The Story of a Mad Girl [Annie Cresta x Finnick Odair THG Fanfic]

Reaping Day

I glance over at my father and study his features. It saddens me to see how his once robust features now ridden with wrinkles. I think the stress of my potential participation in the games has put a severe toll on his body over the years. I'm glad this is my last reaping. Once this is over, we can finally relax and hope one of our tributes chosen will be victorious. It had been five years since District Four had a victor, and food was growing scarce. As I finish my thoughts, my father catches my gaze,

"Time to go?" he asks solemnly. I turn to look out at the sunrise above the ocean, now in full radiance.

"Time to go," I reply as we stand up and walk back home with our empty flasks. Once we return home, we sit down to a proper breakfast of capitol rationed rice and hand caught fish (reasonably typical for families in District Four). After I finish eating, my dad clears our plates as I rush to put on my shoes. I pick the nicest ones I have, my worn-down black heels, and slip them on. Now that we are ready, we make our way out of the house towards the district courtyard, where the annual reapings take place. As we approach the tribute registration table, I turn to hug my father goodbye.

"Good luck seashell," he kisses my forehead and makes his way towards the adult standing area. After I see him reach his group, I turn and make my way towards the registration line. Once it's my turn, I get my finger pricked and walk over to my age group for the lineup.

As I walk through the crowds looking for my age group, I see him sitting up on the stage among the other victors of District Four. His curly bronze hair is shimmering in the light and sea-green eyes looking down at the crowd. That's him. That's Finnick Odair. He won his games a few years ago. I think he was fourteen, fifteen... I'm not sure. I try not to watch the games, but I saw enough to know he won his games by trapping people with some fishing net and stabbing them with his trident. I remember seeing the deadly look in his eyes as he plunged his trident into his fellow tributes. I decide that I don't like that image and shake it from my mind. Continuing my search, I find my age group and stand amongst a group of seventeen-year-old girls. As I wait, I look down at my freshly pricked finger, and my face flushes at the sight of my blood.

I'm glad this is my last reaping, I think to myself. I'm not a victor. I'm no Finnick Odair.

I notice the crowd is unusually quiet this year. There had been some whispers about the arena and how it will be one of the most dangerous games yet. Rumors of an icy arena with no food or freshwater coupled with newly engineered mutts guarantee that there will be no volunteers this year.

After a long uncomfortable silence, our capital representative and reaper Novena Petrie steps on the stage. Her elaborately designed golden heels clicking is the only sound ringing throughout the yard. Her heels are absurdly paired with a bright yellow feather dress that bounces with her stride. Her outfit is bizarre. Completing the look, she has her big yellow hair styled and curled, drawing attention to her caked pale skin and golden eyelids. Once she reaches the mic, she smooths the stray feathers on her dress, clears her throat and looks up at the crowd. Her pale-faced makeup cracks as her gold-painted lips creep into a smile. Scanning the masses through her four-inch feather lashes, she begins...

"Hello all... and welcome to the reaping of the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games! As always, the capitol has prepared a reminder of why we uphold this wonderful tradition."

That word makes me cringe. Wonderful...as if.

Then the mandatory hunger games screening begins, I've seen this film before, so I stare down at my shoes, counting the circles I carve in the sand with the point of my heel to calm my nerves.

After the end credits are over, I look up to see her begin to speak again, "Wow! Wasn't that just wonderful!" I roll my eyes upon hearing that word again. After letting out a sigh of admiration, she continues, "Now that everybody is feeling patriotic, let's get started with the ladies this year, shall we?"

Walking over to the female tribute pool, she reaches her hand into the big glass bowl, swirling her long-nailed, boney finger around the white folded papers. I can hear the crowd hold in their breath as her pale hands grasp one of the envelopes. A deadly silence falls over the crowd as she pulls it out of the clear bowl and reads it aloud.

"Annie Cresta"