Chapter 35

It feels like mere moments since I fought Pinty in the flaming playpark. Yet days seem to have passed since I woke up, just hours ago.

I try to process it all as I stand backstage, waiting for my cue. I don't get very far.

Effie Trinket bustles up to me, in a flowing brown wig and grey contact lenses, "In honour of the late bi-icon, Rubis." She explains.

I don't bother to point out that Rubis didn't wear puce lipstick, or false lashes that could double as feather-dusters.

Effie attaches a microphone to my collar. Then she proceeds to attack me with a lint roller, which comes away covered in rat-fur and avox-hair.

"I have to admit," Says Effie, "Despite the unholy amount of shedding, that avox girl could have done a lot worse at putting you together."

I look down at my finished, de-haired outfit. A suit in starched cream, with crisp seams and a tasteful, champagne-gold tie. A crimson carnation adds a flourish of colour to my lapel.

This suit puts my previous, garish costumes to utter shame. I am dressed like a king.

Effie examines my face, cupping it in her chartreuse-taloned hands and tilting it to the light.

"Minimal makeup… not to feminine, but extravagant enough for the event. Perhaps I'll request that Elspeth be promoted to one of my makeup team…" Effie ponders, "After she shaves that ungodly afro of hers, of course."

I pull away from her, salty that an avox has more life opportunities than I do, now.

Effie pats me sharply twice on the cheek, before saying, "Good luck out there, Midnight. You're one of us, now. Show them how much you deserve to be here."

With that, she pushes me towards the stage.

Chazzer Flickerman has the crowd in uproarious cheers, anticipating the entrance of their victor.

He booms, "Shall we bring him out?!"

The crowd goes mad with assent.

Chazzer muses, "You don't seem too excited! What if Midnight doesn't think you want to see him?!"

I don't care.

The crowd doubles their volume to an ear-splitting chant.

"MIDNIGHT! MIDNIGHT! MIDNIGHT!"

I flash back to how I reacted when I was first picked for the games, interpreting their mumbles and half-hearted claps as adoration.

Now, a million times as loud, it feels phony. Like canned laughter on TV.

Through the crack in the curtain, I see Minnesota in the top box, laughing with President Snow. Minnesota catches my eye. Their charismatic smile doesn't change in front of the President, but they look right at me as they pluck two grapes from a charcuterie board and burst them between their fingers.

I mouth, puzzled, "My testicles?"

Minnesota rolls their eyes and forms the words, "Your parents."

I gulp.

Chazzer hollers, "Okay! I think that's loud enough! Now crank it up another level, to welcome your victor, the pride of District Twelve, our darling… MIDNIGHT ABERNATHY!"

I resist the urge to clamp my hands over my ears as I take a deep breath, picturing me living happily with my parents, and then their mutilated bodies.

I set my face in a plastic grin and stride onto the stage.

I have never heard anything as loud as the audience, packed into the seats like a million-eyed, ear-shattering monster.

I wave, blow kisses, flip my hair like a TikTok boy and try my best to channel the old, blissfully delusional Midnight.

Chazzer ushers me to an ornate throne.

"Midnight Abernathy!" Chazzer repeats, drawing out each syllable, as though my name holds too much prestige to risk brushing past.

"Hello, Chazzer!" I beam, still waving to the audience, "I can't tell you how wonderful it is to finally be here!"

Chazzer leans in, comically, and looks between me and the audience.

He laughs, "Someone's drunk on success! Careful, Midnight, the medics might run out of stretchers!"

As I watch, handfuls of audience members faint with excitement. Medics rush to them to check their hearts and blood-pressure.

I tsk inwardly. It takes every ounce of determination to resist rolling my eyes.

My face remains a mask of gratitude and jubilation.

Knowing Chazzer wants me to bounce off him, I finally stop pandering to the audience and say, "Oops, my bad. Though if anyone dies with me in their minds, they'll already think they're in heaven!"

Chazzer roars with jovial laughter. The crowd mimics him.

It scares me how easily these self-entitled words come to me.

Chazzer scoots his chair closer to mine, to begin the interview.

He asks, "The first thing we all want to know, Midnight, is how do you feel? What's it like to be a victor?"

An easy question. So vague and abstract.

"It feels great!" I say.

"Is that all you're going to give us?" Presses Chazzer, "Come on, tell us more! How did you feel, as you were being hefted into the sky, the only person to be taken alive by a hovercraft?"

Terrible. I think, Like I would never be happy again. Like I broke something inside of me, that I'll never get back.

Instead, I boast, "Oh, Chazzer. Nothing can ever compare to that feeling. Imagine eating a whole tub of Ben and Jerry's cookie-dough ice cream, then making it to the very last spoonful, to find an entire, intact cookie. Then multiply that joy by a thousand. Now you're feeling a tenth of how excited I felt on that hovercraft."

"Wow!" Chazzer exclaims, "That's pretty darn excited!"

I nod vigorously, despair clanking about in my head.

Chazzer continues, "But it wasn't all joy and satisfaction, was it? You lost something very dear to you along the way."

My insides writhe at the idea of humouring him. I grit my teeth.

"Yes." I say.

Chazzer lowers his voice, saying, "Tell us how you felt in that moment, when you turned to see your true love with a garrotte across his throat."

The streak of red slashes across my memory, blinding me with rage.

How could they ask me about this?! How can they tell me to relive my trauma, live in front of millions?

I am unable to stop my face contorting with fury, disgust and devastation. I bury my head in my hands to disguise it and force my shoulders to shake with faux sobs.

Chazzer's consoling hand on my back is a hot coal sizzling into my skin.

He produces a handkerchief from a pocket. I make a show of blowing my nose, with a humble glance to the audience to portray just the right amount of shame.

Hoping that my flushed cheeks will be mistaken for grief rather than fury, I raise my head to answer Chazzer.

"I can't describe how I felt." I say, "I lost everything in that moment. I've always had this mask of confidence, pretending everyone loved me, but the truth is, I didn't really believe it. That is, until Rubis.

"He was honest with me. He stuck around, despite acknowledging my shortcomings. And for the first time ever, I felt like I really loved someone."

I snatch a glance at Minnesota. Their owlish expression eggs me on.

More tragedy, more emotion, they order, silently.

I clear my throat.

"I just wish I could have shown him how much he meant to me. I would give anything on earth to talk to him for one more minute."

Chazzer's voice drips with fake sympathy, when he says, "Well, I think we might be able to arrange something."

Curtains at the back of the stage part, to reveal another throne – this one bronze, instead of gold.

Minnesota told me to play my part. I knew what angle I had to portray. On this stage, and for the rest of my life.

I was not prepared to see Rubis himself, sitting on the bronze throne, wheeling mechanically towards me.

My mouth hangs agape.

Rubis's dead body, pale and thin, is positioned regally on the throne. He wears a decadent, white, silk dress, that flows down to his feet in ruffles and drapes. Quartz and diamonds glitter on his bodice and his hair has been drawn into an Effie-like bundle, on top of his head. A lace veil is clipped to it, obscuring his face.

My eyes are drawn to the thick, chiffon bow around his neck, inlaid with gemstones. The hint of a jagged, black scar peeps out from beneath the cream fabric.

The same cream fabric that my groom's suit and tie are made of.

Bride and groom. Rubis and me.

Wrath threatens to boil over my barriers. It surges against every fibre of by being, like a tsunami baring down on a cardboard fort.

I can't let it show.

I take one, deep breath.

Then the tears come. For real, this time.

Chazzer envelopes me in a hug.

He says, "Don't cry, Midnight! You'll make me cry too, and I look a complete wreck when I happy-cry!"

My crying could not be further from happy.

I have never felt so low.

Still held stiffly in Chazzer's embrace, I tuck my emotions away one by one, locking them behind door after door, until I am an empty husk.

All that is left is my ability to act.

I disentangle myself from Chazzer and straighten my wedding suit.

Tentatively, as though unsure if I'm dreaming, I step off my throne towards Rubis.

He would have hated this. He would have pretended not to, sure, but apathy only runs so deep when you're live to the whole country.

Unable to speak, I reach out my hand to touch Rubis's. It is cold as marble.

A vibrant shape flies across the stage, from the wing, and Chazzer catches it.

A Bishop's hat, in his signature magenta, with a superfluous amount of rhinestones arranged in a holy cross.

Chazzer dons the hat and positions himself between me and Rubis.

A tiny flinch tells me that he, too, is not too comfortable with this situation. Either that, or he doesn't like standing next to a cadaver.

I look overjoyed, as I repeat the vows read out to me by the ridiculous host-turned-officiant.

With less emotion than an obsidian brick, I finish, "I do."

Chazzer grins with elation.

He intones, "You may now kiss the corp- I mean, bride."

My mouth contorts into my signature, cocky grin, presenting my gratitude for the world to see. A final chance to kiss my Pookie! My Snuffelump, my fairytale prince!

I show them that this is the moment I have long awaited. They have to see that I am still their lovably-ignorant Midnight.

His cold, dead lips are waiting.

Disgust rears its head like a giant viper.

I beat it back.

I swoon dramatically as I lift his veil, batting my eyelashes demurely at the crowd.

His face is as alive as a gravestone. I can see where they have applied makeup. Too much rouge… Impossibly smooth skin... Lips, shiny and luscious – is that Botox?!

The only part that still resembles my true-love is his eyes, storm-grey and piercingly critical, even in death.

I fight the bile creeping up my throat and lean into him, for all the cameras to see.

I kiss him long and hard.

I don't stop when the ice of his lips seeps into my own. I keep going as the audience ' ooh's and ' aah's.

Only when Chazzer interjects, do I finally think that it's safe to break away.

Chazzer chuckles, "Poor lad thinks he's still in the Games! Sorry, Midnight; CPR won't save him now!"

I laugh good-naturedly at his joke.

Now with a spring in my step, having said my final goodbyes and cemented our love on reality TV, I return to the victor's throne.

Rubis motors away with a squeaking of wheels. His lipstick is smudged and his dead eyes deny me a shred of forgiveness.

"Now," Says Chazzer, "Shall we watch the compiled footage of the Games?"

"Yes!" I say.

Do we have to? I think.

Chazzer says, "I bet you're intrigued about what the other tributes were doing, when you weren't around them, eh?"

I reply with gusto, "Yeah, I wanna hear about all the plans I thwarted!"

I pound my fist into my hand, like careers always seem to when they get excited.

"Roll the tape!" Booms Chazzer.

A ginormous screen lights up on the back wall, as well as a hologram in front of my face, so that the audience can see my face as I watch the clips. I can just see Minnesota over the top of the hologram; a constant reminder to act.

I settle in behind my aching smile, prepared for a torturous ride.