Finnick and Annie's Untold Stories: Hope

Chapter Seven

Annie's POV

She had been ignoring Finnick for an entire week-not long in the eyes of the average person, but it was a lifetime in her eyes.

She missed him.

She laughed humorlessly at herself-she was acting childish-as if he had been absent for years rather than a week, though it was truth.

She did miss him, and with each passing day, she wondered if the silent treatment really was the way to vent.

She wished not to grant him any satisfaction for his ignorant and moronic decision, a childish one at that. Though she considered that frankly she was being a hypocrite-her choice to ignore him and force him into treaties without his consent truly was despicable, and no better than him trying to evade the promise.
She still chose to hold on to bitter anger.

She found that she was frustrated with herself more than anyone else, really.

Only the elder children missed school or spent all of their important free time training for the Games during this time of year so that they could volunteer. It was uncalled for a child of Finnick's age to be working so dutifully and diligently for the Games when he wouldn't be in the arena that particular year.

That was why she was mad-because she knew him, and she knew he was planning to volunteer.

Even though there was a minor chance of that possibilty, considering the line of youth of the age to volunteer-those who were anticipating and would, without a doubt, volunteer, she still hated him for being one of the pawns to hold hopes for such a thing.

He wished to enter into a death arena.

Fine by her, she would gladly watch with wide eyes as he tore tribute after tribute down until his time came for extermination.

No you wouldn't, whispered a soft voice in the back of her mind, smooth as silk fabrics and honey.

Honey? She never understood that analogy, honestly. Honey was not smooth-it was thick and stuck to everything, overlapping items with a unique shaded goo.

Whatever, it mattered not what the voice should have been compared to. It was soft and sweet, no other words needed to be spoken of it, and no other false analogies created.

Anyway, with a sickening feeling, she knew this to be true. If his life were actually taken, she would become bitter with herself, with a dead Finnick.

Wasn't that the human reaction to death? To become bitter and come up with assorted theories of what they could've done, works and words that would not change a thing, would not resurrect the lost soul.

Yet, people didn't care, they hoped and made phony things real in their eyes.

Human kind, this being one of the supporting reasons, was, without a doubt, undeniably stupid.

You're human, she reasoned with herself, and you're far from idiotic.

She plopped down on her bed, staring at the blank ceiling that provided no comfort or protection, just simply a cover to prevent precipitation from leaking through.

Yeah, thanks for that. I'm just slowly going insane, and I really don't think this talking to myself thing is helping my case.

She giggled, a small snort that escalated into something more hysterical. Of course talking to herself was demented and would do nothing to help her.