The Sea, The Gambler | Finnick Odair

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I wake up, a little bit of a headache probing my temples, but I'm sure it will disappear soon. I turn over with expectations to see Aylo by my side, nestled beneath a cloud of white sheets and blankets, with her head resting on a soft pillow. I feel sluggish and heavy as I move, and the action is difficult, but I manage to flip myself over to face the other way. On my other side, where I am anticipating to see Aylo, the bed is empty and the blankets are left wrinkled. I can still feel her warmth beside me, however, so I'm guessing she didn't leave me too long ago.

    As I sit up, I feel like an embarrassing mess. I hope I didn't worry Aylo too much when I left last night, but I'm sure I did. Usually, it's hard to put her concern at bay. Then again, there's always the chance that she slept through the few hours I was gone because it's not exactly out of routine for me to head over to Finnick's and I'm pretty sure she knows that by now.

    I slide off the side of my bed, still dressed in the clothes that I put on last night. I was too tired to do anything about it when I got home, and honestly have to admit that part of it was because I cared too little. What I have on now will have to do, at least for a little while. My hair is a tangled mess and I can determine as much by just running one hand through my hair and feeling my fingers get tangled in the knots. I decide to avoid the ovular mirror hanging by the door when I leave my room.

    Sure enough, Aylo is well awake and in the kitchen helping my dad with breakfast. My mom sits across the counter from them, drinking a cup of spearmint tea and watching them cook. She immediately fixes a smile on her lips as soon as she sees me, even though I know it's not the most genuine kind.

    I've figured that, for most people, it's easier to walk on egg shells around me than display how they really feel.

    "Good morning!" Aylo smiles, dropping the mixing bowl she had been holding in her hand onto the counter, along with a wooden spoon that's dripping with pancake batter, before dashing my way and wrapping her thin arms around my waist. "We're making breakfast."

    "I see," I say, trying to smile as much as I can in order to enthuse Aylo a little bit more. She nods giddily before moving back to the counter with my dad to continue preparing their meal.

    My dad slides a mug of tea across the counter to me, motioning for me to take a seat at the island. I do, leaving a space between my mom and me. I watch as the tea sloshes in the cup, before slowly settling to the bottom once the mug has become still again. As his calloused hand pulls away, I see the aftermath of years of fishing, his skin covered with white scar tissue from getting mangled with hooks and knives in the past.

    I often feel like an unspoken discomfort divides me from my family, or at least from my parents. I know they love me, but things are different. Since the moment I came home from the Games six years ago, everything has changed. Our dynamic is no longer close and comforting, but distant and disconnected. Our house is no longer a two bedroom shack with chipping paint and leaky pipes, but a building that is practically a mansion with more bedrooms than we can fill. Our lives were spent with constant work in an attempt to make ends meet, but now we are spending our free time trying to make up tasks that give our lives a purpose.