Turns out, it basically hurts to not write. So, here's this.
Disclaimed.
commence
Her son is not dead. Her son, the little boy with bright blue eyes, with his love of trains, he is not dead, and she is not left to take care of a little girl that's supposedly his. Because that is not how her world works, this is not what happens to her, goddammit.
Bay crawls over to her, staggers to her feet by holding onto her grandmother's knees, and she reaches down to rub her thumb over the girl's cheek, still baby soft.
She tells her sweetly, "Your parents are dead, darling," feels how sour those words taste in her mouth, and watches as the baby goes on obliviously.
If only it were that easy.
...
"You'll take care of her, if Clove can't?"
"I…of course, darling. I love you."
"…Good."
...
The drugs make it easier. Though, hiding the addiction is hard. Once, she has to wrestle her needle out of Bay's pudgy hands, and maybe she yells a bit louder than necessary, but didn't this kid get it?
If she had never been born, if her son, if her Cato had never met that Asphodel girl, he'd have come home the Victor, he'd be coming for dinner every Friday night, like he promised her when he was young.
But he's not, and she can't quite hate her granddaughter for it, because that little girl looks at her with pure adoration, most days, and calls her Gran, and looks just enough like her son, acts just enough like he did when he was a child, that it makes the days easier, just lightening her load enough, so that she can make it until night, when the needle calls to her.
...
"Momma, Momma, look what I made!"
...
She takes Bay with her, to the town square, the day that the Victors from Twelve are coming. She's not sure why she does it, because she hates them, and she'll be damned if Bay doesn't grow up hating them, too.
But, she does, and then she stands there, in the sweltering sun, with a whimpering infant, and listens to the speeches.
The girl sounds hollow. The boy is convincing enough.
Bay starts crying loudly at the end, and she can't help but think that it's just a little revenge.
...
"You look so much like your father."
"…Whatever."
...
It's easier just to plop the girl in front of the television and let her watch one of the tapes from the Games. It's…liberating, almost, because it saves her from having to explain why her mommy and daddy are dead, why they were killed in the arena.
It also makes it easier to find a vein.
...
"I'm going to volunteer, when I'm eighteen."
"Darling, wh–."
"It's my decision."
...
When she's lucid, she teaches her granddaughter to knit, to cook, to be a good little homemaker, because, let's be honest, that girl is never going to get much farther, not with how much she resembles her mother.
She thinks it's the best she can do, that is the best way to fulfill her promise to her son.
...
"Hey, Mom?"
"Yes, darling?"
"What if I told you that you were going to be a grandmother?"
...
She doesn't tell Bay this, but she's been planning her death for years, been waiting for the time when she knew that Bay could take care of herself. That day comes shortly after the girl turns fourteen.
She swallows a bottle of pills, downs a bottle of white liquor, and tucks a photo of baby Cato in her brassiere, next to her heart.
It's for the best, she thinks hazily, as the light dims.
...
"Momma, tell me a story?"
"Of course, darling."
...
"Momma, I love you."
"I love you, too, my sweet boy."
fin
Review please?