to open my eyes, and find the glare of the sun is incredible. I squint my eyes, trying to get my bearings, as I look around in confusion.

I could have sworn…

I recall regretfully that I'm a contestant of the Hunger Games, that Finnick and my father and Dally are unreachable. I remember the events of the previous day, the concussion and the cold. The cold seems so unreal now that I'm faced with this astronomical heat, I wonder if I imagined the brutally chill temperatures last night…

I have been told I have an expansive imagination…

As I stiffly sit up and look around, I realize that I'm alone. The careers have left, undoubtedly in the hopes of catching a few of the weaker tributes early on, leaving me alone and unprotected…except for my spear.

Thankfully, they've left me at least that much in the name of protection.

I choose to take advantage of the situation. The supplies are unguarded, and I'm alone and virtually unsuspected. An opportunity such as this will not likely present itself to me again.

Carefully, with trembling fingers, I begin to sift through the various supplies we've gained from the Cornucopia. There's a little water, but not much. I expect we've been using a nearby water source, maybe an overflow from the dam. We're stocked with dried fruit, but no protein. Obviously, the game makers will be trying to draw us together as we hunt. And weapons. There is nearly an entire arsenal here, not to mention what they took with them. I know I can't effectively wield a sword, and I'm hardly efficient with the knives. I haven't got a chance throwing them. To be honest, just the sight of those weapons makes me apprehensive.

I tentatively select a few spears, and fill a black backpack with a bottle of water, a small portion of leftover duck, and a few packs of dried fruit. It's not enough that it'll be noticed as missing this early in the games, but it could keep me alive for a few days, if I'm careful.

I begin hiking in the direction opposite the careers' footprints, concealing my tracks with branches off the nearby trees. However, when I look back down into the valley, I see the camp, sitting there so vulnerably. I remember what I'd thought earlier; it's not likely I'll be in such an advantageous position again.

By now, my heart threatens to burst free of my ribcage as it hammers within me. My hands shake even harder as I fumble with the zipper of the pack, and take out the book of matches.

It's not like killing, I remind myself. It's hardly even cruel, for the Hunger Games. But still, it takes everything I've got to strike that match, and toss it onto the pile of sleeping bags. I watch, making sure that the camp catches fire, watching as the sparks begin to spread, creating a blazing inferno. When my eyes begin to sting from the smoke, I turn away, feeling proud of myself. And hoping that Finnick, too, will be proud of me.

As I make my way away from the burning camp, I assess my health. The throbbing in my head has subsided, but it's likely that I've sustained internal damage. However, despite that minor setback, I'm relatively unscathed aside from the scratch on my arm.

I soon realize that surviving on my own is no easy task, I don't refer only to just the difficulty I encounter as I hunt, trying to feed and protect myself. When I'm alone, there's no one there to remind me what's real, and what's not. I struggle with harsh fits of waking somnambulism, as I fight with the nightmares that haunt me, only to awaken and realize that I'm living in another one.

One nightmare, in particular, revisits me, time and time again. It starts beautifully, in an almost comforting way. I'm crouched on the floor of a boat, watching the sparkling waves beneath me. There's a spear in my hand, and I notice that someone's positioned themselves behind me, and they guide my hand as the spear punctures the smooth, slick side of a large salmon. I recognize the hand at the last minute as the same one that led me through the capitol, as Finnick Odair's hand, and then the dream-world shatters. The fish erupts with dark, dark blood that's way too dark, and the water stains a bloody red color, blood pours from Finnick's eyes, and my fingertips are also gushing with the rust-scented liquid. The fish, stiffening in its dead form, transforms into the boy I killed at the cornucopia – but then he's awake and shoving my head into the water, and I'm drowning, drowning, drowning.

This – this is what haunts me.

What IS reality, anymore?

It's about a week later when I awake to the rumbling sound of breaking concrete.

I wonder what this sound is, at first I think I'm dreaming still, but then I recognize the quakes and spasms of the earth to be an earthquake.

I jump to my feet, glancing around wildly. I know enough about water to recognize that it'll take less than an hour to completely fill the valley that we've been enclosed in.

I can already feel my mind begin to slip away from me, I begin to hyperventilate. I can't get enough air….memories of being trapped beneath water threaten to completely engulf my sanity.

Panic engulfs me. I run, no more than an instinctive animal trying to find high ground. My thoughts are distorted, my mind has become a whirlpool. And then the water breaks through what's left of the concrete dam.

It happens fast, the valley fills quickly. Already it's filling the dry creek beds, carving paths between the trees. My life begins to flash before my eyes, quickly.

The boat. My family. Fish. The red scrape on my knee. Drowning. Drowning. Drowning.

I'm bogged down in that memory, thinking of the way the waters, the same waters that were always my ally, attacking me, throwing me against the seafloor, filling my nose, and clouding my vision. The way I'd been tossed to and fro, the terror.

But then the memory changes, and something happens that I'm sure didn't happen that afternoon with my father.

I see a golden, godlike figure swimming toward me in powerful strokes. When he gets closer, I recognize him. It's…Finnick Odair. His strong arms wrap around my eight year old torso, pulling me out of the water and depositing me on the warm sand.

Finnick.

I remember my mentor.

And I remember that he's looking after me.

That he's doing all he can to keep me alive.

I force myself to focus, concentrating my thoughts on survival, the way he would want me to.

I know three things. I know that I can swim, probably better than anyone else in the arena. I know that there is plenty of water for me to swim in. And I know that maybe this water is an advantage to me.

Taking a deep breath, I do what my mentor would want, and I walk toward the waves that are crashing through the sparse forest and tearing the trees from the ground.

Swim parallel to the shore, Annie, I think, stepping toward the water.

As the first wave washes up around my knees, relief replaces the terror that's consumed me. When the next surge rushes toward me, I'm ready, and I dive forward.

Keeping an image of Finnick's glorious face in my mind, I allow the current to take me where it will.

I know how to keep my head above the water, and the strong current keeps me afloat. I'm glad I succumbed to the water, its cool, gentle pressure against my body soothes away my aches and pains. I had forgotten that this is where I belong, that I'm a fisherman's daughter from District 4. I suppose an arena could do that to you – take away your identity, and turn you into something no more than a frightened animal, struggling to stay alive. As I look upward into the sky, I see that the grey clouds that have gathered overhead are breaking – letting out torrents of large, fat raindrops that fall freely onto my uncovered face.

I lick my lips, the water is tangy and salty, sort of like the waters of my ocean, but with a different undertone. Something metallic, probably from the thousands of pumps regulating the water in this arena.

I'm not sure how long I've been drifting, I've lost sense of time. But something in the water ahead of me shocks me out of the calm, almost blissful reprieve I had been enjoying.

It's the dark, red stain of blood. It mars the beautiful, reflective surface of the steadily running water, spreading out further and further, its circumference growing larger and larger. In my surprise, I gasp, only to inhale a lungful of the water – the water that's been tainted with blood.

I cough, choking, as I try to eliminate as much of the poisonous fluid from my body. My ears ring, and I forget to hold my head above water. My sense of tranquility is completely gone now, it has been chased away by the taste of another child's blood in my mouth.

I wonder, does this make me a cannibal?

But now I'm underwater, with hardly half a breath of air to fill my lungs. I'm weak and tired from a lack of food, I'm dizzy and disoriented. I'm sure my sanity is highly questionable. Tendrils of red drift lazily around me, small particles spreading out to color even more of the water that was once my safety.

As my small store of oxygen depletes, my mind is assaulted by memories from my childhood, playing before my open, stinging eyes in snatches.

Swimming. I remember thinking that swimming was good, that I like the ocean. We were friends.

Fish on the deck of our boat. They smelled awful. Someone's strong arms, teaching me how to paddle. Running, toward the beach. Wanting to try swimming on my own. The glistening waves, the way they beckoned me, flashing showily in the sunshine. Jumping. The water on my toes, swimming again. Strength, the way I could propel myself. Looking back at the dock, it was far away. Nervousness, my father had told me to stay close to shore. Then – a rush of water. Big, a rip tide was what the fishermen liked to call these waves. Gasp – I had gasped. I recall the burn of salt water on my throat and in my nose. Being underwater, realizing I was stuck. The alarm, when I realized that I couldn't breathe. Trying to swim upward, to the dismal sunlight that shone overhead. Then the rough sea floor, scraping my body. No breath.

That was when I thought I might die, I remember. But a strong pair of arms had reached out to me, grabbing me first by the wrist and then by the hair. Later, I realized that they were my father's arms.

But now, my father isn't here with me. He's long gone…I won't see him again. But there is someone who I might see again, if I live. Someone who I think would be there to pull me out of the water if I could. Who I know would keep me afloat.

The seashell. My favorite part of the beach.

Finnick. Thinking his name, imagining his sea green eyes and messy bronze-ish hair, and praying to him, I manage a few good, strong strokes. I propel myself upward, and am rewarded with a breath of air.

I don't allow myself to sink again, I know that there are no malevolent waves to take me. I remember that I am from District 4, and that I can swim. That everyone's expecting me to swim.

When I breach the surface, I swim as hard and as fast as I can away from the sight of the blood that frightened me so badly. I need to escape that evil place, before it contaminates me. I wonder why I didn't hear the cannon. Whoever lost all that blood probably also lost a life.

Finally I see it: the lone tree that's tall enough for its upper branches to clear the water.

I drag my cold, shivering body over its coarse bark, pulling myself onto one of the lower branches, where I slump against the trunk, exhausted. It's all I've got the strength left to do to clutch the soggy branches for all that I'm worth.

I've drifted off to sleep, my fatigued, malnourished body struggling to recuperate from the traumas of the previous day. I'm awakened, though, by a dull, muted thud. My eyes flicker open, and immediately come to rest on the little silver parachute that's landed beside me.

Gripping it in trembling fingers, I struggle to unwrap my gift. Inside the small box, I find a loaf of bread, green with seaweed the way they make it back home. It's still warm, and dry. It's accompanied by a short, silver knife, and a piece of paper that's been folded meticulously into the shape of a rose.

After rubbing my hands together vigorously to dry them, I slowly unfurl the paper.

It's a handwritten note, I can feel the imprints the ballpoint pen made on the thin paper. It says just one word. My name.

I smile inwardly, cradling the paper close to my heart. I tuck it cautiously away into my inner pocket, where it'll be protected from the floodwater around me. There's no question in my mind who wrote those letters.

Finnick is watching over me.

Next, I slowly slice the bread. It's delicious, crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. My starved stomach welcomes the carbohydrates, and my lonely heart cherishes the thought behind the gift.

I allow myself to sleep again, my resolve strengthened to a point I don't think it's ever been at before. For the first time, I truly imagine myself winning – going home to my district and the ocean that I've learned to love.