Annie’s not OK.
She hasn’t been for years and probably never will be again—but she finds herself forgetting what sanity felt like, and the only people that knew her then are long gone.
It’s for the best, her brain tells her. She knows it’s a lie.
Johanna tells her she’s safe now; tells her she’s pregnant. Says there’s a baby growing inside of her—her and Finnick’s baby.
Annie feels the thing kick from time to time and is convinced it’s a mutt; a bloodsucking parasite killing her little by little as the days count down toward the damned thing’s birth.
Johanna, who promised Finnick she’d take care of his precious Annie, tries her hardest to calm the frail woman; but without Finnick’s voice, Annie’s brief trips to the real world become shorter and shorter and few and far between.
Most nights, Johanna cries herself to sleep. Some nights, she wishes Annie were sane. Others, she wishes the poor woman would just die already. Go join Finnick in the afterlife—a concept in which she’s recently forced herself to believe—and dismiss her from her miserable task. Every night, without fail, she wishes Finnick were here; even when she runs out of tears, she never loses that longing.
Never once does she wish Annie had died in the arena, however hard it may be to believe.
Annie, though—in the rare nights she finds herself lying awake, gazing at the stars during those brief episodes of clarity—always wishes for the same thing.
I wish I could go back. Die in that arena. Never meet Finn. She whispers to herself.
She thinks if she never met him, he’d be alive and happy with Jo.
Johanna has never and will never tell Annie about her past with Finnick. She’ll never tell Annie how guilty she feels; how responsible she feels for all that happened to her.
Annie will never know that Johanna is the reason Annie made it out of the arena alive. She will never know that although Jo loved Finnick—still does, too—with all of her heart; enough to whore herself out so he could have a chance to love a girl with such pure innocence and goodness, not even the Games could tarnish her light. In fact, every time Johanna was sold by Snow, it was directly tied to Annie’s safety.
She brought it on herself, she remembers. She always remembers.
Elliot had just been beheaded and Annie lost it. Finnick was frazzled; already in love with Ms. Cresta before he even really knew her. Their love was so powerful and obvious; Johanna saw it long before either of them. She did the only thing she could do to keep the boy she already loved smiling and hopeful—she marched straight to Snow’s office and made a deal.
Get Annie Cresta out of that arena alive, and I’ll fuck anyone you want, she had practically begged.
Never once has she regretted that decision.
Annie, when she’s almost coherent, wholeheartedly wishes she had died all those years ago. She knows Johanna loved Finnick. She knows, had it not been for her, he would have loved Jo, too. She’d give anything to go back and dive in front of Elliot and into the axe that took his head.
They say Annie’s crazy and Johanna cares about no one. Maybe, everyone has them confused.
Under the light of the stars and the solitude of their bedrooms, things seem so different.
In those moments of lucidity, it seems Annie is the sanest of the duo; if Cinna were still around, he’d bet on her yet—I’m sure.
And Johanna? Well, maybe—just maybe—she has a heart. But most likely, insanity is swimming throughout her subconscious; she’s just better at hiding it.
Sanity knows no anchor; only time will tell to whom the fickle harlot stays tethered and who will forever lose her hold on the dainty nymph.