“ten.”
You do not have much time left before it begins. You are aware you would be better off reviewing battle tactics or forming an attack strategy in these precious seconds, but frankly, you don’t give a damn. You want to savor these last few moments; you want to wander in memory while you’re still alive to do it.
You allow your mind to drift.
“nine.”
You never expected to be here. You always knew it was a possibility for you, hell, for the past 65 years it had been a possibility for everyone. But you were supposed to be safe, the son of a prosperous fish marketer, your stomach never hungry enough that you had to resort to tesserae to fill it. The little folded papers branded with your name were nowhere near as numerous in that oversized fishbowl as the names of the faceless street urchins who huddled next to the dumpsters in their indefinitely damp clothing whispering prayers for fish heads. But, you suppose, your name swam in that fishbowl none the less. It just so happened that it was your name that had the misfortune of hooking itself upon the glitter-crusted fingernails of your district’s wide-toothed representative from the Capital, the odd little man always dressed in neon suits who turned his nose up at even the slightest scent of fish. When he congratulated you for having the esteemed prestige, the honor, of being your district’s tribute, your hands had burned to rub him with fish oil until not even the Capital’s strongest perfumes could cover up the briny smell.
“eight.”
The seconds crawled by when you first stood on that stage overlooking the multitudes of your district, every one of them glassy-eyed, unfocused, not a single god-damned one of them having the bravery to meet your gaze.
Save one, of course. But you haven’t quite gotten to that memory yet.
The rest, though, they just stared. Your teachers stared solemnly ahead, your friends, even the best ones, the true ones, kept their eyes to the ground, relief and guilt all swirled up in their heads as they thought to themselves oh god not me thank you god not me not me
Silent tears dripped down your mother and father’s faces, their hands clasped together for support, but even they couldn’t bring themselves to look at you, at their own son.
“seven.”
Their now dead son. You knew they were thinking it. Every human soul in that crowd was already mourning your unfortunate end, even the disgusting little man from the Capital possessed the conscious to toss a sympathetic gaze your way when your young age and inexperience made your quick end imminent. How was some little fisherman’s boy going to get anywhere, when District 1 and 2 were putting out 17 year old brutes who spent their lives learning how to kill? What was the point of even hoping for a miracle? When the female tributes name was drawn and it’s one of the ghost like orphan kids, a skinny little waif of a girl climbed up onto the silent stage to claim her honorable new title, everyone had made up their minds. The 65th Annual Hunger Games were a lost cause for District 4. They were better off spending their energy praying that you and your counterpart were gifted with quick deaths.
The halfhearted cheers of a crowd who already stared right through you, who saw you as some haunting thing, followed you all the way to the trains.
It was almost a blessing when District 4 finally vanished into the distance.
“six.”
You spend the train ride to the Capital watching the street urchin girl fall apart on the ornate furniture and expensive meals provided courtesy of the ever generous President Snow. You had expected her to immediately attack the food, she had probably never seen so much in her young life. However, her choked sobs never stop for a snack break.
You consider falling apart as well, you know no one would blame you. The little Capital man makes no effort to interact with you, or provide you with encouragement. You are perfectly free to have a meltdown. You are fourteen years old and your life is over. You are living a tragedy, and yet, the tears never make it to your eyes. You let yourself grow cold instead, your heart hardening to steel with every tear you see watch roll down your counterpart’s cheeks. You do not want to be weak.
When the little man announces you have an hour until arrival at the Capital, she lets out a pained howl that chills you to the very bone. You hope you do not have to kill her.
“five.”
Mags is frustrating beyond belief when your first meet her. She is an old woman, late-sixties, early-seventies, but it is not her age that is problematic. The elderly victor had just recovered from a vicious stroke that had left her practically unintelligible. You cannot believe your misfortune. You are truly doomed with your lack of training, tactical skills, and now a mentor you cannot communicate with. You should just impale yourself in practice and get it over with.
But slowly, you begin to understand her. You learn her body language; you allow her hands to show you what she can’t tell you, the warnings and the praise in her eyes to whisper to you secret messages.
Her fingers weave with and in between yours as she teaches you to make fish hooks and tie knots, and the correct way to hold and throw spears. You start to believe you may have a shot at survival.
“four.”
Your spirits are lifted even higher with the praise of your style team with their constant shower of compliments. They coo softly over your silken hair, marvel at your bronzed tan, and discuss your body like a work of art.
They showcase every bit of it for your chariot ride, only a few glued on sea shells and scales keep you even a tad bit decent. You are not comfortable but Mags motions at you like she wants you to smile. So, you do smile. And you do not stop smiling. And before long the Capital has fallen in love with the “sexy, young Prince of the Sea from District 4.” You are good at putting on this show, and you quickly steal the spotlight from the 23 other lackluster tributes. When the Gamemaker’s score you high, it is like all of Panem is screaming for you. The young and stylish Caesar Flickerman remarks that they may as well just leave the cameras on you for the whole Games. You grin and the crowd roars for you.
“three.”
The other tributes despise you. Many are jealous of your sudden celebrity, while others gripe about all of the sponsor money you’re going to use. Even your own counterpart glares at you with hatred when you pass each other in the training rooms and hotel quarters.
“Sellout,” she hisses once as she brushes past you on your way to dinner.
Many of the tributes are not as subtle with their dislike of you. You suffer a great deal of accidents in the training rooms. You are shoved and pushed on a regular basis at all tribute functions. They sneer at you, and make crude jokes about you whoring yourself out to win the Games. Even with 23 pairs of eyes burning holes into your back as they plot your death, you do not stop smiling.
“two.”
When the day comes, this day, the mindless masses of the Capital cheer for you as if you have already won as you make your way to the entry point. The death threats whispered into your ears by the other 23 tributes walking beside you ensure you that you have already lost.
Mags squeezes your hand one last time and gives you a reassuring look, a promise to see you on the other side, wherever that might be, that says more to you than any amount of words could. She is then ushered out of the room, and then it is just you.
You are breaths away from the start now.
But you have one more memory to be relived.
“one.”
Her name is Annie Cresta and even at your tender age of 14 you are sure she is the girl you will be marrying.
When they called your name on that fateful day, the shriek she let out sent the Peacekeepers sprinting through the crowds. Annie is held back kicking and spitting from rushing onto the stage and attacking the little man from the Capital, from smashing the fish bowls against the hard stage floor, from dragging you back into the crowd to safety.
When the female tributes name is called you give her a hard look because you know what she is thinking.
You will not forgive her if she even whispers the two unsavory words that would seal her death sentence.
By some divine act she holds her tongue, but her eyes fix upon yours desperately, pleadingly, because you are both helpless now to prevent this fate.
She storms into your visitation room, her face tear-streaked but her eyes fiery.
You have been best friends since your toddler days of collecting oysters and playing with the dolphins in the shallow coves of District 4. And although you’ve been in love with her for years, it is only in that moment, an hour before you leave for what might be forever, that she shows she might just feel the same way.
She wraps you in an embrace and presses her face to yours and you feel her mouth against your lips as a plea, as a promise, “You’re going to win, Finnick Odair.”
“begin.”
You kiss her silver seashell necklace as her words echo in your mind one last time and then you’re lost in a game.