unforgivable ➸ finnick odair

T W E N T Y S E V E N

~TIME SKIP~

When I was younger, I would look at the victors on the District Five Justice Building's stage in loathing and hatred, youthful naivety blinding me to the victors' own sufferings and instead only allowing me to see what my inner self-righteousness wanted me to see - a person who had slaughtered other living, breathing human beings, instead of what they really were.

How ironic that when the train arrived in the far-off District Twelve, I would be in those victors' place, reading empty words off of the flimsy pink paper cards Eleanora would hand to me beforehand, avoiding all unnecessary eye contact with the families of the fallen tributes, pretending to be heartbroken for the loss of two people who I had never spoken to.

The dress Titania had prepared for my stop in District Twelve, a long-sleeved black dress that reached my knees and was covered in black sequins that flashed and reflected light with my every step, was laying on my bed, the matching plain black heels placed carefully on the floor by my ever attentive stylist. My prep team had already completed the makeup for Twelve, so all I had left to do was put on the dress and shoes and prepare to face the glowers and accusing stares of the poorest district.

"El, you better go change now, we're going to arrive in around half an hour," Desiree said as her auburn head peeked out from around the corner of the corridor leading to the lounge where I was sitting, staring blankly out of the train window and watching the word flash by. Since Sean had mentored Bolt (I felt a sad pang in my heart at the name of my dead district partner and frantically tried to shove the image of his cold, dead body from my mind), he would not be accompanying me on my Victory Tour - only Desiree would.

"Yeah, okay. Thanks, Des," I sighed as I pushed myself up.

"No problem."

---

My first thought as I walk out onto the stage of the Justice Building and face the citizens of Twelve is that the dress on my body is probably more expensive than most of the people here's entire lives. District Twelve is the poorest district, and at school we were taught this as a fact, only I never quite realized the entirety of it until I saw it for myself.

Even from my limited view on the stage, I can see a clear split in the middle of the district; on one half there are small wooden huts covered in a thick layer of black coal dust, while on the other the houses are tidier and cleaner, with no coal dust in sight.  A divide between the 'rich' and the poor. The people living in each half are painstakingly visible in the crowd as well - the poor wear clothes more akin to rags than actual, wearable pieces of material, stained with soot and faded with age, while the more well-off people can afford simple, plain dresses and neater attire.

The crowd begins cheering as soon as I come out from within the Justice Building, but it is so clearly and utterly fake that I have to fight off the urge to cringe away as the sound hits my ears. Indeed, as I approach the microphone in the centre of the stage their hatred and reluctance becomes more visible.

Twisted scowls on one man's wrinkled and aged face, dark grey eyes sending daggers my way. One arm firmly placed on the back of the young boy next to him, presumably his son, who smiles brightly at me and is beautifully oblivious to the weary fury emanating from the rest of his district.

I clear my throat. As if on command, the district grows silent, apart from hushed whispers that barely register in my mind. My hands tremble as I bring them closer to my face, furiously attempting to not let the black text blur together. My attempt ends up being futile as the crowd's whispers grow ever louder in impatience.

I drop the cards and bring my mouth closer to the microphone.

On two pedestals in front of me are the families of the deceased tributes, the photos of their dead children hanging above them. The girl, Jessamine, was obviously from one of the richer families - her photo smiles at me with a sense of childish innocence, honey blonde hair tied into twin braids that sit on her shoulders, strands of hair held together by small turquoise ribbons. Everett, a tribute I had actually had minimal interaction with, did not share her calm beauty - his black hair was tousled and his stormy grey eyes were both angry and resigned. I remember Everly's spear sinking into his chest and look away.

The words come on their own accord. That's how it should be, really. Nothing like the flimsy, insensitive words of apology written on Eleanora's cards. Something I truly mean. Something from the heart.

I look at Jessamine's parents and tell them that she died knowing that she was loved. I look at her mother and tell her about how proud she should be to have given birth to a girl like her. I look at her father and say that his daughter did not once break down at training or the interviews; that she was stronger than most to be able to hold herself together in public, stronger than many to brave such a death sentence. I look at her little sister and speak about how much she resembles her deceased sibling, from the braided blonde hair to the angelic features of her round face. 

Everett had no such family - only an old, wrinkled grandma who's hair was completely grey. The only physical resemblance she had to him was the poignantly sad and weary grey of her eyes. I look at her and say that I am sorry he had to die, sorry I had watched as my ally killed him and did nothing to intervene. I look at her and say that Everett's parents would've been proud. 

To my left, Jessamine's mother and sister are crying fresh rivers of tears, the older woman's hand placed firmly on the smaller one's shoulder as she wipes at her eyes with the sleeve of her dress. The father's blue eyes are glistening anew, but the sheen of liquid does not break. He looks at me and gives a firm nod as if to say thank you. 

To my right, Everett's grandmother is not, to my surprise, crying, but she looks older than ever before, thin mouth turned downwards and thin back visibly hunched over. Her hands are clenched tightly as they grip onto the dusty wooden stick that she was using as a makeshift walking stick, knuckles whitening with effort. Her grey eyes, the exact same slate colour of her grandon's, meet mine. I look away first.

I turn to the district, mouth dry and tears threatening to overflow, and tell them that their tributes deserved so much more.

This time, the applause is genuine.

Sorry for the wait!