fluorescence
Effie is almost certain she knows of what the Districts think of her. She's not stupid, you know. Maybe she's not the quickest one, maybe she's not the brightest, but hell, even she could decipher the roll of the eyes in the crowd, the hollow, cold stares she receives from the mourning parents. She could see just what they think of her and Capitol in one braving glance.
Effie Trinket, you stupid, stupid bitch.
And sometimes - they don't know this, mind you, no one does - she agrees to their testament too. When she thinks no one is listening or watching, she sits down and really looks at her life. She begins to reevaluate her humanity. How could she agree to this? How could she bear to watch children she's prepped, primed, and pampered walk into the arms of death? How could she stand to live with herself, day by day, when she knows and everyone knows that it's her fault that all those children are dead?
Well, damn, she can't answer those questions.
(Not anymore, at least. Not without looking at you with moist eyes, without her lips forming around a bold-faced lie.)
Effie doesn't know why she chose this career, but she knows how. She fell head-over-heels in love with this boy - just a classmate, just a smart fellow no one knew was going to be Head Gamemaker one day - that she just adored. He knew her like no other. He understood her. He knew just how bad it was growing up on the better side of life, being in the Elite society. He knew how hard living up to high, high expectations was. Because damn it, the Capitol was no joy living in either when you're being judged on every word you say, every smile you share, every tear you shed. At least the Districts had something she never had: a stronger sense of privacy. Then again, privacy isn't a common thing with the type of government they have.
Anyway.
(See, you've activated her fiercer side and you've got her rambling now.)
She enrolled into Games school because she wanted to be closer to him. Dear heavens, what a marvelous time they had together. Studying the psychological aspects of the Games, the ethics and purpose of the whole event. They were just a couple kids in love. They put a brave face on to take on the world together. They were ready for success, to break away from their restricting society. Holding hands, they jumped feet first into a world they thought they already knew everything about. After all, there's a reason why they graduated with top marks in their class. So here was Effie Trinket, escort and Seneca Crane, gamemaker. Two people ready to become just about the greatest thing Panem would ever see.
When she started her first year as an escort, she expected nothing of it. Sure, Haymitch was going to be a bit of a brute - that much she knew out of asking her fellow friends about the handsome victor - but she just thought it was going to be easy. Surely, with her around, things would definitely change. She was determined to bring home a victor - well, not home, but you get the point, no? And after getting to know the tributes - Iris Scott and Jared Messing - she had complete faith. Iris even reminded her of her little sister back at home. The two teenagers (Ellie Trinket and Iris, that is) were uncannily similar. And if Iris was like Ellie, then she would definitely be crowned victor.
And then she watched Jared die a terrible death later in the bloodbath. She felt sick to imagine that she chose a favorite, that she cast Jared to the side and focused on Iris only. How unprofessional of her!
That night, she cried herself to sleep. Around two o'clock in the morning, when she couldn't stand sleeping under these circumstances, she woke up Haymitch - barely, anyway - and asked him how he dealt with it. She was a mess. She needed comfort. She wanted Seneca and he was working, so she went to the next best thing.
Haymitch mumbled a quick, "Fuck your feelings, Princess, I gotta sleep." He threw a bottle of liquor at her and needless to say, he wasn't much help. Not ever.
The next day, she watched Iris kill then be killed by an angry district partner. She didn't feel anymore. She shouldn't have gotten attached.
When she came home, she wasn't the same. Her friends noticed her changes, her dropping out from societal events, and soon, they left her. She wasn't the next best thing. She was just a part of the District 12 string of failures. And oddly, she didn't care that she had virtually no one anymore. She hated herself, anyway.
Two years later, Seneca broke up with her. Claimed that she wasn't the same girl he fell in love with and that they were growing apart anyway.
(Oh, well. He's right, you know. She wasn't the same. They were growing apart. That didn't make it hurt any less.)
She shaped up soon enough and threw herself in the fluorescent, shiny things the Games stood for. A lone wolf. A famous figure. A sex symbol. Yes, that's what she was here for now. That's why she exists. Not only to watch kids die, but to make it seem sensible. Granted, she was just doing it for her own good because the Capitol was already convinced that the Hunger Games were for the good of the nation.
(It still doesn't make sense, though. But she wouldn't let anyone know that. She values her life, after all.)
She was a rising star. She had all these suitors crawling to please her, to love her, to be her friend -
Each one of them she said no to. Because where were they when she needed them the most? And anyway, they don't want her. They want the mask she puts up for the masses.
There's a reason why she and Haymitch hate each other. No, it's not because she has Capitol written all over her and he reeks of District. It's because of a mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.
(Swollen lips, heavy breaths, pulled clothes, roaming hands...!)
She shot him a look the morning after. He was snoring, his knife dropped to the floor and the bottle of whiskey on his bedside untouched.
(Tantalizing kisses, soft moans, eyes rolling back.)
She pulled herself out of his arms and dressed quickly and quietly. She swallowed the lump in her throat as she rushed out of the room, trying so hard not to cry. But by the time she reached her room, she was in sobs. She pressed her back against her door and slid to the hallway floor, unable to even think about her actions from last night.
Haymitch came by a half-hour later and found her against the wall, still, her knees tucked up against her chest. She looked up at him.
(Eyes locked. Grey, meet green.)
"It was very unprofessional of us to engage in such a...lewd activity, Haymitch," she whispered.
"What are you saying?"
She shrugged. "It meant nothing to me."
(With those words, she remembered what it felt like. After, at least. How he crawled in next to her. She giggled. He exhaled. She reached over to turn off the light. And he kissed her forehead.)
"Did you expect any different?" he asked her.
She still wasn't sure, after all these years, if he said that to assure himself or her. You know, she'd hate her too if she was in Haymitch's position.
She doesn't need him. That's all she tells herself. She doesn't need a man. All she needs are the fluorescence and the frivolity the Capitol provides.
(Correction: She does need him. It wasn't a mistake. It was a wonder.)
The 74th Hunger Games rolled in without preamble. She greeted her cohorts and fellow escorts, all the while convincing the nation that yes, she's still just as magnificent as ever. That age doesn't weigh her down. It has no right to. Age, after all, is just a state of mind. Why else is she, at thirty-nine, still comparable to the youngest of rising celebrities today? Her image mattered, after all. Where would she be if she let herself go?
Haymitch and her weren't on speaking terms, of course. If they weren't obligated to be in the same room, they weren't with each other. It was just best for everyone, anyway. One word to each other and they just might kill each other. Or kiss. Whichever was worse.
This year, she didn't have much faith. The girl seemed too fiery for her own good - she'll never survive, she's too impulsive. The boy had manners, but she didn't know him just yet. And anyway, she doesn't want to get her hopes up, because everytime she does, they all die.
Never fail.
And yet...and yet she saw something in the two of them that she knew was different. What was that? Young innocence? Young hope? Young love?
Something like that. Did she ever have what they had?
Nah.
And when they walked out of the arena alive, she smiled and screamed out of joy - they won! She won!
(We won.)
She stumbled into the arms of a shocked Haymitch, fidgeting and squealing and just being so damn happy.
And who could blame her? Who could blame this woman for being clueless, for being so ignorant for the moment being? Because for the first time in years, she has no reason to cry herself to sleep at night. She has no reason to beat herself up for losing another pair of kids again.
They won, for the love of God. When she let go of Haymitch, she wondered why he looked so worried.
A year and a half later, she sits in her prison cell, knees drawn to her chest, back against the stone-cold wall. She blinks away tears as she runs her finger over the cuts on her arms.
Then, she laughs. Obnoxiously, out of the blue, successfully scaring the shit out of the Peacekeepers guarding her cell.
She figures out the perfect word to describe Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark.
Fluorescent.
"Do you know anything about the rebellion? About Katniss Everdeen?"
She's fluorescent, Mr. President.
(Note: President Snow was not pleased at all with her answer.)
A/N: I think I love Effie Trinket a bit too much. Oh well. Review? c: This story is kind of an introduction to my story, Coming From the Capitol, which, guess what, is ALL ABOUT EFFIE LOLOLOL. Be a sweetie and check it out? And review? Thank you babes :3 Erm, the last paragraph was to show her during Mockingjay, but I haven't read it in ages and is currently in the hands of my friend. So, excuse any canon problems please. Oh, God, I should stop uploading things as soon as I finish them.