The Capitol's Lies || Annie Cresta's Story

Chapter 5

Annie's POV:

Today is it.

Even the sky is a hazy hue of grey, like the whole district is holding its breath. I lift myself of my bed and take a deep breath. Living alone comes with consequences. The biggest one, tessare.

My name is entered 17 times, an obscene amount for someone in District 4. I try to distract myself from the fear of getting picked by eating an apple, but I can't stomach the food right now. Instead I take a quick cold bath and start to get ready.

I run my hand through my closet, skimming over my t-shirts and pants in attempt to find my only dress. My hands find its smooth hem and I pull it out.

My dress is the same I have used for the past two years, and is probably the not the most expensive thing I own. I lay it on my bed and trace the outline.

It's a pale sea foam color, rippling like waves. It starts with a sleeveless top and goes down snugly to the waist, and blossoms. It hangs loosely around my knees and has faint ripples of white lace lining it.

I slip into it and look at myself in my grimy mirror. I stare at my reflection and smooth my dress. I look fit to be a princess. Or to go to the reaping and celebrate not being chosen.

I grab a small wooden brush from the counter and start to smooth out my long strawberry hair. My fingers work quick as if I was making a net down at the dock. Once my hair is manageable, I begin to carefully braid it into an intricate braided bun. I leave one strand loosely dangling out and sigh slightly at myself getting dressed up for a solemn occasion.

I slip on some leather strap sandals and open the door, only to find that something has been left on the doorstep.

I peer down at the pristine flower, admiring its lush petals. It's a pure white color, the fine mist of the morning coating it in water. Under the flower is a small piece of paper, torn carefully and worn like the owner kept clenching it in their hand. In small, delicate words, 'Annie' is written on the note in smearing pen.

I pick up the flower and a light scent of salt and seawater. Suddenly I realize that the stem is hardened, a trick the Capitol and wealthy people use to persevere flowers. I consider throwing it away, convinced it's from Possel or a pompous rich person, but then I turn the note around.

The handwriting matches that of the front, the i dotted with a small mark and the e taller than it should be. In scribbled words, it says 'Thanks for the song yesterday, it might have seemed small, but you have no idea what it meant to me.'

I hold the flower and note close, seeing thought etched into every letter. I tuck the flower in my hair, just behind my ear. And taking a deep breath, I step outside.

Finnick POV:

I wake up suddenly, my body slick with sweat and a scream lodged in my throat. My sheets are kicked off the bed, a sign that my nightmares were worse than usual.

I take in a shaky breath and stand.

This is it.

The Reaping is my greatest fear, a cloud of terror hanging over me.
Every year I am forced to train and mentor two innocent children and watch them die brutally.

I take a deep breath and prepare a cold shower for myself. I stand under the constant stream of water and try to collect my thoughts.

My stylist and prep team from the Games will be here soon to dress me and prepare me since I will be mentoring this year. District 4 has its fair share of victors, so we share the burden of mentoring and switch out.

This year was supposed to be Mags and Rowena mentoring, but it only took one glimpse of Mags shaking violently in her sleep to convince me to take her turn.

I live all alone here in my house in the Victor's Village. After my Games, Capitol people were lining up to buy me from President Snow, and I refused.

My family was killed.

Better to only be attached to Capitol citizens, anyway. Now there won't be a need for you to share your attention.

The executioners fired four shots into the heads of my family, one by one. It still haunts me in my nightmares, the look of desperation in their eyes, the metallic stench of blood filling the room.

I try to live on though. I work through every day, forcing myself to be distracted from the grief.

I towel off and get into a robe when my stylist and prep team barge in. My head stylist is a preppy woman named Tully, who always seems to stare to long and makes flirtatious comments constantly.

My robe is ripped off, and I'm being complimented on how I've kept in shape and scolded on my messy hair.

"No no," Tully says when my prep team comments on how they should fix my hair. "We are going for a hot messy look today, with a touch of boyishness." She ruffles my sandy blonde and brown hair and smirks. "We'll keep the stubble too." She runs her strangely manicured hand across my rough chin that recently has grown a small amount of stubble.

She must think I find her compliments and gestures seductive, but to me they are repulsive. Flirting with someone you are preparing to go on stage to watch children die isn't very attractive.

She pulls out an off-white long sleeved shirt that is shear and cut low to show my chest and tells me to put it on. It's very loose, like something I would wear to go make nets or fish in.

The shorts are less impressive. Tan cargo pants that go right above my knee and are a tight in weird places that make me question the Capitol's "fashion".

I get simple sandals to wear as shoes and my district token. It's a small braided strand of tan twine holds a small shell. Memories of the Games surface but I force them down and attempt a smile for the prep team.

A fresh wave of terror washes over me when I'm ushered out the door. This is actually happening. My sandals crunch the worn dirt path. With every step, I feel the weight of the Reaping crushing me, and in no time, I'm ushered into a car.

I can't do this. I'm haunted by the past and the future and everything in between and there's no way to escape it.

I need hope. I need freedom. But there is no way to get either. The Capitol has reduced me to an animal trapped in a iron cage. I twist in my skin, wishing to be anywhere than here, anytime but now. I'm a flame about to die, I need a spark of something, anything, to keep me going.

I need a rebellion.