A/N: My apologies to all you lovely readers for not posting this earlier, but here's a chappy to make you happy!
The train slows to a stop and the all too familiar trees greets her in a slow mocking smile. As she steps off the train with her bag (now half-full), her lips twist in an ironic smile and she thinks, Home sweet home. It's the closest she has to one anyway. Except-she couldn't think about that now, not when she'd left it (not when her heart stirred with pain and something else). By the time she reaches the Victor's Village, she has seen close to no one, and those who have appeared, they inevitably shy away, because she is the one slashes, the one who kills with a grin (but can't they see, there is no grin, only a sob for repentance, for forgiveness from a god she does not know). In her dreams, she's haunted by her ghosts, haunted by the cries of help (the cries of [i]Why didn't you save me?[/i]). She wonders if he still thinks of her-or if he's moved on and found another who accepts that the Girl on Fire will always take precedence-but this is too unbearable so she pushes it away. She tells herself that she has to move on too; except she can't-it's always kicking, reminding her that he will always be there. It's too late anyway-she's miles away, in District 7 with only her ghosts and the child. Every morning, there's bile up her throat and she's always leaning over the sink, shaking slightly, shoving back her cropped short hair with one hand, the other steadying herself, because right now, there's no one to be her support (and for forever, a voice taunts). Every night, she wakes up, drenched in her sweat and her past, automatically reaching for a hand that is no longer there, and her heart clenches with disappointment that crushes. And in between-there is nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to go to.
He snaps up, eyes scanning the darkened room for any threats, hand grabbing for a sign of life, that he was still human. His hand rests on a shoulder, moving up and down in the rhythm of sleep, and for a moment, the tension seeps out of him. In the grey borderland between sleep and consciousness where he drifts, where monsters and ghosts haunt him, a wave of relief crashes over him. It's alright, then. The shoulder moves suddenly, and a sleepy voice murmurs, "Gale?" It's not her, he suddenly realizes. She had brown hair, soft and cropped to her chin, but this girl (after all, she was just as innocent) has flowing blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. "It's nothing," he reassures her, as he fights back longing and anger at himself. The rest of the night, he spends it tossing and turning. The next morning, as he has sees the blonde off, all he can see is brown eyes full of hurt and resentment as she turns away. She does not seem to realize it, but her hand rests protectively on her abdomen as she pushes past him. It's over this that his heart squeezes, painfully so. It's over, this he knows, but he can't help but wish otherwise. Every day, the scene where she exits his life replays over and over. He can see the resentment in her eyes and he wonders if he was that unsuitable, if he couldn't be trusted around children. She did not want him in her (and he can't say their, because then they would still have a chance at hope, at life together) child's life, this is obvious. It does not stop him from wondering how she is now. Does she still think of him, think of the life they had together before all this? He does not blame the child, nor her, but blames himself. Is he that undesirable, that much of a monster? His heart still aches for her, a million times worse than it did for Katniss. He is over her now-he realized that long before, and he feels relief; but with that comes the inevitable sinking feeling-the feeling he'd once again lost someone (he loved her-no, she's not gone) to some other where. He's always been rash, impulsive and impatient (he regrets what he did to the Nut-which is why he's correcting his mistake now, as much as possible). It's no different now. He has to know how she's doing. He sits down and picks up a pen and begins composing a letter to someone whom he knows will understand and help him. As he seals the letter, he feels a knot of tension, apprehension-hope?-in his stomach, and hopes for the best.
She reaches for the cupboard often, and her hand curves around the familiar neck of the sloshing liquid that will make her forget everything-before she remembers. There is now this-inside her. Sometimes, she can hear it, innocent and not scarred by the world she lives in. Mommy, why do these people scream? Why are they covered in red? Mommy, mommy, save me from them-Save me! And she can hear it's gurgled whimpers for help and her heart shrivels. How can she save it, when she's drowning in the guilt, in the blood that forever taints her hands? And every morning, she walks past the cupboard and temptation seizes her, clutching in a vice-like grip. She remembers a story told to her an age ago (when everything was so innocent, so white) about this two people, Adam and Eve, and the forbidden apple. She doesn't remember the details of the story, but she does remember the apple. In the end, they ate the forbidden apple. And every morning, she inches closer and closer to the cupboard, before a kick from the depths of her bring her back to the harsh reality. One day, she opens the cupboard and sees the bottle in its tempting delight. She recalls when he once told her while putting the bottle far out of their reach, "We're in this, together." For a moment, her heart is spiteful and she wants to do exactly the opposite of what he wanted. After all, it's over and he has given up already (if he was even there in the first place; but that hurts her heart too much so she pushes it away). By this time, her hand has reached out and gripped what used to take away her pain and suffering. She knows this is the coward's way out, but she's so sick of everything, so sick of the pain, so sick of the guilt and heaviness that weighs down whenever she feels the swell of her stomach. She wants to forget how he said "I love you" to someone that would never be her; wants to forget how he never stopped her as she walked away; but most of all, she wants to forget how she had hoped (he gave her hope; something she hadn't had for a long, long time) he would run after her and take her into his arms and beg her to stay-but he never did (and this is not her happy ending, remember?). But oh, how she wishes he had really whispered "I love you" to her. She suddenly feels a kick, harder than usual. Maybe it can tell what she's going to do and is trying to stop her, once more, just like the previous times-but she's determined not to let it change her mind this time. She's had enough of this guilt, this doubt that plagues her, whenever she thinks of it. It's a reminder, all the time, of what she had, before all this happened. A sudden surge of anger and longing clash in their battle. Anger wins out and she yanks the bottle close, ready to let go of everything. A gulp-and the balloons of burden will float up to the sky, up, up and away. An insistent rap sounds on her door. She almost drops her bottle (but that would be such a waste, such a waste) in her surprise. Almost no one (although who is she kidding-none have ever bothered to visit, not even as a welcome home; not when they have heard and seen her, in her gory glory, with the axe spinning, familiar, in her hand-it would horrify her district, she knew, to know the hands that cut wood for them so many a time could just as easily cut the fragile thread of a life and leave wide innocent eyes gazing terrified and lifeless) has ever knocked on her door, so who can this be? Another rap, this time softer and less sure (but she hears it all the same, with senses sharpened). Wariness and curiosity bubbles, an unfamiliar sensation, as she steps towards the door, bottle unconsciously in hand. When she finally opens the door, the bottle slips from her palm and onto the weathered floor, smashing into pieces, liquid sloshing and spilling out, not unlike the world she has carefully re-constructed.
The train slows to a stop and the all too familiar trees greets her in a slow mocking smile. As she steps off the train with her bag (now half-full), her lips twist in an ironic smile and she thinks, Home sweet home. It's the closest she has to one anyway. Except-she couldn't think about that now, not when she'd left it (not when her heart stirred with pain and something else). By the time she reaches the Victor's Village, she has seen close to no one, and those who have appeared, they inevitably shy away, because she is the one slashes, the one who kills with a grin (but can't they see, there is no grin, only a sob for repentance, for forgiveness from a god she does not know). In her dreams, she's haunted by her ghosts, haunted by the cries of help (the cries of [i]Why didn't you save me?[/i]). She wonders if he still thinks of her-or if he's moved on and found another who accepts that the Girl on Fire will always take precedence-but this is too unbearable so she pushes it away. She tells herself that she has to move on too; except she can't-it's always kicking, reminding her that he will always be there. It's too late anyway-she's miles away, in District 7 with only her ghosts and the child. Every morning, there's bile up her throat and she's always leaning over the sink, shaking slightly, shoving back her cropped short hair with one hand, the other steadying herself, because right now, there's no one to be her support (and for forever, a voice taunts). Every night, she wakes up, drenched in her sweat and her past, automatically reaching for a hand that is no longer there, and her heart clenches with disappointment that crushes. And in between-there is nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to go to.
He snaps up, eyes scanning the darkened room for any threats, hand grabbing for a sign of life, that he was still human. His hand rests on a shoulder, moving up and down in the rhythm of sleep, and for a moment, the tension seeps out of him. In the grey borderland between sleep and consciousness where he drifts, where monsters and ghosts haunt him, a wave of relief crashes over him. It's alright, then. The shoulder moves suddenly, and a sleepy voice murmurs, "Gale?" It's not her, he suddenly realizes. She had brown hair, soft and cropped to her chin, but this girl (after all, she was just as innocent) has flowing blonde hair and ice-blue eyes. "It's nothing," he reassures her, as he fights back longing and anger at himself. The rest of the night, he spends it tossing and turning. The next morning, as he has sees the blonde off, all he can see is brown eyes full of hurt and resentment as she turns away. She does not seem to realize it, but her hand rests protectively on her abdomen as she pushes past him. It's over this that his heart squeezes, painfully so. It's over, this he knows, but he can't help but wish otherwise. Every day, the scene where she exits his life replays over and over. He can see the resentment in her eyes and he wonders if he was that unsuitable, if he couldn't be trusted around children. She did not want him in her (and he can't say their, because then they would still have a chance at hope, at life together) child's life, this is obvious. It does not stop him from wondering how she is now. Does she still think of him, think of the life they had together before all this? He does not blame the child, nor her, but blames himself. Is he that undesirable, that much of a monster? His heart still aches for her, a million times worse than it did for Katniss. He is over her now-he realized that long before, and he feels relief; but with that comes the inevitable sinking feeling-the feeling he'd once again lost someone (he loved her-no, she's not gone) to some other where. He's always been rash, impulsive and impatient (he regrets what he did to the Nut-which is why he's correcting his mistake now, as much as possible). It's no different now. He has to know how she's doing. He sits down and picks up a pen and begins composing a letter to someone whom he knows will understand and help him. As he seals the letter, he feels a knot of tension, apprehension-hope?-in his stomach, and hopes for the best.
She reaches for the cupboard often, and her hand curves around the familiar neck of the sloshing liquid that will make her forget everything-before she remembers. There is now this-inside her. Sometimes, she can hear it, innocent and not scarred by the world she lives in. Mommy, why do these people scream? Why are they covered in red? Mommy, mommy, save me from them-Save me! And she can hear it's gurgled whimpers for help and her heart shrivels. How can she save it, when she's drowning in the guilt, in the blood that forever taints her hands? And every morning, she walks past the cupboard and temptation seizes her, clutching in a vice-like grip. She remembers a story told to her an age ago (when everything was so innocent, so white) about this two people, Adam and Eve, and the forbidden apple. She doesn't remember the details of the story, but she does remember the apple. In the end, they ate the forbidden apple. And every morning, she inches closer and closer to the cupboard, before a kick from the depths of her bring her back to the harsh reality. One day, she opens the cupboard and sees the bottle in its tempting delight. She recalls when he once told her while putting the bottle far out of their reach, "We're in this, together." For a moment, her heart is spiteful and she wants to do exactly the opposite of what he wanted. After all, it's over and he has given up already (if he was even there in the first place; but that hurts her heart too much so she pushes it away). By this time, her hand has reached out and gripped what used to take away her pain and suffering. She knows this is the coward's way out, but she's so sick of everything, so sick of the pain, so sick of the guilt and heaviness that weighs down whenever she feels the swell of her stomach. She wants to forget how he said "I love you" to someone that would never be her; wants to forget how he never stopped her as she walked away; but most of all, she wants to forget how she had hoped (he gave her hope; something she hadn't had for a long, long time) he would run after her and take her into his arms and beg her to stay-but he never did (and this is not her happy ending, remember?). But oh, how she wishes he had really whispered "I love you" to her. She suddenly feels a kick, harder than usual. Maybe it can tell what she's going to do and is trying to stop her, once more, just like the previous times-but she's determined not to let it change her mind this time. She's had enough of this guilt, this doubt that plagues her, whenever she thinks of it. It's a reminder, all the time, of what she had, before all this happened. A sudden surge of anger and longing clash in their battle. Anger wins out and she yanks the bottle close, ready to let go of everything. A gulp-and the balloons of burden will float up to the sky, up, up and away. An insistent rap sounds on her door. She almost drops her bottle (but that would be such a waste, such a waste) in her surprise. Almost no one (although who is she kidding-none have ever bothered to visit, not even as a welcome home; not when they have heard and seen her, in her gory glory, with the axe spinning, familiar, in her hand-it would horrify her district, she knew, to know the hands that cut wood for them so many a time could just as easily cut the fragile thread of a life and leave wide innocent eyes gazing terrified and lifeless) has ever knocked on her door, so who can this be? Another rap, this time softer and less sure (but she hears it all the same, with senses sharpened). Wariness and curiosity bubbles, an unfamiliar sensation, as she steps towards the door, bottle unconsciously in hand. When she finally opens the door, the bottle slips from her palm and onto the weathered floor, smashing into pieces, liquid sloshing and spilling out, not unlike the world she has carefully re-constructed.
A/N: MUAHAHAHAHAH! Left all of you with a lovely cliffy; till next time!