Finnick Odair's Story: Dark Secrets (The Hunger Games Fanfiction)

New Tributes

A few weeks later, I wake up one morning to the sound of Eli pulling things out from under my bed. Bottles clash and clink against each other as Eli grabs each one and throws it in a bag. Looks as if I've been found out.

''What the hell are you doing?'' I snap, furiously.

Eli's usually calm face suddenly turns to one of rage and anger. His eyes have dark circles underneath them and he looks older, as if he's aged by ten years in the space of a few months.

''What the hell am I doing? Did you seriously think you could get away with something like this? You come down for breakfast every morning and act like a complete fool, crashing about all over the place. I can't understand why you would even think of doing this, there must be at least twenty empty bottles of spirits under here,'' Eli yells at me, tiny flecks of spit landing on my face.

''So I'm putting an end to it. We're all going downstairs to watch District 4's reaping live on television. And you're going to eat breakfast before going to the gym. The tributes arrive here tomorrow, so you have to be presentable,'' Eli continues, slightly calmer when he registers the look of horror on my face. ''And tidy up in here, it's a mess,'' he adds as an afterthought, crinkling his nose at the state of my bedroom.

I pull on a fresh pair of trousers, a sky blue shirt and a cashmere jumper, before combing my bedraggled, blonde hair. When I feel somewhat alright, I go downstairs, trying to shake last night's haunting memories from my mind; I dreamt it was my Reaping, and I even heard the shouts and cries of my family as the Peacekeepers dragged me to the stage.

''And the male tribute,'' Tricia says, her pink wig trembling with excitement. ''Finnick Odair!''

Clapping starts and I am being slowly pushed forward by the children around me. Panic fills my body and I'm frozen to the spot. Never in a million years did I think I'd be chosen from that basket of over two thousand names. The boy standing next to me said his name is in the draw ten times, so why does it have to be me? To my left, I hear a cry of agony that will probably haunt me forever and see my father collapsing to the ground, clutching my mother's arm desperately. Suddenly, two Peacekeepers have hold of my arms and are marching me to the stage.

I think about death, and I wonder what it feels like. I'd better start preparing myself for what's to come.

''Morning, sweetheart!'' Tricia exclaims, her sweet voice ringing out like birdsong. She offers me a plate of sickly sweet jam-covered crumpets before turning up the volume on the plasma screen. ''You are just in time, Finnick. They are about to draw the female tribute! Look at that woman's dress, isn't she absolutely awful!'' Tricia is clearly very bitter about the fact that she has to babysit me instead of announcing this year's tributes.

We all turn to watch the screen, eyes focused and unblinking.

''Our female tribute is,'' the woman pauses for dramatic effect, ''Annie Cresta!''

I don't recognise her name, but I'm captivated by the beautiful, brown-haired girl who begins to walk to the stage, her eyes struck with fear. No one is shrieking or screaming for her, no one is collapsing on to the ground when they realise their beloved daughter has been chosen.

''Congratulations, Annie. You look gorgeous, my darling,'' the announcer croons, patting the girl on the shoulder in what is supposed to be a comforting gesture. Annie smooths down her plain white dress and brushes chocolate-coloured hair from her shoulder. Gently, she is moved to one side so that the woman can choose a male tribute to compete.

''And the male tribute,'' yet another pause, not so dramatic this time, ''Orlando Sparks!''

The cameras focus on a terrified twelve year old with huge, innocent eyes and skinny arms and legs. He wouldn't last five minutes in the arena.