Anyway, I know the last chapter kind of ended on this big, tragic, romantic high (I know it's been so long, you probably don't even remember what happened last chapter!), and I totally shouldn't have ended there because I feel this chapter might be a letdown in comparison. Er, let me know what you think.
Also, of course, a massive thanks to all my wonderful reviewers. I lurrrrve you all: Hgteampeeta, distorted realities, StillOnCloud9, KenoshaChick, IsForWinners, pk, roj, Vera Rose Nightingale, papermoth, grrlinterrupted, DemigodWiththeBread, Starprincess95, MorningxLight, MrsJamesPotter1, Solaryllis, epipole, Rinkya, katnisseverdeen4ever.
At last:
Chapter 9Part I. 1 year and 153 days left.
One month.
One month since Gale left. Packed his bags and wrote that note and kissed me like he would never see me again. One month. But it feels like years and years.
And it will be over a year until I see him again.
Seventeen months. Five hundred and eighteen days. Unfathomable. Interminable. Insurmountable.
I try to take everything one day at a time. Shower. Dress. School. Work.
But my stomach is a constant knot of worry, my nails bitten down to the skin. I have trouble eating, sleeping. I feel myself fading away—a ghost in the halls. Waiting, waiting. For a letter, for a call, for any kind of news. Always waiting.
Ironically, it's my job that keeps me going. I can't get too thin or look unhealthy without getting fired. So I make sure to eat a proper meal. To curl my hair and color my lips, push up my breasts so they fill out my dress.
I live for my days off when I can visit his mother's house. I play with the kids and help with the dishes, and my heart feels less heavy because having his family all around reminds me of him. I see him in the breadth of Rory's shoulders, the gentleness of Vick's eyes, the bright ring of Posy's laughter.
Sometimes, when the kids are at school or in bed, his mother will take out his last letter and read it to me. I hang on to the words, frantically trying to picture the troop movements and supply shortages and weather patterns that he describes, even though they are weeks old by the time his letter arrived. And I read her my letters from him too, though not the last few pages because those are always just for me, and just thinking about sharing them makes me blush.
The two of us stay up late and talk about how the war is progressing, stitching together a sketchy picture from the wisps of rumors and half-truths whirling and receding through the Underground like curls of smoke. We're getting deep into Capitol territory. It's only a matter of time. They can't hold on much longer. Soon we'll be free. And sometimes during these talks I feel hope, and sometimes fear, and sometimes when I'm really blessed, I'm able to smile.
But when I leave the warmth of his home, in unexpected moments, handing a drink across the bar, in the middle of lecture, riding the early-morning elevator, I think of all the terrible things that can happen to him, that could have already happened to him, and I can't breathe. My palms go instantly sweaty, my vision blurs, my heart jumps to my throat as I imagine him forgotten in a ditch, or captured and tortured, his face disfigured and destroyed like Thom. And the images are so real in my mind that it feels like prophecy, and I have to force myself not to think about it because if I did, it would kill me.
But late at night, when I'm done with work and I've finished studying and I'm alone in my bed after a long evening with his mother, the loneliness hits me like a knife in the gut, like a physical pain. And I don't care about being strong, and I don't care about soldiering on, and I don't care about surviving and striving and trying until he comes home. All I can feel is myself drowning in grief and fear and loneliness.
And I curl up in the sheets and press my face into the pillow and I call out to him in my mind, in my dreams. Gale, Gale, come back. Please, please come back.
And then I cry. Wracking, searing, razor-sharp sobs. The sobs of hopelessness. Knowing that it's only been one month. One long, impossible, heartbreaking month. Knowing that this is only just the beginning of the longest wait of my life.
Part II. 1 year and 153 days left.
I have to harden my heart, now that I'm back at war. Focus on my anger, my hatred for the Capitol. Become the soldier, the machine. Ruthless and cold. It's the only way to survive. To make the hard choices. To win.
My platoon was shipped straight to the front lines after our Underground leave. They said we were getting deep into Capitol territory, and the war would be over soon, that we might be home in time for the Harvest Festival. But the Capitol is vicious, dragging the war out to the bitter end. Killing, maiming, destroying as much as possible.
Neither side will give in. We won't surrender because we can't. Death is better than the retribution the Capitol would wield if we surrendered. And the Capitol will never yield. Even if they can't win, they won't let us win either. They would rather let the whole world burn.
The Districts are destroyed by the fighting, one by one. Fields burn and farmers die. The oceans are laced with the oil of exploded hovercrafts and burn in the night. Factories are bombed. Food lines cut off. Hovercrafts destroyed. The youth of Panem are razed to the ground, cut down by Capitol gunfire.
It's a hellish game of mutual destruction. Cut off the rebel's supplies to starve them of their resources. Kill every one so that there will be no one left to fight.
And I'm at the head of the pointless, bitter push. Every day is a vicious street-by-street slog towards the heart of the Capitol. Every night a darkness of tortuous dreams, waking to the pounding of my heart and the screams of the injured and the knowledge that one by one we will all be captured or tortured or killed.
Don't think. Don't think. Just push onward. Keep fighting. Keep planning and shooting and moving forward. Because if I think of home, if I think of what I've lost, if I think of what lies ahead, the longing and loss and fear will take me.
But at the strangest times, in the glimpse of a sliver of blue sky amidst the acrid smoke and crackling shrapnel, in the whisper of cool breeze sweeping the hair out my eyes, in the taste of water washing the ash and misery from my throat, I think of Madge. Once, when charging up a hill, guns spitting and men shouting, I felt her hand brush through my hair. Once in the hazy twilight between waking and sleeping, I heard her whisper my name. I try to convince myself the touch of her hand is just the wind, her voice just a dream. But I think that maybe, in the grime and dirt and blood of war, maybe I'm losing my mind.
And that's when I know that this war will take my life. Maybe it will take my sanity first, or maybe my limbs. But whatever way, just as it's taken my friends and my men and my youth and my soul, I know it will take me too.
And in these, my darkest moments, I give in to the weakness. I let myself think of Madge. I cling to my memories of her like a drowning man clawing towards the light. In the deepest obscurity of night I take out her letters, blackened and worn from constant handling, and I read them, clutch them, breathe in their scent, anything to remind me what I'm fighting for.
What I know I will die for.
Part III. 1 year and 67 days left.
Things begin to deteriorate in the Underground as the war drags on. People begin to starve. With all the refugees and the war effort, resources are thin. Greenhouses empty out. Livestock die off. There are no shipments coming in from anywhere.
At least not for us. The politicians and businessmen on the upper levels continue to live comfortably, even lavishly, able to pay the high price of what little food is available, able to hide and horde and play at parties, unaware of the rage and desperation festering in the dark tunnels beneath their feet. Riots tear through the Underground. People demanding food. Demanding change. Hunger. Panic. Despair.
We turn emaciated. Exhausted. Defeated. There are no more young men to run the District, to fix the broken pipes or ruined duct systems. They are all fighting. Or dead. And even when there is a man to work, there is no money to pay him.
The District grinds to a halt. Slowly, desperately we scrabble like rats in a drowning ship. Every man for himself. A meal away from death.
Plague runs rampant through the District. Horror stories of children vomiting blood. Of insides liquefied by bacteria. Of lips cracked and tongues parched and painful, pus-filled sores. There is no medicine. No provisions. Hardly any clean water. Only quarantine rooms and whispered prayers. And men coughing up their insides, leaving behind smears of blood and the taste of fear.
The Black Heart is my own personal hell. Ironically, we have never been busier than now, with all of the older men out of work. The men are surly, hopeless, drinking away their sorrows and inadequacy. Bitter eyes and angry words and groping hands.
We stopped trying to break up the fights long ago. The only rule: you break it, you pay for it. And not a day goes by that I don't hear angry shouts in a corner of the bar and the scraping of chairs being pushed back and the sound of fist on flesh.
I stopped looking at the men who fight; their eyes are always glassy and dead, or worse, filled with tears. Men without hope. Who don't care whom they're fighting because they hate themselves the most. Who welcome the pain because at least it means they are doing something.
I don't let myself look at the fighting men because I see my own despair reflected in their eyes. I just clean up the mess when they're done. Straighten the tables and push in the chairs and get on my knees with a rag to wipe up the slicks of blood, red and sticky like the lipstick of a whore.
Part IV. 1 year and 49 days left.
I lost over half my platoon today.
It was just a standard sweep through the city streets, clearing the way door by door.
And suddenly we all heard it. That strange hush that takes over even the noisiest of battlefields. Like all the gunfire and shouting and screams just fade out, and in the silence you hear that telltale whistling of a missile, the sound of death approaching, too quickly to avoid, but not too quickly to be anticipated.
With the explosion all the noise comes back in a rush, like the volume on the television dialed up to its highest setting. The side of the building collapsing, rubble and glass flying, the sharp sting of debris against bare skin forming a lattice of tiny cuts, the sound of men shrieking and groaning. But it's the sounds you don't hear that are the worst—the silence where before there was life.
We can't stop to register what has happened. Capitol forces swarm our position, with their guns and their flames, not even having mercy on those mangled and writhing, those that are already dead.
It takes us almost twelve hours to clear the area, and by the time we're done there is nothing left but scorched earth, piled with bodies and soaked with blood. Even those of us who survived look dead, our faces covered with ash and our eyes hooded and haunted.
It starts to rain as we bury the bodies, dirty water accumulating in the hastily dug hole. We roll the bodies in quickly, only taking a moment to grab the dog tags of those we know, afraid to look too closely, to let ourselves realize what we've lost. We throw the Capitol soldiers in as well. Not out of respect, but because we've learned that rotting bodies all smell the same, regardless of which side their spirits were on in life.
By the end of the night I have twenty sets of dog tags to mail home.
When I finally make it back to camp, the sun is almost rising. I walk through our tent, brushing past the rows of empty bunks, trying not to feel. Trying not to think of Wilson, the best shot I ever saw, or Trevor, who looked younger than Rory when he slept, or Burns, who was always good for a cigarette and a rude joke.
And I see the few men that are left, tears cutting bright tracks through the soot on their faces, nursing injuries, or just staring straight ahead with wet, red, devastated eyes.
And I can't stay in the tent staring at my misery reflected in their faces. So I go outside and let the rain beat against me with its sharp, icy pinpricks. I lift my face to the sky, so darkened with smoke that I can't even see the sunrise, and I let the rain wash away the dirt and blood caked on my skin.
I let myself remember Johnson with his stupid smile, and Adair, who could never win at cards, and poor, little Slim, who was only seventeen. None of us even knew his real name.
And as the rain mingles with my tears, and falls in muddy rivulets from my face and down my neck, eventually swirling in dirty pools around my boots, I let myself feel the rain, cold and bracing on my skin. And it doesn't feel like it's washing away my pain. It doesn't feel like some kind of baptism or benediction or catharsis. But it feels. And that means I'm alive.
And for right now, that's more than enough.
Part V. 379 days left.
Mazer Preston died today.
The news blasted triumphantly across Capitol-controlled channels. We have destroyed your war hero they seem to say. Captured him and broken him they gloat, splashing his snapped neck and mangled legs in perfect high-resolution, mega-pixilated color across the country. And it goes without saying: You're next. You and your rebellion.
The strangest thing was that I was prepared for the announcement. That morning, before the Capitol had prepared and arranged his body for the cameras, I had come home from work to find a telegraph. A thin yellow envelope with only two lines: Automatic mailing to next-of-kin. Mazer Preston died in the line of duty.
I gasped in surprise, sure it was some kind of sick joke. But then his dog tags slipped out of the envelope, a little smudge of blood still visible on the chain.
And it's funny because even though we hadn't spoken since the Mockingjay Ball, Mazer chose me as his contact in case of death. And I realized with a start that maybe it's because, despite his charm and his fame and his dazzling smile, he had no one else to tell.
And I crumple the telegraph brutally, my eyes stinging, my mouth filled with the bitter taste of bile. I start to tremble, and the tears fall unheeded. I clutch my hair and curl into myself, right there on the kitchen floor. And I shudder as I cry for the man whom I mistreated because I didn't think he needed me. I cry for poor Mazer, with his flawless façade and smoldering eyes. The man who held me and wanted me and made me feel alive for the first time in years. I cry for the man who pretended to be so happy, but who didn't have anyone to tell that he died except me, the woman who left him without explanation, cold and changeable as the wind.
And I cry for this world, this damn cruel world, which feeds the monster of war with the lives of the innocent and the loving and the young. The perfectly imperfect.
Part VI. 365 days left
Our platoon is constantly refilled when we lose a man. Soldiers are transferred and trained and integrated as quickly as possible to fill the front lines. To display an unbroken chain of resistance to the Capitol.
But it's not the same. Faces come and go so quickly I can barely learn their names. Or their skills. Sometimes, I don't even recognize half the troops under my command.
I've almost stopped trying to learn about them. They all look the same anyway. They all have the same story. Food, revenge, hate. Their eyes are the same too, lost and hopeless. I can't distinguish their faces even, though they seem to get younger every week.
And one day when I was in my commander's tent, trying not to think about the line of kids sent to me only to be crushed by the wheels of war, I saw it on the table. Its glassy sides cool and sweating, perfectly clear, perfectly tempting.
And that night, I swallowed my pride and snuck into his tent like a common thief, stealthy and silent as I used to be on a hunt. And I took it.
Back in my tent I stare at the bottle. Glistening and enticing, smooth and wet like the skin of a siren, calling me, begging me, offering herself to me, that perfect release.
And hell yeah I take a sip.
It's wonderful, that familiar feeling as it blazes and scratches its way down my throat, almost as if it refuses to go down without a fight.
And that warmth, spreading through my limbs. The sound of the liquid sloshing in the bottle. That noxious smell burning my nostrils. That haziness, that heavenly, dizzy forgetfulness.
I take another sip. And another. And another. Savoring the bitterness and the burn and the blessed numbness.
And it isn't until I finish the entire bottle that I realize alcohol tastes a lot like misery, harsh and stinging and sad.
And I promise myself that if I ever make it out of this God-forsaken war alive, I will never take another drink again.
Part VII. 343 days left.
I received my diploma today. There wasn't any fanfare or elaborate ceremony. Just the instructor calling my name, the short walk up to the front of the room, and the handing over of a clean, creamy piece of cardstock.
The other students all had a parent, a sibling, a significant other for a hug and a round of applause. But I had no one. The kids were at school and Hazelle was at work, and I only had the polite claps and perfunctory handshakes of my classmates.
But it didn't matter because it was wonderful. I've never smiled so widely or been more proud than when the instructor congratulated me and handed me that seemingly insignificant piece of paper. Because that paper is anything but insignificant to me. It is proof that my years of hard living, of hunger, of degradation and embarrassment and doubt, were worth it. It is my ticket to a better a life. A meaningful life.
And the first thing I did was march out of the room and through the labyrinthine Underground hallways and into The Black Heart. And I walked up to my boss and handed him my apron and my dress and my notepad and told him that I quit.
And he surprised me because he didn't argue or belittle me. He nodded ruefully and told me that he always knew this would happen. And then he handed me my last paycheck and walked me to the door, and all the guys in the bar whistled and clapped and threw out a few crudely good-natured jokes when he announced that I was leaving.
And it felt really strange and I didn't understand why until I realized that I was smiling. Truly smiling. I had almost forgotten what it felt like. And with a smile on my lips I left The Black Heart forever. Forever.
And I walked back to my place and pushed open the door, and there I found Hazelle and Rory and Vick and Posy and Prim and Mrs. E, and they were all clapping and cheering and hooting and dancing. And the whole group of us barely fit in my tiny living room, and my heart felt just as full.
And right at the end of the night, when Mrs. E and Prim had left, and the kids were yawning and rubbing their eyes and putting on their shoes, Hazelle took me to the side and showed me a letter that Gale had written to her. And in it he asked her to give me something as a graduation present.
She handed me a little fabric bundle, and when I opened it I found a pendant. A simple wooden heart with a small hole for a necklace, clearly and loving hand-carved. And even before Hazelle told me that Gale had made years ago when he was a kid in the woods in District 12, I could tell by the symmetry of the lines and the deliberate perfection of it's shape, that only Gale could make something so simple and yet so beautiful.
And I could just picture him making it so long ago, sitting under the shade of a tree, his skin warm and brown and unscarred in the dappled sunlight, his eyes focused with concentration, his long fingers and calloused hands purposeful and precise as he shaved the wood with his knife. And I smile at the thought that he carved this heart all those years ago without knowing that one day he would give it to me.
And after everyone leaves, I loop a thin piece of ribbon through the hole of the pendant, and I drape it around my neck, the heart nestled in the warm, secret place between my breasts. And there isn't a moment I take off the necklace for the rest of my life.
Part VI. 323 days left.
I received a letter from my mom today telling me that Madge graduated and that she loved the present I picked out for her. And though I knew it wasn't much, I was sure that Madge would appreciate something that I made with my own hands over any words I could write to her or anything that money could buy.
I'm so proud of Madge. All the work she put in, all the obstacles she overcame, all those impossible facts and convoluted reactions she learned so that she could reach this moment.
Mom also told me that Madge quit her job at the bar as soon as she received her diploma, and that makes me happier than anything.
And as I lay in my sleeping bag and look up at the stars, the sounds of camp and the rustle of the other soldiers around me a dim backdrop of sound, I let myself think of Madge finally free of that awful place, and I smile.
That night I dream of Madge in her tight, black dress. But she's not in the bar surrounded by men. It's just her and me in her little apartment, and I lay her down on the bed and I use my teeth to take off that black dress of hers forever.
…
A/N: I hope you guys liked it. I feel like I'm losing all my writing skills in dental school because we don't do any writing here whatsoever. I'd love to hear your thoughts. And also, I'd love some positive vibes to help me through this super-tough curriculum. Cheers!