Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.
Summary: The strawberries on her kitchen table seem to taunt her; she knows that he picked them himself with his slender, calloused fingers, and a chill goes down her spine. GaleMadge, oneshot
In honor of The Hunger Games movie coming out this weekend, I've written this. I'm so freaking excited for the film, but the fact that Madge isn't in the movie breaks my heart. So, yeah, here this is. Just a short little piece about Gadge. Hope y'all enjoy!
The Meaning of Strawberries
She can be very foolish at times, of this she is certain.
People might not see her this way - she tries hard to not show her foolishness too often - but sometimes Madge Undersee feels she is the epitome of a fool. The very essence of a dolt, of a madwoman, crazed with things that other people would deem insignificant. She thinks that maybe if people were to see that they would…
Well, she isn't sure what they would do. Think differently of her, yes. Think her a silly, heartsick girl over someone that she shouldn't be. Just like everyone else at their school. And oh, how she wants to be different than them.
But this…this is the opposite of different.
She gazes at the basket on her kitchen table looking rather worn and worse for wear, but to her it is the most fascinating thing in the room. More fascinating than their collection of haphazard looking plates, more fascinating than the loaves of bread from the Mellarks' bakery…
Madge couldn't even count the number of things in their house that were dwarfed by the raggedy, well-used basket. Which was silly in and of itself. She knows that much, but she can't help but see the basket through rose-colored glasses.
She sits ramrod straight, almost in protest of the basket itself, but unable to look away. Her hands are folded in her lap, resting on her white skirt, pristine and pressed in a district full of dust. For every minute she doesn't gaze at the basket on the table, she looks away twice as long, as if punishing herself for even staring at the basket with some semblance of interest.
She doesn't need to be interested.
Certainly, she is grateful for the food inside - one of her favorites - but she can't help but feel off.
A flash of Seam gray eyes passes through her mind. She winces at the intensity of them, almost as if the memory is enough to make her uncomfortable, just as he does in reality.
There is a pause in which she glances out the window, wondering if he would come back, bringing other things for them. Game, edible roots, berries…
Madge curses underneath her breath.
The basket on the table taunts her. The delicious berries that lie inside make her itch to take one and roll it between her fingers, feeling the bumpy seeds that lie on the outside. She wrinkles her nose, wanting to abstain as long as she can from these tiny treats before she digs into them with reckless abandon.
She's not sure why, but it makes her feel better.
Having to rely on him for things makes her skin crawl. He's stoic and sarcastic, ice and fire, all rolled into one. Ready for a harsh comment at her fortune at a moment's notice. Sometimes, though, he looks at her with such softness that she wonders if he knows that she isn't the Girl on Fire.
She stares at the basket.
Pulling the corner of her lip with her teeth, she sets about actually touching the basket. Her fingers glide over the surface of it, almost like it is something sacred. She feels a slight smile curve her lips as her fingertips graze the rough sides of the basket. She can almost smell the woods lingering around the edges of her little gift from the snare-maker.
He explained to her that there weren't many at this time, but he got what he could, so she has to reach deep inside the basket to retrieve one of the brilliant red berries. She flushes when she thinks that he touched these such a short time ago.
She finds that she's thinking of him, as silent and stealthy as a cat, lurking through the woods, hunting for wildlife to sell at the Hob. She thinks of him coming across the strawberry bush, imagines him as he picks each of the berries with his slender, calloused fingers. A shudder rolls down her spine for a reason unbeknownst to her.
Madge rolls the strawberry around in her palm, the vibrant red contrasting sharply with her pale skin. Her stomach rumbles demandingly.
She relents - this whole exercise was one of futility, anyway - and bites into the taut skin of the strawberry. And then another, and then another. The berry juice drips from her chin and onto her lap, staining her skirt. She doesn't care. She hums as she eats, savoring each and every bite, each and every time.
She catches herself just in time, seeing that she's almost eaten the whole basket full. Madge wonders if her parents would mind - and the answer would be no, but she saves a few anyway.
She then leans back in the kitchen chair, feeling the familiar, comforting wood against her back. She tangles her sticky fingers in her skirt and looks outside. The sun is starting to set, and the sight truly is beautiful, unlike so many things in this unfair world they live in.
Taking a deep breath, she rises and moves to start preparing supper.
Madge can't catch the thought before it forms, which is odd, because she is usually very good at that. But it comes to her nonetheless, strange and light and uncharacteristically girlish. The thought freezes her in her tracks.
Maybe Gale will be by tomorrow.
And Madge finds herself left with the strange emotion, the one thing that she can never, ever allow herself to do.
Hope.
End.