Sorry for being such a bum when it comes to this story, with your words of encouragement I'm sure that could change. Wink Wink.

Chapter Three

She had only been gone thirty-six hours and the house already was in shambles and Gale himself was a wreck. He had gone into work the day after she left, only to find himself throwing up in his office's wastebasket. It had only been a few swigs of whatever liquor Madge hadn't sent down the drain, but on a completely empty stomach was enough. Gale hadn't eaten much since the day before Madge left, and hadn't particularly wanted to eat since.

So they had sent him home. He was no good to him, retching into his trashcan every five minutes.

The next day, he hadn't even bothered to go in. Madge would have yelled at him for wasting his sick days on a drinking binge. She would have been furious. The baby was coming in five months. His sick days were supposed to be saved until then, so he could help her during the adjustment period.

But now he couldn't help but wonder whether not he was even going to be there for the adjustment period. Was she going to come back before she gave birth? Would she deprive him of that? Experiencing the birth of his son. He knew he deserved it, but he couldn't help but want what he didn't deserve. Like his beautiful wife and their unborn son.

He clutched the brown bottle, filled with gin, and stared at the taupe wall of their living room. She had taken all of the decorating responsibilities for the house. Gale just had been the one to carry them out, though she tried to help. God bless her. She was just so goddamn short. Even on her tippy toes she could hardly reach anything. And her painting was streaky, but she tried and they had fun. As newlyweds they always had a great time together, but after he was deployed again, two years into their marriage, and returned physically unscathed everything went to hell.

Gale gave her a lot of credit. She had lasted three years without leaving, the way she left two days ago. He was hard to deal with. Hell, he was a lot to handle sober; he knew that. He had a temper, he was argumentative, and he never really considered anyone's feelings when he talked, he absolutely never talked about his emotions, and he used drinking as a crutch. Madge had tried to get him to talk, but without a bottle in his hand he didn't want to. With a bottle in his hand, the stinging in his throat and the dulling of his senses and motor skills Gale could talk about anything and everything. That was the only reason Madge even knew why he drank in the first place, because of the drugs themselves had gotten him to talk. The first few times she had held him while he cried, cradling him in her soft yet strong arms, whispering sweet nothings against his skin. But after the first six months, the monthly binges became more and more frequent. He tried to quit for a while, when they got the news about the baby, so for that time they were a bit further apart. Happening perhaps every other week. He could see how it affected his wife. Every day she entered their home with tensed up shoulders, slowly walking up the stairs, watching out for him. And when she would see that he was sober, her shoulders would relax and she'd smile at him, giving him a kiss hello. But he couldn't. Behind his eyelids were the horrors of war. The blood. The gore. Gunshots filling the air. Watching a living person one moment and seeing a dead person fall the next one. Except the bodies didn't always belong to the enemy. They weren't always the Capitol scum, who were trying their hardest to limit your freedoms and take back what was "theirs." Sometimes it was the men and women in your platoon. The boy with the glasses, whose mother still does his laundry. The girl, who spent most of their off time with her head in a philosophy book. Plato would think… Well Plato can't think shit with a bullet in his brain. Too often it's the people you've spent the most time with, who know some of your deepest fears, and you theirs. Some barely adults, practically children, the same age as Vick.

Gale grabbed at the walls, trying to steady himself. The letter was still where she had left it, on the piano stand. Sitting at the piano bench, that held more memories than Gale could count while drunk. Madge was always playing for him, trying to give him the same escape she herself used. But it didn't work that way for him. He couldn't escape the hell that his mind had become.

He grabbed the letter. It was the only thing he could bring himself to do. Reread the letter over and over again. If he was sober, he could practically recite it word for word.

Don't worry I won't tell your mother.

Right now, with the side of his bed empty, he would gladly accept his mother's knowledge of his state if only he could have her back at his side. That was one of the first things she had written. Is that what she thought of him? That he only thing he cared about was the way he was perceived by his mother? He knew that his mother knew that he had a problem. Perhaps she didn't know the extent of it, but of its existence she did know.

When his addiction was just beginning to pick up its pace Madge had called his mother. Claiming that she couldn't help him all by herself. That he needed the tough love that only a mother could give. Maybe she could talk some sense into him. In his drunken haze, he was sure he had apologized profusely, but in the light of day with the weight of his actions he was furious. He awoke on the couch that afternoon in a hung-over rage. It was none of his mother's business how he chose to live his life and it definitely wasn't Madge's place to inform her. He had told her all of this and more. He remembered how scared she looked while he scolded her. Holding herself as if she were bracing herself to be hit. At the time, it had stopped him in his tracks and he had dropped to his knees holding her. Under no circumstance would Gale ever strike his wife.

Gale stared at the signature of his wife.

Madge Undersee.

She hadn't used her maiden name since they had gotten married. She hadn't even hyphenated her name. With their vows, she had simply become Margaret Hawthorne.

In Gale's drunken state he was unable to fully examine the meaning behind her signature. The only thing he could do was clutch the letter in his hand cry. He was best able to share and express his emotions when he was inebriated, after all.

A loud knock came from the front door.

Slowly and clumsily, Gale got himself into a standing position and leaned against the walls that led to the front door. After a moment, he answered.

Blonde hair and blue eyes filled his senses.

However, it wasn't the same hair and eyes he was in need of.

"You are a fucking mess, my friend." Peeta Mellark pushed the door open wide enough for his self and bag to fit. He looked at his friend, a frown now on his face, "When is enough finally enough, Gale?"

The drunken mess stared back, eyes half lidded. "If I knew that, do you think my wife would have left me?"