Author's Note: ATTENTION! TW AHEAD! Uncomfortable (minor - very minor - assault) situations are in this chapter. If you are worried about being triggered by something, just go ahead and skip this one. I'll give you a brief and PG synopsis in the A/N next chap. That being said, it's nothing worth changing the rating from T to M, so know that it's nothing bad bad.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games. I do lay claim to my own thoughts/plots/OCs.
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Chapter Eight: Underneath
I keep my pen clutched tight in my hand, staring at the wall, not at what is on the desk in front of me. I haven't written a single word for the last few minutes. I glance to the page of the journal, nearly filled to the brim with long lines of prose. I dread its completion, coming ever nearer despite my procrastination.
I sigh, closing the leather cover. My eyes drift to the window in my room. A tall willow tree neighbors the glass.
I stand, moving closer.
The willow greets me with long limbs waving. I glance at the brick walkways meandering throughout the garden, tracing their familiar directions. They wind further and further away, until no longer within view.
The Mayor's mansion is monstrous, looming over the garden with tall walls. Monsters themselves lurk within the borders of this monstrous place. Roberto and Tilly gossip animatedly amongst themselves downstairs. They speak of many things. I am one of the most prominent topics. Their opinions are discussed openly, brazenly.
Over the course of their stay, I have become keen to most of my flaws, physical or otherwise. Their words have no care for the offense they may bring; it is likely they find no offense in them at all. I am nothing more than a good to be bought. They are solely concerned with appraising my worth.
I am given a brief reprieve. My father allows me to complete the studies assigned by my tutor, it is enough of an excuse to be able to leave our incredibly important guests, if only for a moment. While I tend to my work, Mayor Undersee tends to our visitors downstairs.
A flash of movement in the garden catches my attention. A head of dark hair disappears behind juniper bushes, reappearing a short moment later.
Despite the distance, the sharpness in his jawline is visible. I watch as he sets his mouth, focusing intently on the task currently at hand. He pauses. Fingers rake through black locks, casting them to the side and away from olive skin. A muscular forearm swipes sweat from his brow and he heaves a heavy breath. Then, he is diligently back to work.
It is well known that Gale Hawthrone is quite possibly the most handsome boy in all of District Twelve. Even by the foreign standards of other Districts, he is still considered attractive. His bone structure and boyish attributes are akin to Finnick Odair, the most popular and sought after winner of the Hunger Games.
It seems Gale long ago honed in on this. His good looks attract not only Seam girls, but Town ones as well. Many of his sexual conquests are well known throughout school, gossiped about fervently and vividly enough to reach even the quiet and reserved Mayor's daughter's ears.
I blush, remembering bold conversations overheard in my classes throughout the years. Classmates often bragged about going to something called the "Slag Heap" after weekend bonfires. Gale was a renowned favorite to bring, mentioned often by many different Seam girls. Other girls - Town ones mostly - would never have that chance. Still, they lusted after him openly.
Delly Cartwright surely talked detailedly enough about his good looks to fill an entire textbook worth. Her best friend, Amy Shwartz, is also an extremely passionate fan of Gale. They titter over him together, bad mouthing anyone who might have been given opportunity to him where they were not.
There is no denying that Gale Hawthorne is good looking. I can admit that to myself, if rather reluctantly. The broadness in his shoulders is appealing and the definition in his cheekbones is rather refined. The look in silver eyes is certainly something else entirely - something that throws me for a loop every time I catch a glimpse. Beyond his physical attributes, I know nothing of Gale Hawthorne. I know nothing save for his hatred for me.
His denial of it was easy to see through. The tell came quickly enough. He wouldn't have taken the time to rub salt in my wounds if the truth were anything but.
Despite not knowing much about Gale, I do know some things. I know enough to realize that as much as he hates me, I don't hate him.
I couldn't if I tried.
As I think about all of this, it feels wrong. There is a sickness in my stomach, as if I am poisoning myself with these thoughts. I am Madge Undersee. I am the Mayor's daughter. I force dark hair and silver eyes and cunning words back into the recesses of mind.
Gale is nothing to me. He is a fellow classmate, our temporary gardener, and Katniss's best friend. He will never anything to me - nor should he be. He is only another one of the many who resent myself and my family, another face I will one day leave behind.
I label him as such. I put him in a box in my mind and lock away the key and craft the best and most earnest intentions to think about him as little as possible.
My mind briefly cycles through the other sixteen year old boys in District Twelve. Very few stand out and the ones that do, don't elicit any sort of emotion inside me at all. I've never thought about any of them romantically before and trying now proves wildly unsuccessful.
Who would I marry? If I could choose, who would it be? Who would want to marry me in return?
I find these thoughts almost as unpalatable as the ones preceding them. They are bitter, long gone bad past their expiration. It does no good to ponder these things, yet I can't help but try to picture a life for myself where there was originally nothing but a blank space.
Lost in my thoughts, I snap out of them as gray eyes center squarely on mine.
I realize that Gale is staring at me.
He has caught me red handed, watching me as I watch him.
My face flames. I immediately scrunch my eyes closed and turn away from the window, moving out of sight. My heart stutters erratically in my chest and I place a palm over it.
Embarrassment feels hot and uncomfortable and I struggle to overcome it.
I open my eyes and gasp silently. A hand flies to my parted mouth.
Although I didn't hear him enter, I am met with the calmly smiling face of Roberto. I am unsure of how long he has been in the doorway of my room - of how long I myself was being secretly watched.
My lips work awkwardly and inefficiently to become a pleasant smile before I drop my hand. "My apologies, you startled me. I didn't hear you enter."
He steps forward. His eyes seem to sparkle as they catch a ray of light from outside - an illusion of makeup crafted with silver liner placed expertly on his lids.
"You seemed to be rather lost in thought," Roberto comments, casually closing the door behind him. I stare at it for a moment, feeling trapped as it clicks shut. My eyes are instantly on the older man as he walks towards me. He runs fingertips across the foot of my bed frame as he passes by, lips curled slightly up. "Is there something on your mind?"
He stops, body only an arm's distance away from mine. Dark eyes flick briefly to the window behind me before honing in and focusing intently on me. I can only hope that he didn't catch on to what had drawn my attention in the garden, that he assumed I was admiring the flowers and nothing more.
I don't move as he trails a hand through the blonde locks tied behind my head. There is nowhere to run - not in here.
"I was just taking a break," I explain a little too quickly. I duck my head away from his touch and smile in a way that hopefully explains away my guilty demeanor. "I know it's not very studious of me, but all of that homework was becoming tedious."
"Don't worry, I won't tell your father," Roberto says with a wink. Today, he sports slacks and a patterned button up. It appears more relaxed compared to his previous ensembles. "You are just adorable, young Madgerie." There is a syrupy quality to his voice. It is far too sugary, almost artificially so. "So sweet and innocent," he sighs dreamily.
He takes a step forward - one that brings him a little too close for comfort.
"You keep saying that, but I believe most girls around my age are likely quite similar," I say easily. I keep my gaze steady with his, determined not to give anything away. "I am not the extraordinary girl you see me as."
His eyes flash once more, although this time it is not because of the makeup.
"How wrong you would be in that assumption, dear," Roberto chides. The flamboyance in the tone of his voice dissipates some.
"Well, that's very nice of you to say," I tell him. Brushing a few loose hairs behind my ears, I shake my head and let out a pleasant laugh. "But I still think you might just be trying to flatter me."
Roberto shakes his head. "Not at all," he chuckles. He pauses, a peculiar smile pulling the sides of his mouth upward. "Since I've told you what I think of you, why don't you tell me what you think of me?"
I furrow my brow. What I… think of him?
The answer is immediate: Disgusting. Excessive. Vuglar. Intrusive. Unwelcome.
All of those things I can't say. Even if I were to say them, what will my opinion matter to someone like him? I am no one - just a simple girl from District Twelve. Why does Roberto care what I think?
"Go on. Tell me - I want to hear what you truly think," he urges, as if he can sense my inner dialogue. "Don't be shy."
I am caught off guard - I don't know what to answer.
"Well, I'm not sure-"
He cuts me off, taking a step even closer. His chest close to my heaving one. There is enough sense in me to detect something is wrong, but I don't know what it is.
"Don't mince your words, Madgerie. Tell me what it is you think of me exactly, in detail." My heart thuds faster. I am confused as to what is trying to insinuate. Does he think, does he suspect, that this is all an act? What is it that he wants to hear from me - is there something that I'm supposed to say? Supposed to do? "I want to know what it is in your head, what it is that you feel towards me."
He peers into my very soul, watching me in a way that feels all to knowing.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
"I think… I think that you're very nice," I respond softly, feeling too off balance to think of anything better.
There is a moment of quiet - motionless time. He doesn't say anything, but I get the idea that he is unsatisfied with the description that I have offered him.
"Nice?" is the lone word that falls from his lips. From the way he says it, it sounds like an insult. My gut clenches, but I give nothing away.
I push forward, regaining my footing. The only weapons at my disposal are political ones. Words, looks, lies. The only option I have at my disposal is to try and talk my way out of this. I decide to flatter Roberto as much as he thinks he is flattering me. "Well, I mean, I've never met anyone as friendly as you are. It must be a gift to be able to be so confident and charismatic all the time. I envy that about you." I intertwine my hands in front of me. "You're very fashionable and eloquent, and your way of speaking is quite refined. Although, I'm not sure that I can say the same for myself. I hope you can forgive my clumsiness when it comes to such matters." I can see the words taking their effect. The disgusted curl of his lip softens. I keep going, bowing my head demurely. "It's hard to describe your character, especially without being well acquainted. I simply don't have a way with words like you."
He hums, cocking his head to the side.
My insides are twisting and turning with anxiety. I try hard not to let it show. Meanwhile, I do my best to catalog this whole interaction, analyzing every aspect of this conversation.
"Without being well acquainted…" he repeats after me, paying special interest to the words.
The cogs turning in my head suddenly stop.
"I think I understand now." He nods, as if it all makes sense. "I thought I understood before, but I see now you are even more special than I could have imagined."
This whole time Roberto has been here, he has been hiding. As he speaks, I realize all too well why I feel so on edge.
His mask only shows what he wants to be seen. What lays on top is safe, predictable, and consistent. Roberto smiles, but now it looks different. Teeth glisten and the corners of red lips spread wide across his face.
He takes another step forward, as if to breach the little space left between us.
I step back unwittingly, my body moving almost of its own accord. My back brushes against the wall. I am reminded there is nowhere that I can go.
He is showing me what is underneath the mask. What lay underneath is unknown - dangerous.
I manage not to flinch as his hand lifts, pausing at eye level. Soft, clammy fingers brush against my cheek before cradling the baby fat there within a cupped palm.
"What-" I swallow, banishing the shakiness from my voice. "What are you doing?"
He ignores my question as if it were never asked. "I haven't met someone like you in a long time," he says softly, almost lovingly. "There are so few people out there - with what you have." The sickening smile drops instantly and he scowls venomously in disgust. "The youth of today are dirty. Disgusting - impure. They know nothing of what it takes to be truly special." The lines of his face soften once again. "You are more extraordinary than you could ever know. You - you are special, Madgerie."
I try not to cringe as his fingers slip from my cheek to cusp the back of my neck.
"I- I don't think I understand."
And I don't. I don't understand any of this.
I just want him to stop. Stop - stop touching me. Stop talking to me. Stop showing me who he really is. I don't want to know what is underneath the mask.
I don't want to see what he is trying to show me.
He laughs, the sound incredibly loud in the confines of my bedroom.
"How could you?" He shakes his head. "It's not something that you could possibly understand." His hand drops from my skin. "But - you will. You will understand, one day."
"I will?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I flit my eyes towards the door, but Roberto stands in my way. Even if I wanted to escape, I wouldn't be able to.
What is my father doing? Is he downstairs? Has he taken note of Roberto's missing presence?
Will he come to save me?
He nods, seeming almost sad. "Once you are as old as I am and can know life in the way that I know it, you will understand." He closes his eyes, as if in mourning. "By then it will be too late. You will have become just like everyone else."
The things he says make me feel as if I'm in danger, as if there is a threat hidden there, and yet I also don't think that's entirely true. His position, as well as my father's position in the District, should be enough to deter him from doing anything he shouldn't. Yet, I know better than to assume that guarantees my safety.
I don't understand why he is telling me all of this - this shouldn't be happening. None of it makes any sense. This isn't our roles, he isn't playing by the script.
Roberto is waiting, staring at me with dark eyes that hold emotion I don't want to bother knowing. I have to say something, but my heart pounds so loudly in my head that I can barely think.
"But you don't seem bad," I lie through my teeth, forcing out each word. Again, there is a curl of a smile that sends chills down my spine. "Surely, whatever it is that you speak of can't be anything too terrible."
I know, as likely as the man in front of me does, that the terrible things of this world can reach a depth of evil so profound, that it's better to be dead than to suffer them. I don't say that though, continuing to play along with the innocent, naive girl charade that Roberto has so lovingly branded me with.
"Corruption is always terrible, Madgerie." I feel my face pale at his words. They are sterile and cold. I try not to give into the fear churning in my gut. "The corrupt know it is terrible and yet they continue to seek out those more innocent than themselves - time and time again. Do you know why that is?" I don't want to know. Still, I shake my head yes, because I have no other choice but to hear his answer. His brows pinch together, eyes so dark they are nearly black.
He sighs, then speaks, the words so low that I can barely hear them."It makes us feel better to ruin something in the same way that we ourselves have been ruined."
A tremble rakes through my body and I am powerless to hide it.
I'm afraid. I'm afraid of what Roberto might do or how far he might go. I'm afraid because I don't know if there's anything that I can do to stop him.
I'm no longer sure what to do - or what to say - so I remain still and silent.
Roberto seems to pick up on my hesitancy. He once again raises a hand, this time running heavy and thick fingers through blonde strands before yanking the hair at the back of my head roughly. He tilts my head back to look at him.
The soft white fabric of my ribbon flutters to the ground, pulled loose. "Don't be nervous," he comforts gently, moving forward and pressing his body against mine. "I'm only trying to look out for you. You see, I want to warn you." He pulls tighter on the hair at the nape of my neck, tight to the point of pain, then forces my face into the crook of his shoulder. My cheek is crushed against the starched cotton of his shirt and smell of men's cologne is overwhelming, almost sickening. I hold my breath, closing my eyes tight and waiting for all of this to be over.
"I don't want to see you ruined, Madgerie," Roberto croons, rubbing at my back with his free hand.
Tears crowd the corner of my eyes. I don't move. I don't breathe.
I try to imagine I'm somewhere else. The garden - I'm in the garden. Only a few of the flowers are beginning to bud, barely opening their blooms as spring just barely cusps into summer. The fountain has yet to be filled with water yet, as the nights still freeze over sometimes. There is a stone bench by the fountain and the crack in it has grown just a little wider with the passing winter.
Just as I feel my lungs are going to burst from lack of air, the garden disappears.
Roberto finally pushes me away.
Soulless eyes peer down into my own.
"I'm sorry to have frightened you, especially twice in one day."
I try to arrange a warbled smile. "All is well," I assure him, although it doesn't sound convincing.
He moves away, stepping towards the door. I am thankful for the distance it brings, but still I feel his proximity as if he is standing right next to me.
"As tedious as they may be, I'm sure you should be getting back to your studies by now," he says sadly. He pouts childishly. "I suppose I'll have to leave you be for the moment." The mask he is slowly rearranging back onto his face is still not completely intact. His eyes crinkle, the iris there black with dark intentions. "I did quite enjoy having this conversation with you, Madgerie. Perhaps, we'll have the chance to better acquaint ourselves with another soon." I don't respond as he heads to the door. Before opening it, he saddles me with the request, "Tilly and I would love to hear you play something for us, so please return downstairs shortly." It is not a request, but a command. He grins, seeming back to his old self once more, the mask now fully in place. "Don't take too long now, darling. I'll be waiting for you."
The door closes behind him. I stare at it for a while.
All of my life, I have been sheltered. All of the dangerous things in this world, I've been shielded from. I realize that I've never felt what it's like to truly be scared.
I gulp in greedy breaths. They are shallow and shaky. There is not enough air in the world to soothe the burning in my lungs.
I ball up my fists, trying to stop the trembling of my fingers. Looking back once to the garden, I experience some sort of relief to see that Gale is long gone.
Placing a hand over my heart, it sits over a painful ache. Is it my lungs that feel so hollow, empty and desperate to be filled?
Or is it my heart?
Whatever it is, it feels like it might kill me.
As much as it might feel like I'm dying, I'm not. I allow no tears fall. I'm thankful for that. I know that if I start crying, I won't stop.
Eventually, my breathing slows. My pulse slows. The brief rush of adrenaline leaves me feeling drained.
With hesitant movements, I pick my crumpled ribbon off the floor. It has been stepped on, dirt marring the perfect white.
There is a forced sort of calm as I fish out a new ribbon, brushing my hair back and securing it tightly. I finish my homework in silence, never once glancing up from the page. After I'm done, I wash my face, turning the water to the hottest setting. I scrub at my cheeks, turning them a ruddy red.
The forced calm is nothing but a mask and a bad one at that. I can't give into what lies underneath the mask, not if I want to survive. Even with the worn edges and the cracks in the surface, I wear it.
I wear it because what lays on top is safe, predictable, and consistent. What lay underneath is unknown.
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Ahhhhh! What did you think? Not toooooo bad, right? It was just super uncomfortable for poor Madge. Anyway, I hope you still found it interesting.
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