Flowers in May | Finnick Odair

Chapter Six

I vividly remember my Father walking me to school one day when I was five. He wore a tight smile upon his face, but his gaze remained kind, reflecting against my own blue eyes as I tugged his hand, each of us avoiding the dirty puddles that lined the cobbled pavement.

I suppose, in retrospect, that my Father had been an intimidating man to others; working in the factories for as long as he had, helping to build and develop all technology that laced the Capitol, resulted in muscle that could break another's neck in a second. Not that I was aware of that fact so young, my brain not able to see the devastating effect that sort of strength could do if applied.

Specifically on that morning, when rounding the corner into the square that housed the annual reaping, we both noticed a large crowd that had gathered; their bodies were tense, and necks continued to crane in every direction. A silence had settled, and a feeling rippling through the air that I could not identify. I felt as the hand that held mine pulled me closer. I had gazed up towards my Father, only to see that his eyes remained transfixed on the scenario in front of him.

And then in a split second, a man dressed in his labour uniform broke free of the crowd, a frantic craze coating his sweat slicked face. I recognised him as a man that my Father worked with. He had been around our flat for dinner not long ago. He was kind that night, dosing my Mother with compliments and providing me a little piece of scrap metal that he said would help hold my books open.

Those qualities were nowhere to be seen in that moment in the square. All I saw was an untameable, almost palpable rage, that radiated from him.

Then just as this man was about to open his mouth, lips forming unspoken words, a loud crack sounded through the air. His knees hit the floor with a harsh thud, followed by the rest of his body. Now with an unrestricted view of what laid in this man's wake, I was able to make out the figures of three Peacekeepers on the floor.

They weren't moving. They weren't breathing.

They weren't alive.

And though Death was a new concept back then, but I understood it all the same.

Everyone remained frozen in place as the man's body had been dragged from the square by reinforcement Peacekeepers, but not one person spared a glance at their fallen friend. Were they really his friends if they did not help him? If they did not step in?

I saw my Father swallow visibly, before redirecting us over the bloodstains that now led at our feet, towards the school. But only one question seared through my young mind: a question about the look in that man's eyes before he died. "Why was he so mad?" I asked my Father, gazing up towards him for wisdom.

His hand tightened around mine, as if he wished to hold onto my innocence for as long as possible. "Everyone has their breaking points, Lia. Jared reached his."

I understood to an extent what my Father was implying at the time. And when Jared's son was reaped the following year, I understood with clarity why no one in that square had helped the crazed man that day; actions had repercussions for those in the districts.

But years later, I never thought that I would find my own breaking point, let alone cleave it in two with a whip. Or that I would have to suffer the consequences of my own rage.

~

Beetee had entered my room as if he were approaching a rabid animal. His footsteps were light and careful, until he finally stopped at the edge of my bed. I remained huddled with my legs tucked to my chest, positioned in the middle of the annoyingly soft mattress. I hated to think of the state I currently looked. Xavier, my stylist, will no doubt have to work overtime to patch me up for the interviews that are to take place tomorrow evening.