𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫

THIRTY

xxx. Guilt

Finnick was forgetting. The memories of a life worth living began to dissipate from the confines of his mind into an endless abyss—the same one that had stolen his smiles and laughter. It was as though he were aging, growing older and older with every painful second that passed. His golden features began to lose their shine and youth, while the bones in his body started to rot from the emotional baggage that had been permanently tied to his back.

It began with the day of his reaping. What once was a moment filled with dread hidden behind the prideful cheers of District Four had now become nothing but blurry. Then it was his first interview with Caesar Flickerman, and after that, the moment his name was called from the speakers of an empty arena. All wisped away in the void. A part of him thought it was for the better.

Though he couldn't seem to escape her. No matter what he did, whether it be the endless conversations with Annie or even the never-ending fiddling of his knot, she always seemed to find the spotlight within the darkest depths of his mind. It never bothered him until now.

This feeling of guilt wasn't new to Finnick. It was impossible not to feel guilt in the days following his victory in the Hunger Games; from the moment he moved into his new home in Victor's Village, everything from the velvet sofas and seats to the small chips in his new marble countertop reminded him of all the twenty-three tributes that were sent home in flimsy wooden coffins. Twenty-three children, none so much older than himself, died so he could enjoy a sweet cup of coffee in a mansion that was often empty.

That isn't to say he wasn't grateful for his survival. After years and years of grieving, a part of him found a special sense of peace within the small moments spent with his family that he wouldn't otherwise have if it weren't for his victory. Though it made everything all the more devastating as the memories of sleepless nights and endless laughter was all washed away with the events of the last Hunger Games. Never again would he experience Mags' sweet smiles and comforting hugs, or even Aurora's witty jokes and hopeful gaze. At this point, he didn't know who to mourn.

Not all of the memories were sweet, however. If anything, Finnick locked most of the trauma in the back of his mind - it was what made him so charming to everyone else. Like most the other victors, he mastered the art of deception and led everyone, even Aurora, to believe that he enjoyed it all. And he did it so well that he nearly lost the one person that knew who he was.

A young, fifteen-year-old Finnick stood in front of his luxurious house in Victor's Village, smiling and waving his right hand at the camera attached to a moving metal arm. Through the speakers, he heard the distant sounds of cheering fans and Capitol folk, feeling a sense of discomfort and awkwardness at the fact that their ugly smiles were nowhere to be seen.

After what felt like hours of mindless chatter, Caesar Flickerman's loud voice finally prepared to sign off. "Well, everyone. Thank you, that was Finnick Odair! The Golden boy–"