Author's Note: This isn't a well visited pairing anymore I don't think, but I hope there are some people out there still reading this Hunger Games ship. We have some more drama this chapter, because I simply can't help myself. Hopefully you enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games. I only lay claim to my own thoughts, plots, and OCs.
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Chapter Two: Survival
A knock sounds timidly from outside the bathroom. I'm unsure how long I've been locked in here, but it is surely an inappropriate time. After emptying the contents of my stomach and laying on the floor for a while, I somehow gathered up enough energy to get up and brush my teeth and hair, but not the energy to open the door and walk downstairs.
Sixteen.
Two years - two years and then I will be married off to a stranger.
"Miss Madgerie, are you well?"
I groan at the sound of my name, but somehow it is enough to pull me from my funk. I reluctantly unlock the door, casting my eyes downward. I know that despite my best attempts, I am still quite sickly looking. My skin is pale and dark circles now sit noticeably under my eyes. I rested quite comfortably the night before, contrary to the lie I told my father, but now I am tired and worn down. It feels as if I am at the end of a long day and not the start of one.
"I am feeling fine," I say easily, despite my haggard appearance. "What is on my schedule for today?"
"A few things, Miss, but first your father bids me to give you this present and to tell you he wishes you a wonderful birthday." My eyes part from dark stained floorboards to a medium sized, rectangular box that is outstretched in Ava's small hands. I peek at her to cast a sincere smile, before taking the gift from her.
"Thank you, Ava."
There is a pink, satin bow around a white, shiny box. Both are expensive materials by themselves, much less the price of whatever lay inside. It is indeed prettily wrapped, but the opulence is unnecessary, especially considering it will only be thrown unceremoniously in the trash. I unwrap it gently anyway, lifting the lid up with delicate fingers.
Inside the box lay a periwinkle dress with white lace trim. It is delicately embraced by pristine, white tissue paper.
"Your father bids that you wear this today, Miss," she says eagerly.
"It's beautiful - just give me a moment to get changed."
She disappears back downstairs and I return to my room.
I carefully place the box under my bed, vowing to find another use for it.
The dress is stunning, refined, but still lavish. It is simple in design, but the fabric is rich and lace trim adorns the bodice in the tiniest of details.
I slip it on, knowing without a doubt that it will fit - and it does.
The length sits just below my knee. Ruffle cap sleeves barely brush the tops of my arms and the sweetheart neckline is quite modest, just allotting for my collarbone to be seen.
It must have cost a fortune - a whole week's worth of wages.
My fingers run over the skirt and I do my best not to feel like crying. I can't help but think this dress on my body is somehow akin to the wrapping on my present.
I want to take it off.
I don't.
The day of my first reaping, I received a yellow dress eerily similar to this one now. It was far simpler in design, costing a lot less, yet I feel the same now as I felt wearing that one then.
I remind myself it is simply clothing and nothing more.
When I tie my hair up, I choose a yellow ribbon. I slip into my shoes and slowly make my way down the stairs and to the breakfast table.
Ava has quite a large amount of food ready, perhaps thinking my father might stay for breakfast, but it has now all gone cold. I spent far too long getting ready this morning. She offers to heat it up for me, but I only shake my head and smile grimly. If I eat even one bite of food now, then there is a good chance it will only come right back up once more.
"I'm not feeling well enough to eat. Please, take it home with you," I beckon. She goes to protest but I hold up a hand. "You work hard enough as it is. This is a payment, not a gift. Besides, it will only be wasted otherwise."
She hesitates, but I know she is thinking of her children and grandchildren. It is summer and food should be abundant, but it is not. At least, not for those who truly need it. Food is scarce, but it will be even more so during the winter. My home still manages to see the realities of that, if only in some ways. Despite having money, it's hard to buy food from a market that scarcely has any. It's hard to ship goods on the train when other Districts are prioritized first. It is better for those without to eat now, when food is available. She nods her head and quietly begins clearing the table.
When she comes back from the kitchen, the dishes in her hands are replaced with folders and papers. She lays out the daily homework that is directed by my private tutor. There are quite a few arithmetic and geometry problems, as well as a section of reading from a well-known Capitol Professor.
Ava Fairweather is a petite woman, but very strong from working constantly throughout her life. While her life is better lived than many other Seam residents, it has by no means been easy. Her mother before her was our previous maid, occasionally bringing her daughter along to help. When she became too old, and too sickly, to work, her daughter took over solely. I don't remember her mother very well, only in faint and fuzzy memories. She very occasionally sang sweet lullabies, her voice much rougher and deeper than Ava's.
Over time, I have become fond of the middle aged woman with whom I've shared most of my time and childhood. She is quiet and we maintain more of a steady bond than an actual friendship. Our positions in life pushed us together. Our bond was created through forced closeness to one another, but it just as easily could have not been formed at all.
She is Seam and I am Town. We must never forget that - either of us. My family is her employer. There is a visible divide between us and because of it, she has always kept me at much expected distance.
I don't mind. It is better than being alone.
"You are to complete these study exercises for your tutor to check tomorrow, but then you are free to spend the day as you like, since it is your birthday. At seven o'clock, there will be a dinner in your honor and I'm preparing your favorite. Your father will even be in attendance this time, Miss!"
Her voice raises at the end, indicating how positively she intends me to receive this news.
Under normal circumstances, today would feel like a good day. I will get to spend most of my time how I please, as well as have the opportunity to see my father once more. Yet, I find myself closed off, desperate to be secluded and alone. I want to let the mask off, to assess the damage to it and the person underneath. My house has eyes and ears. Expressing my emotions there would be the equivalent of going out into the Town square and declaring treason.
I am extremely good at keeping my feelings hidden and swept under the rug. I can remain closed off and poised, the same as my father, even under the harshest of circumstances. This is something I can't quite keep in though. It is cracking the mask I have worked so hard to perfect over the years.
"Thank you, that sounds lovely," I respond.
If Ava notices my strange demeanor, she doesn't comment on it. She does, however, comment on my appearance.
"Pretty dress," she says earnestly, admiring the garment. "Truly a beautiful gift, Mistress."
I am thankful for the things I own and the comfort I live in. However, extravagance isn't something I feel comfortable with. It brings guilt - and even more guilt for feeling guilty. Perhaps I am not appreciative enough for what I am provided, but it feels sinful adorning and boasting clothing that no one else in our District can afford. It feels only more wrong knowing that this particular gift was given not for happiness, but rather for distraction.
"Yes, my father is… very kind."
It is the only thing he knows to do. There isn't much else that he really can do, besides try to buy my love that he doesn't have the time for.
"Well, I must tend to the house. Call if you need me, Miss Madgerie."
"Madge," I correct her, putting some conviction in my words. She smiles faintly at me, the lines around her eyes becoming more pronounced.
"Yes, of course. Happy birthday, Miss Madge."
She then whisks back into the kitchen without a second glance and I sit at the table. It's abundantly clear I am unable to focus and I pick up a pencil only to immediately set it back down. I stow away the homework for later and run out of the house.
It is a gorgeous day. Summer is in full bloom. The garden outside of our house boasts beautiful and exotic flowers. The porch offers a breathtaking view of the area around me, free from the ugly world that plagues everyone else's view. Yet, I stomp past the large porch, past the colorful garden, and past the white, wooden gate that surrounds our large house and property.
I cannot be here.
I head towards the Seam.
I forgo doing my studies for the day, knowing that I can cram them in early tomorrow morning before my tutor has a chance to check them. There is simply too much on my mind to lock myself up in a silent room and try to focus on math or english.
I make it to the vacant field that lies closest to the gate. It's towards the South, so it is closer to the Seam side of town, but I know no residents will wander near the fence during this time of day. They hardly go near the gate at all, much less during peak Peacekeeper patrol hours.
It's the perfect place to escape.
Of course, I don't mean escape outside of the fence. I don't even entertain the idea, as much as I feel the intense craving to feel free. I know it is far more likely I will injure myself in the process of sneaking away - or simply be caught. Neither are exactly preferable, even considering my current predicament.
I sit down in the tall grass and it is high enough to obscure my body from potential passersby. The blades tickle against my arms and legs as I settle down, leaning back on my arms to gaze at the blue sky.
There are only a few clouds and then the rest is endless blue. It is not exactly clear out though. I notice the clouds warping. The blue up above becomes increasingly muddled. Perhaps it will rain?
The sky instantly clears, but a drop of water lands on my cheek.
I realize I am crying. What is distorting my vision is tears. I wipe away one, then another, and another, before I give up.
I allow the tears to fall freely. They leave dark, wet marks on my pretty dress and I can't help but be thankful for that. My quiet tears turn to cries and those cries turn into shaking, stifled sobs, but there is no quelling this hurricane of emotions erupting. I can only wait out the storm.
I sincerely hope no one is close enough to witness my chaotic display of emotions.
The tears eventually die off, but I can't tell if I feel better or not. I struggle to heave in calming breaths.
I am sure my house has cameras and microphones and phone taps, perhaps even… even Ava might be a spy for them - the Capitol. I don't really believe that to be true, but I also can't completely rule it out as a possibility. Our family would be incredibly naive to believe the Capitol would let the most powerful man in the District go unchecked. There will always be something - or someone - keeping tabs on our every move. All it takes to tip the scales out of our favor is one slip up - one stray emotion shown where it shouldn't.
"Madgie May, do you know why you cannot cry like this when you are in the house or in public?"
I wipe at my tears, my nose running, as my six year old mind tries to filter through my undeveloped emotions to respond.
"Um, well you say crying in public will cause a scene. And mama says crying in the house gives her headaches."
Since I was four years old, whenever I would begin to cry or act in anger, my father would take me outside. A calm walk in the garden, he would say. That is where we are now.
"Yes, Madgerie, that is true." The use of my full name catches my attention. We are at the end of the garden, close to the gate. He gestures at me to follow. I almost trip in my haste to catch up, wandering where my father is taking me. We are a couple feet away from the fence when he begins to speak again, his voice somehow different than before. "But it's more than that. We are an important family. People are always watching us, what we do, even when we are home. So you must always be on your best behavior, from when you wake up in the morning to when you go to bed at night. If you cry, if you get angry, if you say something bad, in public or behind our walls, then it might be heard and that would not be good. Daddy might lose his job if that happens."
Of course, at the time, my father losing his job was the evilest thing he would allow me to think of. The reality was much worse. If I had indeed slipped up in a major enough way for someone from the Capitol to notice, then we would have long been dead by now. My father's words worked well though and six year old me obeyed them fervently.
Eventually, the hurricane settles and my mind clears. I decide to think a little more rationally.
In two years time I will be married off. What does that mean, exactly?
It means I will be sent away - to the District of my husband. My husband - who will be little more than a stranger to me. This man will be different from anyone I've ever met, perhaps with different customs and mannerisms. Will he be from the Capitol?
I hope not. The few people I've met from the Capitol all dressed frivolously in their appearance and treated me with borderline abusive disdain. Despite my being the mayor's daughter, I am still only an ill-bred girl from District Twelve, hardly worthy enough of batting their long, synthetic eyelashes at.
There are some Capitol residents who are far less cruel, but even more vain. They are the vapid, egotistical ones - the blissfully ignorant. The mask they wear is one of splendor and luxury and, in truth, it is not a mask at. It is simply who they have become - who this world has conditioned them to be. I suppose in a marriage scenario, the latter would be preferable should my suitor end up being someone from the Capitol.
I have previously considered the possibility of being married young, with my match chosen for me. I am not completely unprepared for what is being thrust upon me. Yet, I do not feel prepared at all. I hoped my father would let me be with someone from our District, perhaps even someone of my choosing so long as he approved of them. Perhaps that idea was foolish, but it was what I let myself believe. I became so accustomed to the privilege that I grew up in that I began to think myself free from the cage of our society.
I was naive. I was stupid.
To be forced to move to my husband's land, where everything will be unfamiliar and even more lonely, feels impossible. I cannot imagine leaving my family, even with how little time I spend with them now. I will never again see Ava, who is as much a comforting face to me as my own parents.
Perhaps I am being immature about all of this? The miners surely don't want to go down in the mines at the age of eighteen, to never truly emerge until the day they die - if they die above ground. The women surely do not want to give birth to a child that they know might one day be stolen from their arms. Sickness and hunger are not fair, yet they befall almost every body in our District. Life is not fair and I must stand it just as all of the others do.
Though there are people - like my mother - who cannot stand it. They seclude themselves somewhere deep in their mind so that the pains of life - grief and sadness - can no longer reach them.
I don't want to lose myself. I want to be able to keep myself intact enough to face each day with a will to live. I want to be lucid and coherent and strong enough to handle each blow life gives me without breaking.
While I'm no hunter, not like Katniss, I pick up the sound of a lithe form winding through the grass behind me.
Just as she is passing through my thoughts, Katniss passes directly in front of me. She pauses, her form thin, but not quite as thin as some of the other Seam girls. She is quite tall, taller than me, though only by a couple inches. I gaze up at her. Her face is dark as she stands, blocking the light from the sky.
"Hey," she says simply and I can't help but smile.
"Hey," I echo as she moves to sit, keeping an arm's distance between us.
"I didn't expect to see you around here," she comments. I don't ask how she spotted me from the road when I am obscured well into the tall grass. She has hunting eyes, and would be able to spot me the same as if I were nothing but a rabbit hiding in the brush.
"I wanted some time to myself for a bit," I answer. She moves, as if to leave, and I hurry to add, "But I'm glad you're here. I haven't seen you much since school ended for the summer."
She nods her head and settles back down. "I've been hunting while the game is good. I should be coming around with strawberries soon." I nod my head. I feel grateful that Katniss is a private enough person to not ask me why my cheeks are still damp with tears. I wipe them on instinct, but the proof has already been exhibited.
"That's good." It is quiet for a moment, both of us content to listen to the wind whisper through the blades waving around us. "Can I- can I ask you a question?"
She shrugs, but her face remains closed off as ever. "Sure, I guess."
"Do you ever think you'll ever get married?"
She loudly snorts, then shakes her head, her braid whipping across her shoulder. "Prim is enough for me. She has all of my love."
"Never?" I question again, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't want to marry and have a child. If I do, at best, it will live a life of hunger. At worst, it will be reaped." I nod my head and decide not to ask anymore, expecting she will soon return to her classic stoic demeanor. She surprises me by continuing. "Do you think you'll get married someday?"
I hold back a grimace. "Yes, as the Mayor's daughter, it is my duty."
She doesn't react to my statement, but her words are dark. "So you don't have a choice then." Katniss understands immediately; she is far wiser than I.
"When I turn eighteen," I explain, my voice surprisingly even.
Neither of us add anything else, feeling that gathering any further details from either of our sides won't be productive. Our relationship has never based itself upon our conversations so I am fine with the silence. We are both content sitting and enjoying the nice weather - simply together.
It isn't long before Katniss stands.
"I need to get home to Prim, I'll see you soon."
I wave at her. "I hope so. It was good seeing you, Katniss." Her company is quiet and never complicated. It brings a certain sense of companionship and peace.
I decide I must return as well, knowing it would not be a good look should any of my father's peacekeepers stumble upon me in this part of the District. I wrestle with the idea of visiting Peeta, but he is typically busy at work during this hour of the day. His mother would likely aqueise to my request to spend time with him because of who I am, and who my father is. However, I have no doubt she still would make him pay later, behind closed doors, for the lack of labor it would cause.
I don't have the confidence in keeping an upbeat conversation going right now, anyway. Peeta is an empathetic person, who feels far too deeply for others, and he already has enough worries without adding my problems to his.
I don't know if I feel better, but I feel comfortable enough to return to a familiar, telltale numb. It is a state I have taken solace in many times before.
I let go of everything until I feel numb. It is an easy thing to do - to ignore the wound rather than feel its pain. When I see someone executed in the games or starving on the street - when my mask starts to slip - I sink into a numb that settles hollow in my chest. It is a selfish way to cope - to do away with empathy and sadness for my own personal comfort.
Perhaps it is something my father has taught me over the years, but perhaps it is something I have learned all on my own. It is a cold approach, but an approach that works to preserve my sanity. There is too much heartache in the world to bear and I am too weak to begin to try. To experience it would mean displaying that heartache in one or another and I have been sculpted from the day I was born to keep that heartache at bay. It is a weakness that, should the Capitol become privy to it, they would love to strike at.
I do my best to repair my mask and settle into an emotionless numb. I have to.
It is simply survival.
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