The Spark Of War ➳ Finnick Odair ²

3 | Going Back

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Chapter Three
GOING BACK
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My body reacts before my mind does and I'm running out the door, across the lawns of the Victor's Village, into the dark beyond. Moisture from the sodden ground soaks my socks and I'm aware of the sharp bite of the wind, but I don't stop. Where? Where to go? The woods, of course. I'm at the fence before the hum makes me remember how very trapped I am. I back away, panting, turn on my heel, and take off again.

The next thing I know I'm on my hands and knees in the cellar of one of the empty houses in the Victor's Village. Faint shafts of moonlight come in through the window well above my head. I'm cold and wet and winded, but my escape attempt has done nothing to subdue the hysteria rising up inside me. It will drown me unless it's released. I ball up the front of my shirt, stuff it into my mouth, and begin to scream. How long this continues, I dont' know. But when I stop, my voice is almost gone.

I curl up on my side and stare at the patches of moonlight on the cement floor. Back in the arena. Back in the place of nightmares. That's where I am going. I have to admit I didn't see it coming. I saw a mulitude of other things. Being publicly humiliated, tortured, and executed. Fleeing through the wilderness, pursed by Peacekeepers and hovercafts. But never that I myself would have to be a player in the Games again. Why? Because there's no precedent for it. Victors are out of the reaping for life. That's the deal if you win. Until now.

There's some kind of sheeting, the kind they put down when they paint. I pull it over me like a blanket. In the distance, someone is calling my name. But at the moment, I excuse myself from thinking about even those I love most. I think only of me. And what lies ahead.

The sheeting's stiff but holds warmth. My muscles relax, my heart rate slows. I see the wooden box in the little boy's hands, President Snow drawing out the yellowed envelope. Is it possible that this was really the Quarter Quell written down sevety five years ago? It seems unlikely. It's just too perfect an answer for the troubles that face the Capitol today. Getting rid of me and subduing the districts all in one neat little package.

I hear President Snow's voice in my head. "On the seventy fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strogest among the strong cannot overcome the power of the Captiol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Yes, the victors are out strongest. They're the ones who survived the arena and slipped the noose of poverty that stangles the rest of us. They, or should I say we, are the very embodiment of hope where there is no hope. And now twenty three of us will be killed to show how even that hope is an illusion.

I fear for Finnick's safety. I know it shouldn't but the thought of him going back in the arena and me along with him terrifies me. He's been the grestest friend to me ever since I won eight years ago. He helped me through so much, from being a desirable to helping me cope after my mother was killed.