Written for the Caesar's Palace monthly oneshot challenge, while incorporating one of MockingjayWithFangs' challenges.
Prompt: "Don't leave my hyper heart alone on the water; cover me in rag and bone sympathy, 'cause I don't want to get over you." From "Sorrow" by The National.
Challenge: "You can't mention the character's name at anytime, the reader must guess by the characterisation which characters are involved."
stage one: denial and isolation
He wasn't dead, she was certain of that. He couldn't leave her, not then. He promised he'd be back, and he never broke his promises to her.
She hadn't left her room in a week; she hadn't slept at all in that time. She sat all day, staring at the blank grey walls that made up nearly every room in District 13.
Time had no meaning. She never knew whether a minute had passed or an hour. Days passed this way, blank stares at empty walls and minutes falling away like the petals on a dying rose, brittle and fragile. She was sure she was either dying or already dead.
A doctor visited her every day. He'd talk to her, but to her he was silent. She could see his lips moving, but the words died before they hit her ears. She figured that it was better that way.
She had a live-in visitor to her room, a small woman with short dark hair. She thought she recognized her, maybe from a dream, but when she saw the woman's sad eyes and the way she tiptoed around the room, being very gentle as if she pitied her, she seemed to be a stranger. The woman fed her and gave her water, having to open her lips to do so, as she wasn't present enough to realize that an open mouth was required to eat.
The water she drank filled her to the brim, washing out her insides and making her feel emptier than she had been. She could hear the water in her ears like waves that were beckoning her to them.
The doctor kept saying that her "denial phase" was lasting far too long. She didn't really like having her life spoken of as if she was the moon with defined phases of waxing and waning, darkness and light.
He didn't know that she was starting to understand, that she was starting to hear the awful things that the doctor said about her, that she was crazy and irreparable. Although he was from a district in which food wasn't plentiful, she doubted he'd ever felt emptiness.
Was her love dead, or was he hiding?
stage two: anger
It hit her like a sword plunging into her heart; he was dead, he really was. She wasn't quite sure what triggered the realization, but from the sword, tiny little cracks spread on her body. Porcelain wasn't meant to be struck; the damage wasn't defined, but it spread from its source. Water began seeping through the cracks, and anyone who dared touch her would both deepen her cracks and end up with a handful of water.
It was unlike her to lash out, so she waged her wars internally. She decided that the woman who was constantly with her was only pitying her. She didn't want a stranger's paper sympathy; she wanted her husband back.
It didn't last long, though. She decided that paper sympathy was better than none. It wasn't in her nature to hold grudges. She couldn't hold anything against the girl with the charcoal eyes, even though she'd let him get ripped to pieces. She couldn't hold anything against the doctor, who spoke ill of her.
stage three: bargaining
The broken girl knelt by his grave. It was a different kind of water that poured from her then, a deeper kind, full of sorrow and despair. She rubbed her protruding abdomen unconsciously.
She was home, but it didn't feel like home, not without him.
If only she'd stopped him from leaving that day. He loved her; he would've understood; he would've listened.
If only she never had episodes, so he wouldn't waste energy trying calm her. With the weight of her burden off of his back, he could've outrun the muttations.
If only she'd died in the games. He wouldn't have worried so much after her capture; he wouldn't have shattered as he did; he wouldn't have become so weak.
If only there had been no games. None of it would've ever happened.
If only she'd never loved him. All she ever did was break him.
If only she'd died instead.
stage four: depression
Her son was born and she named him after her lost lover.
She could barely look at him; he looked so much like him, but she loved her son, more than anything that lived. The only problem was that she didn't know how to love him outwardly. She was afraid she'd forgotten how to love.
Poor child, living without a mother and a father.
She was afraid to touch the child, afraid that he'd be injured by the shards that made up her skin. She didn't want to hurt her baby.
The water had drained from her, leaving her a shell. She was dry. She was empty. She was broken.
Something constantly weighed down on her, threatening to crush her. It was another reason not to hold her baby. There was always the risk that perhaps the weight would crush them both. She couldn't let her baby be crushed.
It was a risk she had to take, though. Her baby couldn't live without her. She feared that he had inherited her porcelain skin.
As he grew stronger, she became less afraid. Instead, she taught him to be diamond. She taught him to swim, to eat by himself, to walk. She taught him to survive.
stage five: acceptance
It wasn't until her baby said "I love you, mommy" that she felt it. She felt his presence. He was with her. He was so proud of their son.
She realized that he always had been with her, that she just hadn't noticed. She's been too wrapped up in the pain.
She knew he wouldn't break a promise.
Of course, she never truly got over him. She didn't want to.
She was healing, her cracks filling with the love from their baby, from her invisible lover.
"I love you too, baby."
They stand on the beach that summer, mother and son. Her long, white dress matches her son's shirt and they both are caught in the wind, blowing wildly. It is the anniversary of her husband's death, but the little one doesn't know it.
They look toward the horizon, to the rising sun, the child sleepy in her arms. She wanted him to see the sunrise.
"Where's my daddy?" he asked, as if he somehow could sense what the day meant to her. He was such a smart little boy.
"Daddy's there," she said, pointing to the rising sun, her voice far away. He looked for a long time with wonder, the sun's rays illuminating his innocent face with its reds and oranges and yellows.
He wasn't told the whole story until many years later, but from then on, he always woke her to watch the sun rise.