Chapter Two
Laundry
Thanks to my beta, RoryFaller. All mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: I do not own the HG trilogy or any of the characters created by Suzanne Collins, although I sure wish I did.
The older woman serenely folded the towels, sheets and underwear in the massive pile before her, courtesy of her three remaining children. There was an equally massive stack next to her, folded beautifully— even the corners of the fitted sheets had a crisp, military precision. She silently snapped the towels and smoothed the pillowcases as she steadily made her way through the batch before her.
You can learn a lot about a person by their laundry, and the former laundress knew more than she cared to about some of the families in the former District 12. She kept their secrets, never letting on how much she knew about their lives as she returned the laundry to her clients. The wealthy were the only ones who could pay for her laundry services, yet she often felt that they were really the poor ones.
For example, the mayor's family of years ago was a far cry from the beautiful and loving family presented to the District. In private, the mayor was an austere, angry little man, who wore his clothing until it literally fell apart, miles away from the charming and gregarious man he was in public. His threadbare clothing reeked of the whiskey he consumed in private. His beautiful, doting wife was in fact very ill and getting worse by the day. She spent most of her time in bed, judging by the number of filthy night gowns and badly soiled sheets. They slept apart, given the sheer number of sheets and unbalanced wear patterns present in the weekly laundry.
Their talented, dutiful daughter was a plump teenager, who was as starved for love and affection as any of the other children in the district were for food. Her expensive, long-sleeved dresses were dotted with blood barely visible on the dark, somber colors but to the trained eye. She had a habit of cutting herself in secret places just so she could feel anything at all. Her laundry occasionally included blood stained towels and, occasionally vomit. (Years later, all of the woman's suspicions were confirmed by the mayor's daughter herself.)
The laundress was skilled at repairing rips and removing stains so her clients could maintain the flawless façade. If only it were possible to wash away the past as easily as she washed away the dirt and grime. If only people could emerge unscathed from their personal battles, to shake off the damage of daily disappointment and devastating defeats. Loss wears a person's soul as surely as repeated use weakens any fabric. Some stains to soul and fabric cannot be lifted.
That was a long time ago, before the war destroyed her home district and forced the relocation of her family to the underground of District 13. Now the only laundry she folds in her new subterranean home in District 13 belongs to her family, minus two very important members. She longs to feel the worn flannel work shirt of her long-dead husband or search for the missing sock belonging to her eldest son, recently killed it the rebellion. Their absence was never more present to her than when she was performing a mundane task such as laundry. The voices of the past are the loudest in the silence and solitude of an empty home.
There was an insistent rapping at her door just as she folded the last piece of her daughter's pile, a drab gray nightgown that the little vivacious girl despised. The woman's knees protested loudly as she made her way to the door of the cramped apartment. When she opened the thin door, a very excited young soldier stood before her. She recognized him as Myrtle Faller's son, Ben.
"Mrs. Hawthorne, you must come the command center immediately. We've found Gale and he's alive."
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