Disclaimer: I'm just playing with Suzanne Collins' characters and her world. They're hers. Not mine. Any lines from the books are hers too.
AN: So, here's the follow up to 'A World Apart'. It isn't finished, not even close, but this is looking to be a long-ish story and if I don't just force myself to start posting it then I may never do it. I basically lack focus, and because of that this will probably be a slowly updated story. Sorry. Just like 'A World Apart' this story is built on my one shots, but expanded and some things will get moved around because it'll just make more sense that way. Anyways, thanks to Nursekelly for putting up with my nonsense and helping me with this story.
And the stars burn out
Madge's eyes drift over her room, hovering here and there, her mind trying to comprehend what she's seeing.
It's exactly as she left it, right down to her pajamas draped over the back of the chair at her desk and the half drank cup of water on her bedside, now with a healthy accumulation of dust settled on the liquid.
She should've expected it. Her mother had left Maysilee's side of the room untouched right up until the day they'd sold the sweet shop. Madge has vivid memories of going into her mother's old room and seeing the side that had been her mother's twin's exactly as it had been before that awful day. Dust had covered every surface, discoloring much of it, but her mother hadn't been able to bear moving so much as a pillow.
Maysilee's side had stayed just as she'd left it, untouched for over a decade, a memorial to a dead girl right up until the new owners had taken over.
Madge and her father had been the ones that had ended up with the task of clearing it out, and Madge had gotten a strange amount of satisfaction boxing up the remnants of the ghost that haunted her mother. Not that it had changed anything. Her mother was just as broken with or without Maysilee's room.
Vaguely, Madge wonders if her father would've let her mother keep Madge's room as a shrine to her, just as she'd left Maysilee's side of their room for her. Probably, her father was a bit indulgent like that.
Running a finger over her bedpost, it comes away with dust on it. They hadn't even let Mrs. Oberst come in and clean.
She's afraid to touch anything else. This room belongs to a girl that doesn't exist anymore, a girl without blood on her hands.
It is a shrine to someone lost to the Games.
Something warm and wet starts sliding down her cheeks and she quickly swats it away. She doesn't deserve to cry. She'd made the decisions that led her to this place and crying won't change anything.
Taking a long breath, she heads to the bathroom, snatching up her nightgown as she does and softly closing the door as she steps in.
Just like her bedroom, the bathroom is exactly as she left it, right down to the toothpaste smear in the sink.
Quickly, she pulls off the awful dress, her death shroud for the disgusting display she'd had to smile through.
No one in that crowd gave a damn about her. She'd wager half of them had bet against her, probably delighted in the looming spectacle of her impending death.
It had been nothing more than a photo op, another show for the Capitol to watch and coo over. There was no other explanation. That many people would've never come out to see her.
It was part of the illusion, that she was a beloved member of her community, that the Districts liked the Victors, that they were happy she was home.
Still, she'd squinted into the bright sunlight, smiled and waved, blown kisses to her 'adoring' crowd, just as she was expected to do.
She can still feel their eyes on her, following her. Just like in the Games.
Turning on the shower, she steps in before the water has even warmed, letting the icy water wash away what's left of the Capitol, trying to wash the feeling of eyes on her off.
Glitter, she'd thought she'd gotten it all off, washes away, sparkling in the water before circling the drain. She scrubs, her skin turning a hateful pink, trying to rid herself of all the florid scents. She wants to smell like herself again, feel like herself again.
It's pointless though.
Even after five washes, standing under the tepid water for nearly two hours, she can still smell the flowers and the perfume. She can still smell the blood and feel their eyes.
Finally, when her skin is pruned up and her eyes are burning from tears she hadn't even realized she was crying, she gets out and sinks to the floor in a puddle of sobs.
She isn't sure how long she stays like that, maybe an hour, maybe two, but she finally drags herself up and dries off, half-heartedly combs her hair and pulls on the nightgown that smells like a life she no longer has.
"Thought you'd drowned, Pearl," her father says from his spot on her bed, a small, uncertain smile on his face.
He and her mother had been there, right on the platform as she'd exited the train, the only people she's certain were genuinely happy to see her.
"I've missed you so much, love," her mother had sighed, pulling her into a hug the minute Madge slipped from Mr. Abernathy's wary grip. Madge wonders if her mother even knows where she's has been, what she's done, who she is now.
It didn't matter, not in that moment though.
Her father had been tense, his smile genuine but something clearly bothering him. Probably that his only child was a murderer now.
When he pulled her close, let a few tears slip from his eyes, she nearly lost her last layers of composure.
"I'm so scared, daddy."
It's stupid. She hadn't called him daddy in many years and doing so made her seem so childish, and if there's one thing Madge isn't anymore, it's a child.
But she was scared. She felt so small and helpless. She is small and helpless.
At least in the Arena she knew who the enemy was, she knew what she needed to do. Here, now, back in District Twelve, the path ahead of her is murky. While she has a pretty good, unfortunately good, idea what awaits her, the anticipation of it is slowly driving her mad.
"I know, Pearl." He gave her a small kiss in her hair. "It's going to be okay, though. Haymitch is taking care of it."
She nearly screamed.
If she could survive the Hunger Games then she deserves the courtesy of knowing what it is that Mr. Abernathy has done that is 'taking care of' the mess of Victory Madge has gotten herself into.
Instead of having a fit, collapsing to the ground and crying herself to sleep, Madge held them tighter. She isn't sure how many more hugs she has left with them.
When they'd finally been allowed to go back home, to the Mayoral Manor, her father had held her in a hug that she'd wished never ended. It was the closest to safe she'd felt since the Reaping.
He'd told her to go upstairs and get cleaned up, and now that she thinks about it, he'd probably been waiting to start dinner until she got back down. Just one more way she's failed him she supposes.
"I just-I was dirtier than I thought." She's still filthy, layered in blood and glitter.
Nodding, he gives her another small smile before pushing himself up, grimacing as his knee pops.
Walking over to her, he holds open his arms again and Madge feels her face crumple as hot tears begin sliding down her cheeks again.
He smoothes her hair down and murmurs comforting things to her, tells her it'll be okay.
It's all lies, but she doesn't care. For a few minutes she can pretend it's true.
#######
The sun sinks and the sky fades, pale yellow stretching up into soft blues before night settles over the district, stars speckling overhead, as Gale stares up at the Undersees' house.
He thinks about going up to the backdoor and knocking. Mrs. Undersee seems to like him well enough so he figures he might be able to convince her to let him in, but he stops himself.
His need for absolution, for forgiveness, for whatever the hell he needs from Madge isn't greater than her need to be with her family. She's earned her peace, even if he has the unfortunate feeling it'll be short lived.
She'd looked so small getting off the train, her smile so force, that he'd wanted to run up on the platform and pull her down. Her time as a doll for the Capitol to dress up and toy with was over and he wanted to make that clear to them.
That wasn't an option though. That wasn't true.
Much as he hated it, Madge was still a Capitol plaything.
Alameda's words echo in his head.
"No one comes home from the Games, not really. Some get sent back in caskets and some in crowns, but in the end? Only the dead really get the prize. The rest are just in a well furnished hell. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. The better way to come home isn't as a Victor."
"She's better off not coming back."
"They take you and they break you and they glue you back together, but you're never right again. You lose everything you love, everything that makes you you. You aren't Capitol and you aren't District. You're a mutt."
A knot forms in his stomach.
She was right, and he knows it. Every moment from now until the end of her life, Madge belongs to the Capitol, and there's nothing Gale or anyone else can do about it.
She's trapped in a Game she can't win. There'll be no silver pots on parachutes, no sponsors, no chance for allies in the new Arena she's been dropped in. She's alone, and Gale is certain she knows it.
Gale watches the light in the second story window glow dimly.
Madge is in there, probably terrified of what's coming. He knows he is, and it isn't his life or his family that are on the line.
For a second he sees her silhouette, hovering in the dim light, then she vanishes back into the depths of her room.
Sighing, Gale runs a hand over his face and up into his hair, probably standing it on end.
Standing outside her house and staring up at her room isn't going to help her. Nothing Gale can do will change a damn thing.
It's a kind of helpless he hasn't felt since his dad died, and this time running into the woods isn't going to help anything.
Madge doesn't need food or clothing or shelter. She doesn't need anything Gale could possibly offer.
Not for the first time, he wishes he were stronger, had any sort of power to fight the Capitol.
Stepping out from the shadow of the old tree in the Undersees' backyard, Gale walks up to the back porch and takes the few steps in one bound, landing with a soft thud on the wood.
The screen door is closed and the lights are off in the kitchen, not that it matters, he's already made up his mind not to bother them tonight.
Quietly, he pulls a paper sack from his bag and sets it on the doormat, just as he'd done during the Games.
It's small and stupid, meaningless in the long run, but it's all he can do, at least at the moment.
With one last glance at the house, Gale leaps from the porch, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and heads home.
#######
When Madge wakes up, it's to the smell of waffles and bacon, a rare treat.
For a minute she blinks into the morning light filtering through her window and almost thinks the past few weeks have been nothing more than a nightmare.
She's still nothing more than Madge Undersee, daughter of the mayor and a nobody. Not a killer, not a celebrity, not a Victor.
When she sits up though, looks around and sees the horrid, painful shoes she'd worn home, she knows that's nothing more than wishful thinking.
Nausea hits her, wracks her body and sending her tumbling to the ground where she scrambles across her dusty floor to the bathroom.
There's so little in her stomach, but what there is comes up, followed by painful dry heaves that bring tears to her eyes.
Death, she thinks bitterly, would've been so much less messy, so much less painful.
Cool hands sweep over her neck and pull her hair back.
"It's alright, love," her mother whispers, patting her back softly.
Madge almost laughs. It won't be okay, her mother should know that after a lifetime of watching Mr. Abernathy crash and burn in front of her.
It's still a comfort to have her mother there though, trying in her simple way to ease Madge's mind.
Slumping back, Madge forces a smile. "Thanks, mom."
An hour later, after convincing her mother that she isn't ill, Madge finds herself at the little table in the breakfast nook.
Her father has set out the waffles, steam still wafting off them, milk, bacon, syrup, and a bowl of strawberries.
Nibbling, Madge tries to force down a little bacon, half a waffle, a cup of milk, but it all turns to sand in her mouth, almost choking her. She doesn't even try the strawberries. She's lost her taste for them.
"You should eat more," her father tells her.
She knows she should. This is her last breakfast with them, at least for the foreseeable future. She need energy to pack up her room.
As a Victor, she's required to live in the Village. Mr. Abernathy's finally getting a neighbor.
The thought does little to stir her appetite.
They help her pick things to take, though really, she doesn't want much. The things in her room belong to another girl, an innocent girl, and Madge doesn't want to sully them with her bloody hands.
"You should take your books," her father prompts her.
He's right. She'll have nothing but time on her hands.
With a lump in her throat, she packs the contents of her bookshelf in one of the boxes, running a finger over each of the spines as she does.
Her mother tries to get her to take some of her dolls, but Madge gently puts them back.
"Keep them here, momma," she tells her. "I want a little piece of me to stay with you."
That sends her mother to tears and she takes a dose of morphling, putting her down for a nap, while Madge and her father finish packing.
They fold up her dresses, empty her drawers, clean out the toiletries, but leave everything else.
"I-I'm just not ready for the rest," she tells him.
Patting her hair, he kisses her cheek. "I understand."
Whether he does or not, Madge isn't sure, but pretending that he knows why she can't take her childhood with her to the elaborate tomb the Capitol is forcing her into, makes it easier.
They pick at lunch, the left-over dinner Madge had missed the night before. There's no fresh meal today.
Mrs. Oberst, her father had told her, was given the day off. For Madge, that's the best reward she's received since her supposed victory.
After packing the few boxes in the car they head up to the Victors' Village.
It's not a long drive, but for Madge it takes an eternity.
The Town slips by, stretching long in the windows. People go about their lives without worry, or at least pretending not to worry.
She sees Peeta through the bakery window, smiling and chatting with Delly, ringing her up for a loaf of bread…several kids are playing with a jump rope, singing a rhyme Madge almost remembers the words to…the butcher is chasing off a pack of stray cats…
It's surreal. Life is going on, like nothing has happened. But then, nothing has happened to any of them.
Madge's life is the only one turned on end.
The unfairness of it all, that she'd lived her whole life isolated because she was the Mayor's daughter and now that she's proved that she's tough, isn't weak or pathetic, she's going to be isolated because of that. There's no winning, not in the Games and not in her life.
They wind through the stretch of land between the Town and the Village, a road lined with trees, up to the numberless empty houses that constitutes the Village.
Mr. Abernathy is there when they pull up, sitting on his porch, cleaning under his nails with his ever present knife.
He gets up, Madge can almost hear his bones creaking even from inside the car, and clods over the car.
His gray eyes scan the car, probably looking for her mother, before opening the door and smiling sadly down at Madge.
She can't move though. She's frozen to her seat with her pillow clutched to her chest.
Before she can stop them, a few tear finally escape, trailing down her face and onto the pillowcase as she looks out the front windshield at the vacant house in front of her. Her new house.
"I don't want to live here."
She wants to go home. Isn't she a Victor? Doesn't that mean she has the right to pick where she lives? Why can't she stay with her parents?
"I know you don't," Mr. Abernathy tells her. He doesn't look like he wants to live here either.
Her father gives her a pat on her back and a small smile, "I'm sorry, Pearl. It isn't a choice though." He swallows, his voice breaks a little, "Haymitch will be near if you need anything."
I don't want Haymitch!
Haymitch Abernathy is the reason she's in this mess. He tricked her, made her feel guilty, and now she's being killed. It's slower than it would have been in the Arena, but it's just as certain, and twice as painful.
Without a word, not even a grunt or a sigh, Madge pushes herself out of the car and onto the grass, eyes cast down to the recently manicured lawn. Her lawn.
Suddenly she feels like she's back on the stage, all eyes on her, waiting for her first impressions of delight with her new home, her newest prize.
There are no cameras though, she reminds herself. There is no audience waiting with bated breath for her smiles or her empty praise. There's only her dad and Mr. Abernathy.
Swallowing down bile and keeping her eyes down, she walks to the house, up the freshly painted steps and to the porch, the key pressed so tightly to her hand that she's certain the indention will never leave.
Her father had already picked the house for her, gotten the key made and checked all the locks himself. Nothing but the best for his little girl.
Hand shaking, she reaches out and unlocks the door.
Inside is cool, the air conditioner is better even than the one at the Mayoral Manor, and Madge shivers. It reminds her of the funeral home in town.
It's been recently cleaned. It would've had to have been. The Village has existed since the Games began, and sitting empty had probably left most of the houses a mess. If Madge's room had been dusty after only a few weeks she can only imagine how awful the house had been.
She can smell pine, alcohol, and lemon mixing in a strangely sterile mixture, and wonders if her father had Mrs. Oberst do it. That would've made the old lady's day. It's the only thought that even threatens to make her smile.
The walls are striped, dark navy and white, and Madge instantly thinks of a bird in a cage, then a criminal. That's fitting, it's exactly what she is.
Her feet stop at the opening to the living room and she peaks in, half afraid of what might be there.
It's got a high ceiling, a delicate looking light hangs at the center, small teardrop shards of glass dangling from it, catching in the light and sending rainbows across the room. She instantly hates it. It's too much like her dress, her title as the 'Diamond Girl', and it hurts to look at it.
Ducking away, she goes a little deeper, and finds a smaller room.
It's softer, less formal than the front room, with a pair of squishy chairs, a couch, and a fireplace. The walls are plain, almost dull, a faded gray or a dirty white and only a pair of floor lamps for light.
The house is lifeless, a shell. Like her, there's no substance to it, and she supposes that should make her happy. She doesn't deserve a place that feels like home, not after all she's done.
Her new house isn't a house at all, she thinks dimly.
She'd read about mausoleums once, years before, and now she's seeing one for real. Her new house is simply a place to store a body, a soulless pound of flesh, until the Capitol has need of it. She's not even a ghost. She's nothing.
"We're putting your things in the master bedroom," her dad yells to her from the stairs, startling her out of her daze.
Chewing her lip, she goes back to help them.
This is her grave after all, she should at least set it up nicely.
#######
Her father stays until the sun starts to sink, which is longer than he should have. Her mother can't always be trusted to be safe without someone being with her.
"Haymitch is here for you," he reminds her one last time. "He'll help you."
Then a final kiss on the cheek, a quick hug, and then he's gone.
Despite Mr. Abernathy being there, Madge can already feel the chill of loneliness creeping in on her.
"I can stay on the couch, if you, uh, are scared of being by yourself," he tells her, forcing her to tear her eyes from the door. She'd been staring at it since her father had walked out, maybe minutes, maybe hours ago.
Madge lets her sore eyes flicker to him, settle on his world weary form.
It isn't his fault she won, much as she'd like to blame him. She'd made a conscious decision to follow his advice, despite knowing full well the consequences. It's unfair to be angry with him, and she knows it.
"I'll be fine, Mr. Abernathy."
Her voice is weak, watery and pathetic, but she forces a smile for him.
For a second it almost looks like he'll argue. His graying eyebrows scrunch together and his lips press into a thin line. Then he sighs, defeated.
"I'll be right next door." He takes her by the shoulder, and when she drops her gaze, he cups his palms on her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. "Anytime, day, night, it doesn't matter. You need me and I'm here. Understand, Pearl?"
A sloppy sounding chuckle bubbles out of her.
"You'll be drunk."
He's always drunk.
"I won't be," he frowns. "I'm gonna take care of you. From here on out, okay?"
He keeps telling her that, but she still isn't convinced. From what she knows of him, he's got even less sway than her father, and he hasn't spent the better part of the last quarter century upsetting the Capitol.
Still, he's done something to help her, even if she isn't quite sure what that is yet.
All she can do is trust him.
Nodding, she pops on her toes and presses a kiss to his rough cheek. "Alright."
Reluctantly, he leaves, though Madge is certain he's planning on sleeping on her porch for the night.
Alone, she looks around at her tomb.
Just like the night before, her knees give way and she drops to the ground in a pile of sobs.
This is her existence now, trapped in a place that's cold and empty and entirely foreign. It isn't home, it never will be.
There is no home for her now.