Author's note: Still debating whether to let Finnick die... I think it'd be interesting to write about how Annie coped. I was traumatized for weeks after he died though. Might just see where the story takes me...
I don't own the hunger games.
Madge.
When I turn around, he's gone. Pressing my fingers lightly against my cheek where his lips were pressed up until a couple of seconds ago, or possibly a couple of hours ago, I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the wall in what has become my signature mental breakdown position. Or perhaps just my signature please, please let me find the strength to do this position.
Must work, anyway, because find the strength I do...
Pulling myself together as rapidly as I can, I leave in search of someone, I don't know who, anyone...
That person turns out to be Maya Boggs.
Firmly handing me a cup of very strong, hot sweet tea, she sits down on the hard hospital chair opposite me.
"I'd ask if you were okay, but that would be an extremely stupid question." She sighs.
I agree. It would be a very, very stupid question.
Of course I'm not okay! I just said goodbye to Gale, for crying out loud, with the possibility that I might never see him again! And I'm trying to be strong, but inside I am breaking, piece by piece.
I put my hand in my pocket for the button, the one thing which anchored me to sanity the last time we were separated, before realising I gave it to Gale. The idea of him having the button is oddly comforting.
Maya Boggs just watches my attempts to pull myself together, not offering a single word, just sharing the silence.
"Do you know how many times I've said goodbye to Stewart now, Madge? How many times I've had to prepare myself for the possibility he might not come back?"
Considering it properly, I come to the conclusion that, compared to Maya and Boggs, all the times Gale and I have said goodbye are childs play.
"Does- does it get any easier?" I ask, my voice hoarse, breaking.
"No." She sighs. "I wish I could give you another answer. But that is the truth of it. The only thing that will make it any easier is throwing yourself into your work."
I laugh. "You just want my work rate to pick up."
She laughs, holding her hands in the air in mock surrender. "Guilty."
I pull on the rubber gloves and examine the charts for today with almost absent minded indifference. Maya stands beside me, then sighs.
"Who are we kidding? We're a sorry crew indeed, today, Madge. And in all seriousness, if your work rate picks up any more, I'm going to have to tell my boss you're a work a holic and force you to take a week off."
I sigh dreamily. "Whatever would I do with a week off? I'd go on a holiday to the Capitol, a couple of weeks in the sun at President Snow's place... sounds like paradise to me."
She laughs, shoving me playfully. "All about the tan, you. I reckon we should take the day off from serious work. We can sulk and mope about how bitterly unfair this life is in packaging. They're packing up all the medical equipment for our little trip next week. It's quite therapeutic, really."
Prim was already in packaging, working with a ferocity that suggested each little first aid kit had done her a very deep, personal wrong. However, as I enter, she affords me a small tight smile.
Primrose Everdeen has grown up beyond anyones wildest dreams. In appearance alone, she looks about 16, rather than just 13 (14 in a couple of weeks). Dressed in some of the nicer clothes 13 had to offer, a worn, knee length white dress with mismatched buttons and a torn collar, pulled in at her waist, with her hair in a single plait down her back and lose curls escaping to frame her face, she looks so much more grown up than I ever would have even thought possible.
It's not just in appearance, but in maturity. At the impressive age of just 13, she is a fully fledged healer. And she's one of our best. She always seems to know what to do after just one glance, never needing more than that to assess every one of the patients needs, and never ever panicking under pressure. There's something else about her, too- she sees everything in life so clearly.
"Chuck me one of those scalpels, Prim." I say from next her.
"No, no, noo!" Calls Maya playfully, grinning. "There will be no chucking of scalpels in this room, not under my watch, thank you very much. We're meant to cure injuries, not create them!"
Prim and I exchange grins, laughter lighting both of our eyes before we both fall back into the shadowy land of worry.
That evening, I get a phone call to Gale from command. It feels like forever since I have heard his voice, even though it was only this morning.
"Hi." I whisper into the phone, grinning and biting on my lip as his voice answers.
"So how are preparations for the big healer mission going?" He asks. I can hear the teasing note in his voice and laugh.
"Shut up, Soldier Hawthorne. It's important work, I'll have you know!"
"I know, Madge. I was just teasing. I think what you're doing is amazing. I honestly want to know."
I sigh heavily. "As well as it could be, considering the budget we're put on. How's stuff with you? Everyone okay? What have you been up to?"
Sensing the mounting panic in my voice, Gale hurries to reassure me. "We've only just got here, Madge. And to be honest, from what I can tell, there won't be much action anyway." He sighs heavily. "It's so frustrating!"
Smiling to myself, I try to stem the relief flowing through me. "I know. When the time comes, make sure you kill a few Peacekeepers for me."
He laughs. "Promise. It looks like I have to go now. Sorry."
"It's okay." I whisper, trying to hold onto his voice for as long as I can. "I miss you."
"Miss you too. I love you."
"Love you too."
Sighing heavily, I put the phone down. And that is when, for the first time that day, I properly break down.
Sobbing unashamedly against the wall, I don't even try to stem the flow of tears. What's the point? What's the point in anything?
On the following day, Prim and I have to leave. Neither of us say goodbye to anyone but Buttercup. We are both coming back.
On the train out there, Prim takes my hand and asks a question which causes me some thought.
"Madge, what do you think your parents would have said, if they knew where you were going?"
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. "I- I don't know. I've been trying not to think about them, to be honest."
"Oh. Sorry. Was that an impertinent question? You don't have to answer. I was just... curious. But-"
"No. No, it is okay. It probably is time I thought about them. Time I let them go. I think they'd both be very proud. And terrified. Really, really terrified out their wits about me."
"What were they like?" She asks, inquisitive.
I smile to myself, the image of my father coming to the front of my mind. "They were- wonderful people. My father was warm and loving and kind. He worked day and night, trying to keep the district safe. He was so, so selfless. He was the sort of man who blended into the background, who had to work for everything he gained. But he never questioned his fate, never questioned that he was doing the right thing in trying to save the district, even though it was costing him everything he was."
Briefly closing my eyes, I try to recall everything about him, but my mother's face floats into consciousness.
"And my mother. My mother loved so much, tried so hard to embrace the entire world, that eventually... it destroyed her."
Prim stares at me with wide blue eyes before, eventually, taking my hand. "I think they sound just like you."
The medical work in the Capitol is dangerous, as you would expect. The ground is littered with corpses and wounded alike... Sometimes, the only difference between the two is that the corpses don't scream or writhe in unendurable agony. In a way, the situation of the dead is enviable, and I feel my sanity slipping away, for there is no such relief for the living. For the mortally wounded, for the ones we cannot save.
The Capitol dropped a group of tortured prisoners outside the borders. No one could work out why they'd been put there. My best guess was that they didn't have enough food to feed people they didn't even want to keep alive, and couldn't be bothered to bury them.
I keep my dart gun close by, and Prim in sight at all times, protecting her in every way possible. But I can't protect her eyes from the terrifying sights which so accurately portray what the very worst of humanity is capable of, and I can't protect her ears, can't prevent her from listening to the horrifying stories the wounded tell as we see to them...
"They cut me up like I used to carve the meat every Sunday." Sobs one woman, clutching to Prim by the straps of her armour. "I don't think they even saw me as human. They just carried on with the torture, no matter how many times I screamed or threw up or fainted. They always had to slap me awake again after I lost too much blood and lost consciousness. How many pieces of meat do you know that have done that when you cut them up for your dinner?"
Primrose Everdeen doesn't even flinch, carrying on tending to the poor woman's wounds.
But at night, I hear her sobbing her heart out into her pillow. There are so many memories that we have now which there is no thing on this earth powerful enough to erase, and they haunt me as thoroughly as they haunt her. None of these memories should belong to us.
None of these memories should belong to anyone.
She is only 13. Still a child, barely older than the little girl who was first reaped for the 74th hunger games, no matter how mature she may have gotten.
The fact of the matter is, on a battlefield, there are only so many people you can save. And there is no guarantee of when the bombs may begin to fall, when the next disaster might strike.
It was nearly a month since we had left 13. I hadn't had a call with Gale for three weeks, but I was coping. Just. Prim hadn't spoken to Katniss since she left. Compared with her, I had it easy.
The block had already had all the pods on it deactivated, but at a high cost. Rebel soldiers in various states of injury littered the streets.
Prim and I, who were an inseparable team whether in the lab or on the battlefield, ran to the soldier nearest, whom, it became immediately transparent, was going to die.
The pavement was slick and scarlet with blood. Rolling onto his stomach, he heaved, and more blood, mixed with a quite large quantity of pus, sprayed the pavement... Prim put a hand on his back, and closed her eyes a moment.
Perhaps this had got the better even of Prim.
That was when the sirens began to wail, telling us to get into the house nearest to us at all cost. A pod had most probably been activated.
How coolly, how indifferently, I could consider this poor, brave man's death... It chilled me to the bone. But I had seen many, many deaths since coming here, and I knew upon sight there was nothing we could do for this man but make him more comfortable...
Perhaps not even that...
"Prim, we have to move!" I scream, pulling her to her feet. She slips slightly in the pool of blood, giving the man a final look as his body jerks, completely out of his control. "Prim, there's nothing we can do! Please!"
She looked back at the man lying on the pavement. "I am so, so sorry." She whispers.
I was, too. More sorry than I could say.
We made it into the house, and slammed the door shut. There were only two other people in here- Maya, and another rebel solider who had, miraculously, survived.
We stayed silent, sat on the floor of the deserted house, Prim enclosed in my arms.
Without warning, the television mounted on the living room wall flickers to life. The seal of Panem appears, and then their faces flicker on the screen, just like in the games.
I don't hear a single word they say, because I know without hearing the words Snow is speaking that the worst has happened...
It takes a moment for me to realise the person who is screaming is me. Gale, Finnick, Katniss, Boggs... Everyone. Gone.
This grief goes beyond tears. So, so far beyond tears. I feel as if I am being torn into a thousand pieces, as if the fight, as if my very soul has been torn from me... As if everything is on fire.
There is no word to describe the feeling of loss that is tearing through me as Prim gasps and begins to sob. She throws herself onto her knees beside me, her arm around my neck, and we clutch at each other as if it is the only anchor holding us to the world. The girl who has become my little sister.
Only one thought registers. They are gone. He is gone. And there is no point. To any of it.
That is when his face comes onto the screen, and I realise that perhaps there is a point to it all. A new thought begins to register, taking firm shape in the terrible darkness and despair which has rooted itself in my mind and my heart.
From that moment on, that is what I must live for.
The death of President Snow.