Chapter 3: Remembering

Timothy

A collective groan passes around the room, like they were expecting something more noble than "passing out." I guess I was, too.

This man, the one I'm beginning to believe is Finnick Odair, my father, is tired. I can tell from looking at the lines on his face and the way his bluish-greenish-greyish... or I guess sea-colored...eyes are flat, like the ocean after a storm. I can only describe them the way that mine look after a day of being fake at school. His too-long bronze hair covers part of his face, like mine did the summer of second grade when my Mother hadn't given me a haircut for weeks. His tanned skin matches mine in every way possible. And the more I scrutinize his face while he continues his story, under the excuse that there's nothing else to look at, the more I notice how much he reminds me of myself.

It's more than just looks, its the expressions on his face.

He tells of his journey with a slightly sad expression, like years have been stolen from him. They have. I often wear that face when I'm alone, and no one has the chance to realize that all my romances at school meant nothing and that I'm empty, nothing to show for the nineteen years I've been alive.

Yes, I know that face well.

And behind his ocean-eyes, I can see shame. I know, first-hand, what it's for. It's shame for not loving anyone in a long time, not truly. It's the look of someone that's gone too long without love. I use it all the time, but not even Rue notices.

So, by looking at his face, his eyes that are like mine, I manage to stay through the whole story.

Finnick

I continue my story, but I'm not really hearing what I say. I'm too busy looking at Timothy.

"...I woke up... who knows how much later? Days, probably... and noticed the blood on my neck had clotted..."

Wow, he looks like me.

"...crawled to a ladder, about to crawl out onto the street, when two voices behind me knocked me off the rungs in surprise. 'Isn't that Finnick Odair?' one voice said. I stayed stock still. 'Yeah, what a mess. He'll still do nicely.' Two pairs of footsteps approached, and before I could defend myself, one cuffed my temple and I was out again."

Has it really been nineteen years?

"...woke up in a spacious room, all metal with high rafters and pipes lining the walls. 'He's awake.' That voice was hushed, as if they thought I couldn't hear them. I saw three figures striding out of a shadowy corner, and I finally beheld the men who had assaulted me; tall, muscled Capitol men with dyed skin and tattoos. The voice I had heard before came from one with a deep purple skin tone and black eyes. And I mean... all black, like it was all pupil. 'Ready to be made an example?' he said, grinning. Another with pale green skin and bright yellow tattoos that made my eyes nearly bleed pulled out a syringe. 'I believe you're familiar with tracker-jackers?' 'Yes,' I said nervously, 'though I'm not too fond of the memories.' The third, skin metallic gold and blue, laughed. 'Of course not,' he said, 'but soon, you will be. We're not too happy that the Capitol was... incapacitated, so to speak.' What?! I thought. 'We think it would be best if we reminded the districts who's more powerful... and who works for whom...' The green one pierced my arm with the syringe, injecting the venom. Before my mind became nonfunctional, though, I heard the blue and gold one saying, 'Hope you'll enjoy joining our little... Loyalist club..."

Timothy, how could I leave you for that long? It was their fault, I guess.

"...next thing I knew, I was out on a Capitol street, with vague memories of fighting, running, escaping...but I couldn't remember who I was, why my neck, face, body was covered with blood and how the terrible wound on my throat had gotten there. I looked around frantically in a huge crowd of people, and saw the President's Mansion, with a scruffy woman and a large, strong man next to her on the huge white marble porch. She was reciting the Presidential Oath, something I knew I'd heard about in school. But where did I go to school? I thought. "...the new President Paylor!" boomed the man at her side. Everyone turned and left, all looking confused, and they nearly trampled me."

And your mother, she must hate me. She should.

"...the streets finally cleared. I stumbled around the city, confused and alone. I found metal train tracks after about a half hour of this, and aimlessly followed them. I'm still not sure what it was, but something kept driving me, like I was going home. I couldn't remember my home. Or anyone I loved... After following the tracks for nearly a day, I came upon a beautiful city, covered in soot but still beautiful. I shielded my eyes from the sun for a better view, brushing my chin and noticing a beard was starting to grow. I didn't even know if I'd had a beard before... the only thing I knew for sure is that something was done to me, something that went horribly wrong."

But I know she doesn't. Annie's too good. I don't deserve her; that's what Mags said. I guess I'm just a lucky guy.

"...I asked a civilian where I was. 'District One,' they said with a strange tone. Like I was stupid. I knew that I had a district, too, but where? What was it... I was too absorbed in thought to notice a middle-aged man I had bumped into. He looked me over once and asked abruptly, 'You're looking for work, right?' What? 'Well,' he continued, 'I need some help at my house. Doing some rebuilding from the bombs.' I was silent and startled. 'Well?' I shook the glaze out of my eyes and replied, for I had nothing else to grasp, 'Sure. I'll take the job.' He led me through somewhat deserted streets to a small house..."

I hope they forgive me. Not like it was my fault.

And then I notice Timothy looking at me, too. My mouth keeps moving, words coming out, but we stare at each other's eyes. His eyes are like mine.

Something in those eyes tell me that he wants to believe me. Forgive me.

"...so I worked for him for years while he was at his job, making things for the Capitol, he said. It was nineteen years, I suppose. It was a good life. There was always food on the table, a warm bed to sleep in, and a friendly face to talk to. He was kind, payed well. Never asked where I was from or who I was. Not that I would have been able to answer..."

And I want to let him. It's been too long without me feeling anything. In a different lifetime, to a man who looked a lot like me, that would sound superficial and unnecessary compared to what he had. Now it's the other way around for that man.

So I do. I let Timothy forgive me, and I forgive myself.

"...I worked happily until he asked me to watch his house while he went to the sea for vacation. Sea... the word echoed in my ears. Sea, sea, sea. He would be back at four on Sunday. Four, sea... the words grew louder, opening little doors into my memory. 'I'm sure you'll be fine,' he said, 'I'm only going to visit my niece Annie.' Annie. Annie. The name hurt my heart and stung my soul. Annie, sea, Four, District Four, Annie Odair, Finnick Odair... and I remembered. That day, I took the soonest train to Four without a goodbye to him. I had to find my family, the people I'd forgotten about... or rather, the ones who'd been driven out of my mind."

I hoped to find so much there.

"No one was there; at least, no one I knew. I had to look for... Katniss, I remembered, Katniss... in District 12. And I found all of you, on a rainy night about a week later, here."

But I found more in 12, more than I hoped to find. I found my son. I found love, finally.

Timothy

By the time the man from outside is finished—the man with the scraggly bronze hair, the beard nearly making his face unrecognizable—I am certain he is my father.

Sorry for any confusion! I edited this chapter while it was up on the site, so anyone scratching their heads at the next chapter should probably come back and read the updated version of this one. And please...

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