Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. Braders101 does. Suzanne Collins owns the Hunger Games. I think.
AN: Okay, so this is like a Fanfiction of a Fanfiction. The original one is called "The 38th Annual Hunger Games", by Braders101. You should definitely check it out before you read this. This story is the Victory Tour for the winner of the 38th Annual Hunger Games.
Maddie Phelan (14), District 3
I'm no stranger to nightmares. They've plagued me since my earliest days, always managing to creep under the orphanage door and into my dreams. Sometimes vivid, sometimes vague, it made no difference. Nightmares always found me, no matter where I was. This one was no different.
Vivid this time. I'm hiding behind a door, breathing loudly into agonizing silence. A familiar scene; this dream is one I've witnessed many times before. I'm tiny, my little hands reaching above me to hold the doorknob against the wall. The guns fire, the feet march, the screams pierce the air. My face is wet. I want to run. But she told me to hide, so I can't move, I can't move no matter what… A man in a white uniform is staring down at me. A Peacekeeper. He's found me. He lowers his pistol, now level with my forehead. I'm screaming now, screaming louder than blood rushing in my ears. The trigger is pulled.
The dream shifts to a field under an open sky. A gong sounds and I run, I run as fast as I can. I'm older now, and stronger. A bag is in my hand, and I'm racing towards the jungle. A knife whistles past me, but I don't turn. I can't. Now I'm rooted to the spot, surrounded by a jungle. Rain begins to fall. A child's voice calls my name. I manage to turn, and see a blonde girl smiling. But her smile slips and contorts into a look of ugly wrath. The girl leaps at me, tearing at my throat with her teeth. Suddenly, she grows rigid. Blood pools from her head, and the rain turns red to match. The only real water is the salty liquid dripping down my face, and I'm so, so sorry…
My tears become a lake; a glassy, unmoving lake. A girl and I are sitting by the edge, talking. I like this girl. She's very nice. But then the girl lurches forward, a pickaxe stuck in her skull. I'm running again, but not away. I'm running at a faceless creature hidden in the woods, a fleeing creature that dared to kill my ally, my friend.
Now I'm hiding behind a tree. The creature has become a girl, a girl who has been stabbed with a dozen knives. The tree melts away, and I'm standing inside a golden shell; a cornucopia. My sword is in my hands, and I watch as a boy amputates a girl's hand. I'm running towards them, and while the boy's back is turned, I thrust my sword. He's dead before I can apologize.
The girl turns to me, her hand dripping with blood, her eyes full of malice. The knives fly, and I'm bleeding, to, bleeding far too much. But before I can fall, my vision turns red. My sword is somehow falling from her stomach, her eyes wide with shock, and she falls before I do. But it's too late for me. Blood fills my lungs and mouth, spilling on the ground, staining it a lovely crimson…
I almost wish I could wake up screaming. At least I might as well breath faster than normal, like a normal person. But sadly, I simply open my eyes. I hardly ever panic, and waking up from a nightmare is no exception.
My window proves that the sun's come up, just barely peeking over the horizon. I've taken to getting up early like this lately, as it takes forever to get Kaylee out of bed. I need to get her up earlier than usual anyway. My tour starts today.
I throw on some warm clothes and head down the stairs of my oversized house, passing by the various hallways and rooms I hardly use, but keep very clean. I honestly don't know why I bother, because between my own house and Kaylee's, housekeeping takes a lot of effort. But there isn't much else to do, and I've decided to discontinue my former housekeepers. Two weeks after I arrived home, I hired three of my fellow orphans to clean for me. Three vases, a dish, and half the silverware went missing before I severed ties with them.
My breath hangs in the air as soft puffs of mist, and I can taste the cold air in my lungs. When I was little, a boy once punched me for claiming that cold had a taste. He may have stated otherwise, but he's wrong. Cold does have a taste, and anyone who stands outside in winter for a moment would agree.
I crunch through the snow across the street, heading for the house of my neighbor and former mentor, Kaylee. Reaching her house, I pull the house key from my pocket and unlock the door. I never exactly asked if I could have the key, but then, Kaylee never objected, and I am never going to tell her I have it. It's the only key I've seen in the house besides her own, and I have a sneaking suspicion of whom it belonged to. But I don't think he would object to using the key in order to take care of his mother, so I try not to think about it that often.
Kaylee's house is far different from mine. I'm constantly arranging and rearranging the various ornaments in my house, in order to dust, sweep, and mop. Kaylee, on the other hand, will burst into tears if I even shift a rug. I accidentally brushed the door that used to belong to her son once, and she collapsed on the floor while shrieking. I have to be very careful while cleaning so as not to upset her. It's easier, I think, to forget that your son is dead when the house looks like he could return at any moment.
I head up the stairs, passing various empty bedrooms, and stopping only at the emptiest of them all. I've been tempted to enter this room, but I doubt I ever will. Less out of respect for its former occupant, and more because of fear. I'd rather not see any reminiscence of the boy who lived in there, and would actually rather enjoy it if I never had to think about the twenty-three children that died so I could continue living. But I guess that's impossible, because for the next two weeks, I'll be forced to do nothing but remember.
Finally, I pull myself away from the door. I instead turn away to Kaylee's bedroom and knock. I consider it only polite, even though she probably can't hear me, and won't answer the door even if she did. My politeness wearing thin, I enter the dark room and hit the light switch. The bedroom is filled with light, revealing a figure on a bed, buried beneath a mass of blankets. I prod it with my hand, attempting to rouse it from its sleep.
"Kaylee." I receive a mumble.
"Kaylee, get up." This time it's a groan.
"I made coffee."
She finally rouses herself enough sit up, her blonde hair tumbling in matted clumps around her shoulders. She turns her head to me, squinting her bleary eyes.
"What time is it?"
"Around six o'clock. We have to get up early, remember?"
Kaylee's head slumps forward again, landing in her lap. I sigh.
"Exactly how long were you out last night?" She doesn't respond.
"Remember what I told you about this? I said that even though I can't stop you from drinking excessively outside your home, I can and will set fire to your alcohol stash. Is that what you want?"
Kaylee shakes her head.
"Good. Make sure it doesn't happen again. Now come on, we've got to get ready."
I leave the room, pausing at the threshold.
"We've got a big day ahead of us."
Kaylee finally comes downstairs, slumping her self down at the table.
"Where's the coffee?"
"I lied. I haven't made it yet." I reply.
She groans and slides further forward onto the table.
"Why don't you go upstairs and shower? I'll make breakfast, and you can have it once you're done."
Kaylee mumbles something I choose to take as an agreement, and shuffles up the stairs, while I am left cooking by myself. Believe it or not, I'm not too bad at it. I've managed to put together quite a few decent meals for Kaylee and I to share.
Once I've finished placing eggs, bacon and toast on the table, together with a pot of coffee and a glass of milk for me, Kaylee comes downstairs in a bathrobe, hair still wet. We eat breakfast in silence as usual. There's nothing that really needs to be said, and I believe she agrees. Finishing, I stand up and place the dish in the sink.
"You might want to shower, to, you know."
I turn in surprise. Kaylee rarely dictates what I should do with my time.
"I was planning on it."
She nods. "Gerald and the others will be here in a few hours. Make sure you have your things together."
"Alright, I will. Remember to look presentable by the time they arrive."
Kaylee gives me another nod, and I head out the door, walking towards my house. Soon everyone will be arriving… I honestly don't see why I'm so apprehensive. It's not like I haven't heard from Gerald in a while. I've gotten phone call after countless phone call from him, asking me how I've been, how Kaylee's doing. Of course, I'm also flooded with the most recent gossip from the Capitol, which honestly, I could do without. My prep-team has also kept in touch; I'm not exactly sure what to do with the steady stream of hair products filling up the bathroom, but I haven't found a way to politely ask them to stop sending them either.
But still… even though they're nice people, even though I'm certain that they're fond of me… I don't want to see them again. I don't want any reminders of the arena; I know that they will eventually work their way into my subconscious to haunt me in my dreams. I can do without that. Honestly, the only reason I bother with Kaylee is out of pity. Yes, she did do her best to help me in the arena. Yes, she did just lose her only son. However, if she didn't come home a drunken mess every night, I would do my best not to talk to her.
This is the dilemma I've been dealing with the past six months. I don't want to remember my time spent in the Hunger Games, but I don't want to go back to my old life, and I know I that I won't be able to forget either. Unfortunately, my memory is very good. So how exactly can I make myself a new life, when I can't put the past behind me?
The one thing that I have decided is that no matter how horrible my life in the orphanage was, I would rather not have been in the Hunger Games. If I had stayed, I may have put my dream of running District 3 into action. I remember lying awake in bed, making mental lists and charts of how exactly I'd escape the orphanage and rise through the political ranks, finalizing with me as the mayor. It was so much easier to keep moving when I had a clear idea of where I was going. That blessing's been lost, though. I've tried to reinstate my previous enthusiasm, but it's gone. What's the point? I've already left the orphanage. I've got all the money I'll ever need. But now, I don't know what to do with my life. I don't know where to go.
I've reached my doorstep. I should probably go inside to get ready… and then what? Throwing my things together will only take minutes, and my stylist will undo anything I do to get ready. I'd just end up sitting alone in my room, waiting for something to happen like always. And it's not like I have work anymore to pass the time… My head jerks up suddenly. I do have somewhere to go!
I'm racing through the streets, my coat flying behind my shoulders. I can't believe I didn't think of this before! I tried to visit him before, but he's always been busy. Not surprising, as he doesn't have me to help him anymore. But he said I could use the library any time I wanted, and that's what I'm after.
My boot slips on a patch of ice, and I almost fall over, catching myself at the last moment. I slide to a halt, just in front of the Mayoral House. I've arrived at my destination.
The Peacekeepers at the gate don't bother ordering me to halt. It makes a nice change. Back when I passed through these gates everyday, I was stopped eighteen different times by various Peacekeepers until they recalled that I worked inside. But things are different now. I'm a Victor. Everyone in the district, in all of Panem, knows who I am.
I approach the large wooden door. My gloved hand uses the knocker to rap three times before stepping politely back. The door is eventually answered by a girl with dirty-blonde hair tied in pigtails, no older than eleven by the looks of it. Her wide, coal-black eyes grow even wider upon taking in my appearance. I'm used to it by now. I, who was usually ignored by passers-by, am now stared at wherever I go.
"Might I speak with Mayor Maynard, please?" I request.
"He up'n his office, missy," she squeaks. "I dunno if he busy o' not."
"May you take me to him then?"
The girl nods, and, funnily enough, grasps my hand and leads me away down a hall and up two flights of stairs. I've always been uncomfortable with touching other people, especially after my time in the arena, so I can't say I'm too happy with this development. However, I allow her to take me to an office with lovely cherry doors. Reaching up, the girl opens the brass handle with one hand and leads me inside.
A man with strawberry-blonde hair in his early fifties leans over a desk, filing out forms and seemingly consulting a chart projected onto the wall. The man looks up, and upon seeing me, lifts his mouth into a smile.
"Maddie! So nice to see you. How are you?"
I smile. "I'm doing very well, thank you sir. And you?"
"Tired, I'm afraid," he says, sighing. "It's not easy, organizing a Victory Dinner. And since you are from District 3, that means I have to be involved in all the dinners for the tour."
I also heave a sigh. "I apologize for making you work so hard."
"Not to worry, my dear," he beams. "It's not your fault. Besides, I have Winch to help me, don't I Winch?"
The girl, who up until now had been silently watching our conversation, now jumps at being addressed, and gives a fervent nod.
"Maddie, I'm afraid I can't entertain you right now; I'm very busy, as you know."
"That's alright, sir," I reply. "I expected as much. I was actually hoping to use the library."
"Alright then," he beams. "Winch will show you the way, won't you, Winch? Now off you go! And see you in a week for the banquet!"
Winch once again takes hold of my hand and begins to lead the way to the Mayoral Library, a completely unnecessary endeavor. I know perfectly well where it is. Unbeknownst to the Mayor, I used to spend many days finishing my work early in order to sneak into the library and read.
The Orphanage Matron is required by the district to not only serve as out guardian, but as our tutor. She did such a poor job of both that it's actually quite impressive. The Matron would teach us to read, and afterwards, not bother with us in the slightest. As the orphans normally did not attend school, most of us ended up with a very poor education. I was the one exception.
From the moment I was taught how to read, I wanted to read more. I stole the few books the Matron owned, and read them so many times that to this day I still have them memorized. Afterwards, I began hunting for more. While the other orphans spent time stealing treats, I would carefully plan out and steal all sorts of books; history and science, romance, and best of all (for my young mind at least), fairytales. I treasured those books, saved each one carefully, and even read some to my fellow trustworthy orphans. The children would pay in a lot of food to hear one of the stories.
One of the reasons the Mayor chose me to be his assistant was that I could read and write so well. However, once I realized that I now had access to an enormous supply of books, I began sneaking them off when I left the building at the end of the day. Granted, I would always return them when I was done, and to this day the Mayor never noticed them missing. I don't plan on ever letting him know either. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.
Winch leads me along another corridor, down a flight of stairs, and then through yet another hallway. So it seems the Mayor decided to replace me after all. It's not very surprising; it's not like he wouldn't need another assistant eventually. However, this one might not be as trustworthy as I am. I may have stolen books, but others will steal money, and I'd rather not let that happen to the man who gave me so much.
"So, Winch," I inquire. "You're the Mayor's new assistant?"
"Yes, missy," she responds. "But I on'y worked fo' him fo' two months."
"Do you have a family?"
"Yes, missy. I gots a momma, and a daddy, and I gots Beetee and little Fillie." Winch giggles. "Fillie's jus' a baby. I be the oldest!" she states proudly.
"That's cute. And does Beetee work?"
"No missy, ev'n though he on'y two years younger," she replies. "I gots to work 'cause Momma can't."
"Can't work? What's wrong with her?" I ask.
"Nofin's wrong, missy," she answers sadly. "Jus' them factory people. She go back after Fillie gets borned and they don' let her in. Say she took too long. Now she can't gets a job."
"Then I steps in," Winch says proudly. "An' I says, 'Daddy, if Momma can't work, then maybe I cans!' But Daddy didn't wants me working in a factory, 'cause he says little kids die all time in there. So I go 'round, askin' for a job, and the Mayor says that if I cans move things, and get things fo' him, and answer the door, then I cans work fo' him! And Daddy says, 'Don't you steal anyfin', Winch, or yous not goings to have a job!' And if I don't have a job, then we's goings to be hungry again."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Winch." I reply. She turns around and peers at me quizzically, as if I was crazy.
"Why you sorry, missy? You be helpin' us along if anyfin'!"
I'm taken aback. "Helped you? When have I helped you?"
Winch smiles; a bright, wide smile with a mismatch of pointy and crooked teeth.
"I seened you, missy. I seened you on TV. You be fightin' other peoples with a big, long sword." She stretches her arms to make an emphasis. "And my daddy says, 'She be fightin' fo' all of us. She be fightin' to come home and bring us food.' And you did comes home! And now, we gets nice baskets fulla food. With apples and pears and bananas and chocolate and bread and….
Winch continues on with a long list of treats, but I'm no longer listening. She thinks I fought for her. This little, innocent girl thinks I'm a hero. This… this is even worse than what the capitol portrays me as. They make a celebrity out of a murderer, but she thinks that I was fighting for District 3. I have to set this straight.
"Winch, how old are you?"
She stops chattering and looks up at me.
"I be 'leven, missy. I turn twelve next month."
"So that doesn't leave you much time," I mutter. "Winch, come with me."
She doesn't object, and together, we're racing down the hallways, on the way to the library. Upon reaching it, I throw open the doors and usher her inside. I sit her down on a plush armchair in front of a fire opposite to the one I myself sit in. A wall of books rises behind me as I look her dead in the eye and begin to speak.
"Winch, listen to me. That thing I was fighting in, the Hunger Games? Well, they aren't fun. They're horrible. You have to starve, fight, and even kill people, and you don't even get a say in the matter. I'm not a hero, Winch. I'm a murderer. I've killed people."
Her black eyes are as wide as dinner plates.
"You kill people?" she repeats as a whisper.
"Yes, I have." I swallow hard. "There was a girl, only a little older than yourself. Her name was Rhian. She attacked me. I didn't know what I was doing until it was too late, but I killed her. I killed her with a rock." I take a shaky breath. I've never talked about my time in the arena with anyone.
"Maybe it wasn't my fault, maybe it was. But then there was Gabe. Gabriel Blackthorn. I stabbed him through the back. He wasn't even fighting me at the time, he was fighting Kailani. And then I killed Kailani, but not in self-defense. I thought I was dying, but I just had to stab her. And then Avalon's dead because Jackren could've killed me instead, but didn't. And I might as well have killed all the rest because if they hadn't died I wouldn't be-
"Missy."
I look up. Winch is staring intently at me, her hands on my shoulders. I didn't notice her move.
"Missy, it's allrigh'. You don't need to cry. You's allrigh'."
I hadn't realized I was crying either. My hand shoots up to my face, and sure enough, I can feel hot tears streaking down it.
"Maybe you did hurts lotsa peoples. Maybe you wanna, maybe you hafta. But you's still alive. You's still breathing." She smiles again. "And it's not all bads. We's got food 'cause of you. We's not hungry anymore."
Her words sink in. It seems to her that even though I'm responsible for the deaths of twenty-three children, because I'm still breathing, and able to help others, I'm still worthy of living. I don't know whether she's right or not. I don't know anything anymore.
I want to say something to Winch, something meaningful, but all I could muster was a, "Thank you, Winch," before wiping my face on my sleeve and standing up. However, before I reach the door, a final thought occurs to me.
"Winch, is your mother good at cleaning?"
She blinks. "Yes, missy. She real good at it."
I manage a smile. "I might have a job for her when I get back."
AN: Okay, there's the first chapter! It got too long to be a one-shot. Remember to read "The 38th Annual Hunger Games" by braders101!