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Some people say that victors are frozen at the age they won their Games.
If that’s true, Finnick thinks it’s terribly unfortunate. Winning at fourteen was cool for about three seconds until he realized that there was a part of him that would always be fourteen, gripping that bloody trident because he was too scared to let go. Maybe it’s the part of him responsible for regulating his emotions. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop crying.
In District Thirteen, he cries and he sleeps. He eats, sometimes, but he can’t always keep it down. His stomach churns with dread constantly, even when he’s too strung out on sedatives to remember what he’s so worried about.
People come and go. Doctors, nurses, other rebels. He doesn’t remember their names. He’s remembered too many names already—the names of every Capitol citizen he’s ever been with or talked to. It’s too much for one person to remember. How did he ever do it before?
“Hello, Finnick.”
He blinks. His eyelids are heavy and drooping, so it takes effort to pry them open. When he finally does, all he can manage is a brief, faltering smile. “Hi, Beetee.”
Beetee’s in a wheelchair. He didn’t used to be. “I heard you haven’t been feeling well.”
Finnick shrugs. He tries to make a joke, the way he would before, but nothing comes out. It’s unfortunate, because he likes Beetee. They used to sit next to each other in the Mentors’ Lounge.
“I haven’t been feeling well for ten years,” he says, after some time has passed.
“No, I suppose not,” Beetee says thoughtfully. He looks the same, minus the wheelchair. As thoughtful as ever. “Still, you’ve made it this far.”
Finnick chokes on a laugh. “She was always better at this.”
Beetee doesn’t ask him to specify who he’s talking about. Annie is all he can think about these days. Where she is. What they’re doing to her. The way that it’s his fault.
The truth is that he’s never been able to fall apart before. He always put on a smile and stepped in front of the camera and pushed it all so far down he couldn’t feel it anymore. It wasn’t just easier that way, it was necessary. He can feel it now, though. All he can do is feel it.
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” says Beetee, which is kind of him. “I don’t know many people who could go through what you did and still be here today.”
“Am I?”
“Are you what?”
“Here today,” clarifies Finnick. His voice scrapes against his throat. He asks because he’s truly not sure; what does it mean to be a person, anyway? Does life end when his heart stops? Or does his life end when Annie’s does?
The fluorescent lights reflect off Beetee’s glasses. Finnick’s head swims. “You’re alive,” Beetee says eventually. “I think us victors, of all people, can appreciate the significance of that.”
Finnick laughs, or he thinks he does. It’s hard to tell with the tears pricking at his eyes. Mags used to say that if he really wanted to die, he would’ve done it in the arena. But he didn’t, because he knew life was worth fighting for, and that some part of him still believes that. It made him feel better, back then. Now Mags is gone, so what is he supposed to do?
When it becomes apparent that he’s not going to say anything, Beetee says, “It is possible to recover from this.”
He fixes his tired gaze on Beetee. His mouth forms a question, but it takes a second for his voice to follow. “How?”
“Time, primarily,” Beetee answers. “I had two sons. One was about your age, although of course you never met.”
Finnick doesn’t miss the use of the past tense. “Arena?” he guesses.
The only indication of Beetee’s grief is the slight twist of his mouth. “The first one, yes. You wouldn’t remember him. That was Haymitch’s year. The second one made it to twenty-five. They got him when the arena blew.”
Finnick’s heart thuds in his chest. He’d never even considered having children because they would certainly die in the arena, or worse. But Beetee had two and lost them both, and here he was, trying to comfort Finnick. “I’m sorry,” is all he can say. He’s not sure what he’s apologizing for. It’s not like he pulled the trigger.
“Don’t be,” he says. “I know how it feels to give everything you have to the Capitol to protect someone. And I know how it feels to incur their wrath.”
“I don’t think I can take it,” Finnick confesses. He twists his bedsheets in his fists in an attempt to calm his mind, but it doesn’t work.
“I think you can,” Beetee counters. “You may just need to practice.”
“How?”
“Stop by Special Weaponry sometime,” he offers. “I’ll tell you how I did it.”
Annie pulls herself out of bed every morning. It goes against every instinct she has, but she knows by now that she’ll feel better if she starts moving. So she does it, even though all she wants to do is curl up under the covers and let her grief suffocate her.
Her compartment in Thirteen is empty. It’s meant for two people, but she still hasn’t moved out. She doesn’t want to move to another compartment. She wants to go home.
The doctors don’t want her to go home. They don’t think she can.
Johanna is waiting at her door. They’re going to walk together. Annie used to swim a lot back home, but there’s no swimming in Thirteen. Only drowning. But walking is better than nothing.
“Hey,” says Johanna.
“Hi.”
It’s a very brief conversation. Annie doesn’t actually know Johanna very well. Before their time in the Capitol detention center together, they’d never actually spoken. They both knew Finnick, which ties them together in a weird way. Johanna’s also the only one who looks at Annie like she’s a person.
Everyone looks at her like she’s one second away from shattering. Nobody will say Finnick’s name anymore. Whenever they go to talk about it, she can see their lips form his name before seemingly deciding it would set her off. Her husband is dead. She should get to decide whether or not to hear his name.
What the doctors don’t realize is that Annie has spent the last five years coping. She’s gotten good at it. She knows what works and what doesn’t. And this—the forced avoidance and coddling and everyone walking on eggshells around her—doesn’t.
So Johanna’s bluntness is welcome. “I’m so sick of this fucking place.”
“I want to leave,” Annie agrees. “I don’t want to be pregnant here.”
They turn a corner. “They won’t let you leave?”
“I mean, nobody’s said that outright,” she admits. “But they don’t think I can be trusted to raise a kid without Finnick.”
Johanna’s brows furrow. “That makes no sense. It’s not like Finnick had his shit together, either.”
To her surprise, Annie laughs. She can’t remember the last time she’s done that. “He tried his best,” she allows. “But you’re right.”
Johanna goes quiet for a second before she asks, “What if I went back with you?”
Annie shoots her a glance. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t offer to come back with me because you feel like you owe Finnick,” she says. Saying his name still deepens the chasm in her heart, but it gets incrementally easier every time. And if she doesn’t say it, who will? “I know you were friends with him, but I’m not a charity case. I’m a person.”
“Yeah, I know,” says Johanna dryly. “But it might make it easier for them to let you leave. If they think you won’t be alone.”
Annie’s feet pause as she thinks. “You think you joining me in Four will be enough to convince them?”
“I think that’s the exact kind of bullshit logic everyone seems to follow,” she points out. Then, quieter, “It rains a lot in Seven.”
Annie starts walking again. She nods slowly, understanding what Johanna is telling her. The offer is just as much for Johanna as it is for Annie, and that makes it easier to handle. Everyone thinks they know what she needs. They think she needs more time under the watchful eye of a patronizing therapist, wrapped up in the hazy fog of medication. What she needs, really, is to go home. To go home and mourn her husband the way they do it in Four.
They approach their destination—the doors of the hospital. Annie thinks Johanna must have an appointment here too, but she never asked. “Okay,” Annie says. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”