—Interlude: War and its Aftermath—
When Madge Undersee was young, she thought she understood something of pain.
Her father was helpless and hopeless, shackled by the rules of the Capitol, spending his waking hours trying to find a way, any way, to make the lives of his citizens easier. His neck and his back stooped under the weight of their suffering, taking every loss or beating or starvation as a personal burden, a personal failing.
Her mother was sad and sickly, mourning a baby sister lost in the most brutal of ways, mourning a barren womb unable to bloom with life. She spent her days in a pained delirium, confined to her bed, emitting only the feeblest of moans. There were moments of lucidity, of her sweet smile and loving hands brushing back Madge's hair, but those moments faded so quickly and so suddenly, that Madge couldn't help but weep for their loss.
Madge knew endless solitude, knew the acute despair of loneliness.
She knew that others hated her, reviled her, wished all kinds of evil upon her and her parents. She knew the pain of swallowed hurt, the ache thick and clogging in her throat. She learned how to hide her tears, learned how to smooth her face and unclench her hands while anger and agony flowed through her in a torrent.
Madge knew the fear of the Capitol. Its minions prowling her home, slithering through her things, hissing in her father's ear, and mocking her mother's pain. They lived their lives on a ledge, teetering wildly, terrified of the misstep, terrified of the fall.
But when they come for her, Madge Undersee realizes she knows nothing of pain, nothing of fear.
As she waits in her cell, stripped, quaking, shivering with fright, Madge thinks nothing can be worse than this anticipation, this expectation of horrors to come. But when they finally do come, Madge Undersee realizes that no fear, no horrible phantasm can be as cruel, as painful, as ghastly as this.
Dreams of defiance don't last long. There is a moment, an adrenaline-soaked, flushed moment of rebellion, of sharp inhales and steeling herself. But when the pain comes it is so furious, so jagged, so all-consuming that she flips like a coin, two faced and brassy with fear. She would do something, anything, whatever they say to please just stop the pain. She sings and dances and screams for them, wholly theirs to do with what they will. Her arms, her legs, her lips are theirs, and she bends and breaks and bawls to their will, her mouth open and closing as they demand, a puppet on their string.
They find her every weakness, pry apart every fracture. And sometimes the thinks for them, torture is not a work of art, but a work of love. They study her, learn her. Know her every quake and quiver, every mewl and moan, more intimate than a lover. Every trifling thought, passing childhood fancy, her innermost self exposed, trembling and vulnerable— every crevice of her mind and orifice of her body explored and scraped out, the pain an excruciating filigree of torment, laid gently on her skin like lace.
Madge learns terror, can feel it clotting in her veins. There is no fight or flight here. Fight or flight or freeze, she thinks. A fear so fierce it causes paralysis, a dread so strong she can't breath. Oftentimes just hearing their footsteps approach will cause her chest to seize up, a metal band pressing on her ribs, squeezing so tightly she can't take a breath, black spots dancing before her eyes.
For some reason, they like to keep her cold. Often they will douse her with water and then just leave her, the room icy and glittering with frost. She freezes and cramps, hunches in on herself, frantically rubbing her blue-tipped fingers until she is too numb to move, her joints frozen, barbed-wire knots. She becomes used to a wild, hopeless place of delirium, floating somewhere between death and despair, teeth chattering so hard she is sure her jaw will break. And that's when they smile over her, eyes glittering, lips curved, sharp as a blade.
Sometimes there is a blessed moment when she will lose herself, abandon her body like an old husk, lose herself in the trance-like rhythm of her suffering. And in that confused twilight, floating outside of her body, she will think of him.
She clings to the memories—of lean muscles, tan and taut, of messy black hair in the sunshine and eyes intense, focused like a hawk. And when she thinks of him, somehow she thinks of defiance, of everything she is not—his hands were always strong and warm, his body radiating heat. She remembers his back in tatters and striped bloody, foaming with puss and pain, and still he didn't give in to them. Oh why can't have that kind of strength she thinks, shivering uncontrollably. And then the thought floats away, overwhelmed by another crash of pain.
She doesn't even feel shame when she breaks like a piece of rotting fruit, sickly and fecund, bursting with her every fetid secret. She spills her inner self, every minor misdeed, every furtive rebellious thought, every whispered conversation. She vomits out everything she knows, every bit of herself laid bare, and likewise she sees their eyes curdle with disdain because she cannot give them what they want, that one kernel of truth that will satisfy them.
And whenever they leave her alone in her cell, she feels empty. Like leftover fruit, pulp and pith and pips scooped out, nothing left but a limp, scraped peel.
And that is when Madge prays for death.
Her despair is so bleak and so final. She knows her prayers— desperate, begging, screaming prayers—are hopeless. This is an underground Capitol prison. And Madge realizes that this place is buried so deep and so dark that no god will hear her here. And sometimes in the deep dark, in the deepest darkest place in her heart, Madge Undersee won't pray to any god. No, instead she prays… Katniss. The girl on fire. Madge prays that Katniss will bring an end to the Capitol, an end to her pain. She thinks of Katniss, fierce and free and strong and her only real friend, and she sobs so hard she thinks her ribs will break.
And Madge Undersee realizes that she never knew pain, never knew fear. She never knew a loneliness like this.
…
I always thought when we won the war things would be different.
Katniss would be safe, and then she would have time to realize she loves me. I would have a career, and so my family would finally have a real chance at making it out of poverty. I had all these plans. I'd get Rory an internship and Vick swimming lessons and my Ma an automatic washer and electric iron, and I'd get Posy some girl's clothes instead of our old boyish hand me downs. I thought after the war there'd be hope, and time to fix all the things I needed to fix. Like Katniss and her family and my family.
But when the war ended suddenly everyone just leaves. Katniss gives me one last look, her eyes hard as iron, and makes it very clear she never wants to see me again. And Ma heads back to Twelve on the first transport out, saying the kids need to return to normal life, get out of the Underground. Rory doesn't even look at me, he's so mad about that bomb. And Vick and Posy are so frightened and confused, but at least they cry and hug me goodbye. And Prim is gone too, and I can just imagine how she must have felt, the fire eating her skin, her last act just trying to help save some kids…and that's when I clench my fists and make myself stop thinking about everyone that's left.
From being stuck in a one-bedroom house with five people, kids always calling me and Ma needing me to hang some laundry and Katniss waiting for me beyond the fence and my friends in the mines, suddenly I'm alone and I have nowhere to go. And there's so much work to be done in the Capitol. Organizing the government, rebuilding the Districts, figuring out security. And President Snow still has some nasty surprises waiting for us, probably laughing at us from his grave as we slowly discover one after another his treacherous schemes and hidey holes and ugly secrets.
And I tell myself, you know what… Fuck it, Hawthorne. Keep moving forward.
And I do move forward because really, there is so much to do. I don't want this new government to become like the old one, and let me tell you, that requires a ton of work and a ton of time and focus and effort.
But there's something about being all alone in this strange place that makes me think of my dad. I guess it's because he's the only person I love who didn't leave me by choice.
I think about him taking me out to the forest when I was just a kid. I used to love it out there, just the two of us. I could finally run and shout and swim and there was just so much space. I remember him teaching me to climb trees, collect eggs, and follow game trails. We'd set snares and he'd laugh at my fumbling fingers, endlessly patient. Now that I think about it, I don't know how he had the energy after working a full week in the mines. And I have a really distinct memory of his hands; they'd be so strong carrying me or hacking at coal, yet they were so nimble and deft— threading a fishing line, setting a snare, patching my old shirt, holding a tiny Rory in one gentle hand when he was first born.
And suddenly Dad was just gone. God I remember that news hitting me like a punch in the gut. My rib cage felt empty and the world just went out of focus, like it went white and I had this ringing in my ears. I remember asking myself over and over again how it could possibly be true. Like I couldn't grasp that I wouldn't see my dad again…ever.
But honestly I didn't have much time to miss him. I have this strong memory of the lump I'd get in my throat every time I saw Ma; her stomach was swollen with Posy, and her eyes were always red rimmed and gummy with tears as she hauled huge piles of laundry. Vick and Rory were so skittish and scared, trembling and jumpy and teary.
And damn I remember how they were always hungry, and I was too. I can still see their little faces pinched and so thin and hear their stomachs growling at night as they slept.
I wasn't even scared the first time I went out to the woods by myself. I was so desperate, and Dad had taught me so well. I was so determined to help Ma. All I could think was that soon she'd be stuck in bed unable to work and that there would be another whole mouth to feed. So I went out into the woods and I'd set his snares and collect his berries and fish his streams, and if occasionally my vision blurred or I'd have to swipe at wetness on my cheek, well no one was around to see.
And then suddenly Posy was born in a flurry of bloody shrieks and I can still hear Ma gasping and sobbing with pain as Mrs. E sewed her up. And between hunting and school and trading and cleaning the house and keeping the boys out of trouble and in clothes that fit and being so scared but taking out tesserae anyway because everyone was always so damn hungry, time kind of flew by.
But now that I'm alone I guess I have time to think, and it's awful because all these old memories keep coming back to haunt me. And it's even worse because I know I can never get back to those happy times again. I've never been so lonely in my life.
But President Paylor needs help clearing the city of pods and keeping dissent to a minimum, and I'm happy to help because I'm good at it and also if I keep moving maybe then I won't have time to think about those happy times that will never come back.
Just recently, we discovered another dark little secret of Snow's, an underground labyrinth not included on any schematics of the city, a little footnote in Snow's personal journal. I immediately volunteer to lead the operation even though we don't know what we'll find because damn it, Hawthorne, keep moving forward. But as I rappel down the impossibly lightless elevator shaft, the darkness pressing in on me like a threat, I don't tell anyone this abandoned elevator shaft, dark and confined, is eerily similar to descending into the mines.
And damn no matter how hard I try, even down here I can't help but think of my dad, suffocating to death, confined and claustrophobic. I can't stop thinking of how afraid he must have been, trapped in that hellish place.
Once when I was about fifteen, I purposely swam out in the lake and stuck my head underwater, tried to hold my breath as long as I could, until my vision clouded with red and I had this searing pain in my lungs and I just couldn't stay under any longer. And I can't help thinking of my dad and his desperation, that burning feeling in his lungs. I can just see him clawing and climbing, trying to get out, nails scraped raw and bloody and red creeping into his vision, thick and glutinous and inevitable like a spreading pool of blood.
Memories man, they can crack a man's heart. I remember turning nineteen, my first day down in the mines— the small space, the horrible dust, the endless darkness, and my dad's ghost hovering like a fine mist in the air. I came home that night, muscles knotted in pain, dead exhausted, and Ma kept a bucket of water and a cake of soap out for me and she didn't say anything about my red eyes and the stark track marks running through the black dust on my face.
We reach the bottom of the shaft and spread out flashlights flickering, gas masks on, our trigger fingers jumpy. It's a disturbing maze of pods and traps, and fuck Snow, I mean honestly why couldn't he do anything without turning it into some convoluted, sadistic game? But a tiny part of me is a glad because I forget about my dad and the mines for a little bit.
We finally get to the end of the labyrinth, hearts in our throats, and there's a small room, flooded with light. I actually have to cover my eyes for a second to let them adjust to the brightness. And of all the wild things I've seen in this war, mutts and pods and tracker jackers and bombs and Snow's lips flecked with blood, nothing compares to my surprise now, nothing compares to this.
…
Madge hears them coming, quick footsteps and muttered, muffled words, and her heart drops. She feels the panic rise in her chest, anxious breaths sawing through her chest, blood rushing in her ears. She scrabbles backwards, backing away, trying to find a place to hide. But there is nowhere, no place she can run, and she thinks not again, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird in her chest.
This time they come with guns and masks, their uniforms all black, emerging from the darkness like the demons in her dreams. She balls herself up as tightly as she can, wishing she could make herself small enough to disappear. And the terror—the terror is bitter in her throat, roiling in her stomach, sour on her tongue.
They approach her slowly, almost cautiously, allowing the fear to build. Her eyes screw shut, her breath coming in quick, panicked staccato gasps, and she hates them for it.
"Holy shit, Madge," one of them breathes, and it barely registers. She's already pushed herself into the corner of her cell, but she keeps pushing herself backwards, shaking and panting, wishing she could disappear into the walls, her mind flooded with an all-consuming, incoherent fear.
But then he sweeps off his mask…and it's him.
"Madge, it's me. You're safe now." He reaches for her, and Madge hears her breathing loud and ragged in her ears. She covers her face with her hands and moans. Another trick, and a good one at that. She hates when they dangle hope on front of her, hates these games and delusions.
It's a good delusion this time. The bright lights are behind him, throwing him into shadow. All she can see is the outline of his profile, a blinding sliver of light outlining his silhouette, reducing him to a dark form. The voice is right though and his outline, tall and lean, messy black hair and a well-formed face, his eyes the distinctive grey of gun-metal in the dark.
She moans again, inarticulate with horror. They have used every trick against her, every deception. But not like this—not this hope, not this lie. Not this image of him standing in front of her, reaching for her and whispering of hope and safety and escape. How can they take everything beautiful and sweet, even her most secret sacred memories, and twist them into something so perverse?
"Madge, come with me," he says again, and it sounds just like him, but it's worse because he sounds softer and kinder and he never used to speak to her that way. She feels herself shaking and she's still trying to back up though she's dimly aware that her back is against the wall.
He reaches for her, and she expects pain, bruising and biting on the soft flesh of her arms. But his touch is firm and gentle, and he brushes the limp curtain of hair back from her face, and she gasps. She knows those hands, the rough callouses, the dextrous fingers. She knows their touch, brushing against her skin as he would pass her a bag of berries, as she would pass him a pile of coins.
And his eyes, she knows them too, a molten quicksilver, his gaze alert and intense.
She stills. How can the delusion be so lifelike? The hallucination so real?
"Madge, come on. I swear, you're safe now," he says again. And his hands and his eyes and his voice, it feels so real.
She stares at him, wide-eyed and fearful, but no spike of pain shatters the illusion, no cruel smile or bucket of frozen water or current of electricity.
"Come on," he says again, and the gentle pressure of his hands is insistent as he tries to pull her to her feet. And something within Madge dissolves, some resistance or fear or barrier in her heart, and she feels herself melting with relief and reaching towards him, and if it is a hallucination, then she decides she is going to embrace it.
And so Gale Hawthorne picks up Madge Undersee and carries her out of the darkness, out of that secret underground prison, and into the light, into the free air of the New Capitol.
….
Author's Note:
I know, more questions and more mysteries…don't worry, all the answers will be revealed eventually. I know this is different and darker than my previous stories. I'd really love to know what you think positive or negative. Thanks for those sticking with the story, I know it's super dark, but I've always been a sucker for a happy ending so we will get there eventually I think. But the Hunger Games is so dark and awful, especially Mockingjay, that I just don't feel it would be doing the story justice without facing that darkness and acknowledging it. Anyway, Happy New Year everybody!
Fly