This was "Of Crystals, Glass, and Reflections" in 'Loosen Your Corset, Princess,' and I always thought it was meant for He's Fire. Of course I changed a few things, but not by much. This is the last chapter. The next chapter is the epilogue! Thanks to all of you who've been following along.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Words: 2,016

With shaking hands Effie attempted to place the key in her door. It took her several tries, but finally she succeeded. She walked inside the apartment, wondering how it had remained remarkably the same when everything else was so different. She took a tentative step forward, looking around.

She would have never known Plutarch had been here, had Haymitch not shown up in her hospital room with a bag full of her things—the bag Plutarch had given him, full of the things from her closet.

The only thing that had changed was the occupant.

She walked through the foyer, staring at the oversized pictures of herself. She had had some of her favorite pictures of herself blown up and framed to the wall. They were old pictures, all of them black and white, and they'd all been taken before she'd become an Escort.

She was happy in those pictures.

She had a lot of pretty things, she realized. Her apartment was bright and cheery—nothing like that cell she had been in for the past few months. The walls were neutral, but that was because the furniture stood out. Ebony wood floors against posh white furniture. Depending on the time of the year she'd change out her accessories colors, making sure they matched with the seasons. Right now her accents were tiffany blue: there were vases, marbles, flowers, paintings, pillows, and shams, all in the turquoise blue color.

They were out of season now, though.

There were crystals and mirrors everywhere: a crystal chandelier in the center of her living room, glittering the sun's reflection; a bowl full of tiffany blue and glass blue crystals; a large glass coffee table; a large accent mirror; two mirrored side tables.

Effie avoided her reflection, passing her bright kitchen, and headed towards her bedroom. The hallway was narrow, but long, and was filled with more pictures, this time of beautiful and fashionable women she had always admired: Audrey Hepburn, Jackie O, Dorothy Dandridge, Meryl Streep, Lupita Nyong'o, Lucille Ball, Michelle Obama, Maureen O'Hara, Lena Horne. Countless women who had made a difference in the world.

Women she had wanted to be like.

But not like this. She hadn't wanted it like this.

When Effie reached her bedroom she paused outside the closed door for several moments. Then, taking a deep breath, she opened her bedroom door. It was spacious, chic, sophisticated, and bright. The entire left wall was made of windows, from the ceiling to the floor. This was the reason she'd bought this apartment. For the view.

Not this view. Not the view that still showed smoking buildings and destruction and death.

She had spent many years looking out this very window, in this very spot, wishing the Capitol was a different place, that someone would take Snow out and Panem would be free. She used to dream about democracy, and voting on a leader, or impeaching one who was unfit, and having rights.

But not like this.

She hadn't wanted it like this.

Effie looked up at the crystal chandelier. It used to be her absolute favorite thing about her room. It was over-the-top and pretty and shiny, and everything that Effie loved. It was custom made. She'd gone to Tiffany's and had helped the jewelers design this chandelier.

And now it showed a skewed version of her reflection.

Effie looked away and her eyes rested on her en suite bathroom. It too was large and spacious, and bright. There was a bay window next to the claw foot club. Plush rugs. Double sinks. Granite counter tops that matched her kitchen.

And a large mirror that was the size of the main wall.

Taking another deep breath Effie finally turned and looked at herself.

Her gold wig was crooked, but she suspected no one who had seen her cared. She'd been wearing the same wig for a week. Plutarch hadn't bought her any more options. She had never suspected that Katniss would shoot Coin, and would have to await trial. She had been forbidden to leave Plutarch's, so she was stuck wearing the same wig and clothes.

Her suit was slightly wrinkled, and hung off her body. She couldn't fit it anymore. The makeup had been carelessly applied, and she could just make out where her hands had started shaking, moments before the panic attack hit her.

Before she had to get Katniss prepped.

Effie stared at herself, stared at the woman in the clown suit.

That's what Haymitch used to call it.

Haymitch.

The tears filled her eyes then, as she thought of her Mentor. The man that was so much more than a Mentor to her. The Mentor who she now knew saw her as more than an Escort. She'd waited fifteen years for him to notice that she'd changed, that she was different, and it took him nearly losing her to really get it.

Fifteen years of waiting on him to get it, and when she'd finally had the chance to love him, she'd turned down his invitation.

Now she was here, all alone, and Haymitch was halfway back to 12, Katniss in tow.

She knew she hadn't made a mistake. She couldn't go back with him, not now. Not yet. One day, she figured. She'd waited for fifteen years. He could wait a few. For now, she needed to figure out who she was.

And as she stared at her reflection, she knew at the very least who she wasn't.

She hated the woman she was looking at.

She shocked herself when her fist smashed into the mirror, but she didn't even really feel the pain. She kept hitting the mirror until pieces started to fall. She took both hands, balling them into fists, as the anger, the disgust, consumed her, and her knuckles were bloody.

When her wall mirror was finally destroyed she sunk down the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. She ripped off her wig, throwing it across the room, vowing she'd never wear any of it again.

XxXxXx

Effie wasn't sure how long she stayed on her bathroom floor. Days passed, for sure. She heard her phone ringing, but never bothered to get up and answer it. It wasn't like it'd be Haymitch. Sometimes she thought she heard a faint knocking on her door, but she couldn't tell if it was just her head or not. She'd had a headache for hours.

Eventually her thirst won out. She could care less about eating. She hadn't eaten properly in months. Haymitch had encouraged her to eat little portions, and to never overeat, but she felt like she'd never be able to eat again.

But the thirst? The desire for water? That was undeniable, and she'd been denied the ability to drink for far two long. Her body shaking, Effie finally slowly got up and made her way to the kitchen, discarding the heels before she did. She drank to her heart's content, and then burst into tears.

XxXxXx

Time passes. Months, eventually a year. Some days she didn't leave her bed for hours. Other times weeks. She slipped in out of reality, spending a lot of days locked inside her own head.

She didn't eat.

She hardly slept.

When she did sleep she was plagued with nightmares.

She briefly thought about those little blue pills her mother had given her all those years ago. She was pretty sure she had a bottle in her medicine cabinet, but it seemed so far away. It wasn't worth her getting out of bed to fetch.

Nothing was worth getting out of bed for.

Her parents came around every now and then. Not often. She didn't want them to. She didn't want to be around them. They didn't know that she'd been tortured. They'd be horrified—not at what she'd gone through, but at whose side she was on.

Her parents didn't make much of an effort to get Effie to come around, and she was okay with that. She didn't want their pity. She didn't want to see their frowns and sorrowful faces. Nor did she want to hear her mother chastise her for moping around, looking the way she did.

The only useful thing they did was fix her bathroom mirror.

The phone still rang a lot. Oftentimes it went unanswered. When she did find the strength to answer, she found herself talking to Annie and Johanna. Johanna surprised her the most. They had never really gotten along, but they'd shared a cell for a while. She put on a brave front for a while, but if anyone understood her, it was them, even if her pain couldn't amount to theirs.

She always said she'd visit, but it was an empty promise. They knew it, and she knew it.

One day Effie felt the urge to get out of bed. She wasn't sure what happened. She literally woke up one morning, the sun shining brightly, and decided that today was going to be different.

Enough time had passed now. At least a couple of years, maybe more.

The first thing she did was go to the bathroom. Her new mirror—smaller, a true vanity mirror—showed a woman with haunted eyes, matted hair, and chapped lips. She drew herself a bath, staying immersed in the water until she resembled a prune. She combed and washed her hair until her mane resembled the soft curls she used to know.

She got out of the tub, dried herself off, and looked at herself again. She had scars. Lots of scars. Most of them faded, but some of them remained. Even more would fade over time, but some of them were permanent. She still looked unhealthy. Her cheeks were hallow, her skin slightly yellow. Her hands shook as she continued brushing her hair.

One hundred strokes, Mother always said.

She willed herself on.

She slipped on her robe and walked to her computer and ordered several thousand dollars worth of new clothes that'd be delivered to her doorstep tomorrow.

Afterwards she made herself a salad, briefly wondering who the hell had been buying her groceries. She thought she remembered Plutarch coming in and out every now and then, but who the hell knew? Tomorrow she would go the grocery store and get the things she liked.

After lunch she made her way to her walk-in closet and looked around. So many dresses and wigs and jewelry. It overwhelmed her, and she could feel herself starting to slip away, so she left, closing the door behind her. She'd try again tomorrow.

When her new clothes arrived she put all of them in her guest bedroom. Then she attempted to clean out her closet again, using the boxes that her new clothes came in. She had only finished a third of her closet when the need for food forced her to stop. She showered and dressed in one of the new, simple dresses she had ordered, grabbed a pair of designer shades, and slipped on a pair of heels—some things would never change—and left her apartment for the first time in nine months.

She could feel the stares as she walked, and they made her uncomfortable. Some times she'd sneak into an alley and cry until there were no more tears.

But as the months passed, she found she didn't really care all that much anymore.

She started talking to Annie and Johanna. They seemed relieved that she was finally reaching out to them. She started to get better. They planned a trip for her to come out there, one she really meant to take this time.

They planned it to happen in a couple of months, in the summer, when 4 would be nice.

When she finally finished cleaning out her closet, late one night, she took a deep breath, and smiled. The shelter would have another several dozen boxes donated to them tomorrow.

She wiped her hands on her dress and made her way to the bathroom. Like she did every night, she stared at herself in the mirror. She smiled at herself, but it was still forced. Her eyes were still sorrowful.

She was disappointed. She just knew once she had gotten rid of all her old things she'd be happy again.

She was counting on happy, damn it.

But she wasn't happy. She wasn't happy because she was lonely.

She wondered if Annie and Johanna would mind if she came a few weeks early.