The Midnight Sun - Finnick Odair

i.

Walking down the perfectly arranged, though now slightly weathered path towards my home in the Victor's Village, I had nothing but the sharp and wispy winter wind to keep me company, but I like it, so I take my time. The uprisings in District 8 had been bad in the recent days. 'Recent days' being the Victor's Tour, when Katniss and Peeta visited us, igniting that spark that District 8 desperately needed for change. I had been swiftly ushered out of the town square only moments ago by peacekeepers, and in my lethargic haze that I'd been under for some time now, I didn't bother going back – I knew the peacekeepers would not allow it. My life as a victor was draining me in every aspect of my life. My mother had gone into a depressive state ever since father and Blaise were killed, and looking after my 6 year old twin sisters Ailey and Blue had become my job, and my purpose.

District 8, being highly industrial, with the production of textiles, offered no green meadows, and so would not allow me any hobbies, so if I had time to kill (which turned out to be most of the time), I would help my mother with her job – she was a seamstress. I had always been good with my nimble fingers, and was always praised for my high quality of work when I worked alongside my mother, even when I was young. Little did I know those nimble fingers would do so much damage. Nimble fingers that I used to sew, I used to kill.

...

Renly's eyes protruded as he audibly gasped for air, the Career pack, plus 2 others that they had accepted into the group, leering and sneering like a pack of Hyenas. Kruz, the leader of the Careers held him still, and Marlo forced the blade further into his neck, his throat, enough to draw blood this time.

"Please," I pleaded, my eyes blurred from my tears, my voice croaky as I reached and hand out from where I was still crouched on the floor.

"Let him go," I begged again, but who was I to tell them what to do – I knew my begging wouldn't change a thing, it was the Hunger Games after all. The Careers killed for fun, whereas me, I hadn't killed a single soul in my time in the arena, spare from the one antelope me and Renly had managed to catch in the mountainous terrain.

But it wasn't the fact that I was surrounded by 5 of the strongest tributes in the arena, maybe it wasn't even the fact that they had Renly, my only ally, my only lover, I had ever had. What really broke me was that my best friend of 11 years, the one who spent countless hours training me after school behind the old factory, the one who my family thought I was going to end up marrying, eventually and inevitably, the one who told me not to ever worry about the reapings, had his knife blade pressed into my lover's throat. My Marlo from District 8, who ended up slashing Renly's throat.

And then I slashed his.

...

I was pulled from my ghastly thoughts when my front door opened with a loud clang. I was a few paces away from reaching the front steps of my home when I saw them running out, giggling. They must've seen me coming from a mile away. Every day they await my return by the window of the front room, and sometimes, if it's deadly quiet in the street, I can hear them squealing from all the way inside the house at the windows.

"What did I tell you about running out here in the cold, huh?" I ask, though I'm smiling now, and my tone is nowhere near threatening. Ailey and Blue run back inside, giggling, and I can hear a chorus of "She opened the door first," and "No Ailey did!"

I step in, stamping the remainder of the snow that stuck to my boots on the door mat, and closed the door behind me. The girls were still arguing somewhere in the house, their little voices echoing. At least my victory in the 72nd games gave us one thing – the twins could live a considerably happier life, in a big house, never hungry. The only thing I give myself credit for.

"Mom?" I called out, though I need not wait for an answer, I knew where she was. The same place she always was when I returned – sitting in the far corner of her bedroom in an old armchair her and my father got as a wedding gift from old friends in District 7, who made it especially from the finest mahogany. How they managed to get such an expensive piece was still a mystery to me.

I walk up the stairs slowly, not wanting to face her again, as I reminder of what I caused, and what will happen if I ever step out of line again. I knock lightly with no reason, I knew I'd get no response, but I did it anyway. After a few knocks, I push the door open, to find her, as I had guessed, huddled on the armchair, her long arms hugging her legs, her knees up by her face, and a blanket enveloping her shrinking frame. Her once glimmering silver eyes, now a dull grey, staring out of the window into the distance at the plumes of smoke billowing from the main square.

She had been in this state ever since I won the games. More precisely, when I defied the Capitol and President Snow decided it was best that he remove my father and my brother Blaise from our lives permanently, leaving an empty hollow shell of a woman with me, knowing that that was more torturous than seeing her dead.

"You want anything?" I ask her, wanting to help, but knowing, deep down, there was nothing I could ever do to help this woman.

I leaned against the dresser, my head tilted as I analysed her face from the other side of the room, awaiting a response. As always, nothing, but I was unrelenting, so I spoke again.

"Tell the girls to dress themselves if they insist on running outside every 5 minutes."

She huffed and spoke for the first time in days. "Why don't you tell them yourself, they love you more than me." Her tone had a bitter edge to it, as if she despised me. I refused to accept that she did.

"Maybe hearing it from their actual mother would help." I pushed, through gritted teeth. If she stepped up, got out of this miserable state for the sake of her kids, maybe things would be different, but the girls are young, full of energy, and right now all their mother does is stifle their spirits.

I wait for something, any kind of resistance towards my last statement, but once again, she has resumed to a life of silence and solitude, so I give up.

"I'm going to see Paylor." I whispered, already heading towards the door. Paylor was an astounding 30 year old woman, someone I looked up to my whole life when I was growing up. She was my role model, and as she was 10 years older than me, I had always seen her as a type of sister/mother figure. How she mingled with my family I was still unsure of, all I knew was that she had been in my life since I could remember, and I hoped it stayed that way. Everybody in District 8 knew of her, and everybody loved her. She was like the District's unofficial mayor, always up to date with the uprisings, always looking for a way to better District 8. Perhaps this is why her home was a reasonable size, and she was allowed the luxury of having a small private TV.

Running down the spiral staircase, I waved goodbye to the girls again, warning them that if they kept running outside in the snow in nothing more than thin shirts and socks, I'd get rid of the stray dog I let in the house occasionally, but as always, they think it's a game, and I don't have the heart for harsh words – the world is harsh enough as it is.

Paylor's house was only a few streets away once you exit the Victor's Village, and on foot it only took me 10 minutes to reach her. I knocked on the door, and within a few seconds, the door was open and I was welcomed inside.

"Alaska," she smiled sincerely, as always, "Rough day?"

I shook my head, as if it would help some of the thoughts ease up, but they didn't.

"Mom's worse than ever." Was all I could muster. Paylor gave me a look of sympathy and concern.

"So are the uprisings in the Districts. Not just 8. 11, 12. You name it." She replied. I sighed, looking to the ceiling as I made my way over to the couch, and slumped down on it.

"And I doubt tomorrow's reaping will help. Only add more friction."

"Quarter Quell," she added sombrely, "Add more flame to the fire."

So the truth of the matter was that my life had come to this: my mom was not my mom anymore, I was scared for my little sisters, innocent people were getting ruthlessly killed, and I was plagued by the nightmares that haunted me ever since I stepped foot in the arena. Only they weren't nightmares, they were memories, they were in the eyes of Marlo's family as I passed them on the streets, and the night was no limit – I learned that there was no relief in waking up.