Author's Note: This is a continuation of the last chapter that was way too long to be posted on its own, so it got split up. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games, only my own thoughts/plots/OCs.
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Chapter Four: Clarity and Ignorance (CONTINUED)
I return inside, though I would much prefer to stay on the porch rather than be cooped up indoors. I find Ava furiously polishing the silver at the dinner table. She greets me as usual, pausing in her work to stand as I walk in. "Please, don't let me bother you," I tell her and she sits back down.
I can hear our expensive washing machine shaking in the utility room, no doubt cleansing dusty sheets and linens that will soon be put to use in the guest rooms.
Though my father often lines up things for me to do, I complete the tasks quickly and there are typically few for the day. As much as I would like to enjoy the weather outside, my presence in the garden would only entice Gale to despise me more than he already does.
Though it is improper, and I don't engage in the behavior with anyone else around, I pull up a chair to the table, intending to help. I retrieve a thin, soft cloth and dip it lightly into a canister of polish, before running it across the shiny surface of a butter dish.
Ava doesn't react to my presence, but I notice the way her lips curl slightly upwards.
We are nearly done with all of the expensive cutlery and dinnerware splayed in front of us, when I break our silence.
"How long have you been married, Ava?"
The petite woman startles, clearly not expecting the question. She settles and bites her lip nervously.
I wonder if Ava will disclose this little bit of information about her life. Perhaps, she will brush me off with a vague answer and I will accept that as my signal to leave her be.
However, when she finally speaks, I can tell what she has to say is sincere, even eager.
"It will be twenty years in two weeks time, Miss."
Her voice is gentle - fond. Her eyes are warm.
I want to ask a great many more questions, but it is not my place, nor is it hers. I settle for one and I simply say, "How did you know - that you loved him?"
Ava pauses in her work, the last piece of silver in her tiny, calloused hands. She doesn't look up, but I can see the smile as it pinches her cheeks.
"It was the way he looked at me, I think. Like I was his hope. I know that he is mine," she says, her voice almost a whisper. She settles her gaze downward, a faint blush on her skin. "I'm sorry if that is too forward, Miss."
"Not at all," I say quietly, observing the peculiar light shining in her eyes. "Thank you for your candor."
She gives me a curt nod and a hum. This marks the end of our conversation. Ava is content to reminisce in her romantic rememberings and I am content to mull over her words.
I can't imagine someone looking to me as their beacon in the night - their light at the end of the tunnel. I cannot find it in me to imagine myself viewing another in this way either.
My father taught me that though a person may do well enough to provide for and cherish someone they love, they still cannot save them. Life, death, pain, greed, power - those are things that no one can be saved from. The only hope for survival is found in the strength of an individual's will - how well each person can shoulder their own life laid burdens. I don't want to wait to be saved - only to be disappointed when my savior fails in their rescue. There will be no rescue - not for anyone.
My father is trying - is doing his best - but even he doesn't have the power to save me from what a few greedy men in power have decided for my life.
The Mayor of District Twelve can't rescue his daughter - his citizens. An entire District can't rescue its people - not a single person lives to prove otherwise.
The tales of District Thirteen aren't well known throughout the populations of Panem. Only officials on the higher end of things were made aware of what occurred ten years ago - government officials and a six year old girl.
I find it hard to believe that hope can reside in another person. It seems foolish, selfish and stupid, to put that burden of expectation - an unachievable expectation - on another person because I love them.
How can someone even begin to expect such a thing from me? How can I be anyone's hope? There is nothing I have ever done, nothing I could ever do, for anyone that will be able to make an actual difference in this world. When my body lay rest beneath the wreckage of our war torn society, the man I love mourning the hope I never fulfilled for him, nothing will be different. I will have made not a bit of difference to anyone - my life and death not even akin to a fleeting flower in the garden.
Perhaps, I don't understand because I have never been in love. Even the love extended from my parents is distant, hard to see and feel outside of the abstract idea of it. I am aware it's there and yet I'm not entirely sure of what it is.
Perhaps, love isn't meant for people like me. I am the Mayor's daughter - I am born for a life of luxury and splendor and vanity. Love is not for the rich - how could it be? Dresses, bows, coins - those things are not love. As much as I have tried to acknowledge them as such, they're not love.
They are guilt. They are distraction. They are an apology.
Love should only belong to those who truly understand that money and material things will not fill the void of longing in the heart.
I assist Ava with a few other tasks around the house before meandering upstairs.
I walk to my mother's door. It is closed tightly, as always. There is no sound when I press my ear against the wood. I sigh heavily, my fingers lingering against the cold of the brass knob.
I turn away. It is for the best. I can only hope to catch her another day, when she will hopefully be awake. I don't know what wisdom my mother will offer me that could possibly soothe my restless spirit. The few questions that I badgered the women around me with all resulted in answers that failed to give me any real guidance.
Though we've never spoken of it, I know my mother's betrothal to my father was orchestrated by their parents, with little choice in the matter on either of their parts. Luckily, they were both born from the same District and their families were well acquainted while growing up. If there is another person in this District that can remotely relate to my situation, it is my mother.
With how her life has turned out - drowning her body and mind in drugs - I'm not altogether sure her advice for coping will be all that beneficial.
She was given opportunity, not choice. The opportunity for wealth, for doctors, for morphling - those were the only things at her disposal to numb the pain. She was not given the choice to live a life without that pain. I can't fault her for finding the only way to survive she could, but I also can't deny that her way of survival might not really be survival at all.
I enter my bedroom with a reluctant look towards the paper wrapped parcel that is currently hidden in the drawer of my nightstand. Father said he would give me until the end of the week to sort through the potential suitors and consider my choices. Only a day has passed since he uttered these words and yet I feel like I have been wrestling with this task all of my life.
I hesitantly walk to my bed, sitting down on the fluffy, cream-white duvet.
I had hoped to delay this task - to push it to the back of my mind and consider it akin to a fly buzzing around my head.
I searched for solace where I could find it, but I discovered none. Circumstance has forced me to come to terms with my ignorance - this isn't about love. This is about survival. My situation is not the same as Ava's or Katniss's or anyone's. This is my life and my burden to bear. The sooner I guarantee the man who will be my husband, the sooner I guarantee myself and my family and District's safety.
I retrieve the package, fingering the smooth paper before lifting it out of the drawer.
It is heavy. The weight of it in my hands makes me feel sick all over. I place it in my lap and take a few calming breaths. I have to be able to do this - there is no other choice. I have to hold it together. I have to keep my mask in place.
With a bigger, deeper breath, I untie the twine. My miraculously steady fingers slip under the edges of the paper and I carefully unwrap it.
I stare at the blaringly white binder that lay inside. It is thick, filled to the brim with pages and pages.
The cover boasts the emboldened words:
DISTRICT TWELVE
MADGERIE UNDERSEE
APPLICANTS FOR MARRIAGE
As much as I don't want to, I keep going. I open it, feeling a dreadful hollowness in my chest as I do.
There is a name and age at the top of the first paper that has been laminated to avoid wear and tear. That's good; I feel at any moment I might rip up the pages in anger or be sick on them in disgust.
Averi Bullaken, 17
The picture below offers a smirking young man, with deep blue eyes and almost white hair. I would say he is handsome, despite the many scars that marr his pale flesh. A jagged slice cuts deep across his nose.
He is from District Two and though his profile offers very little information on him besides his wealth and family status, it does state that he is a previous Career trainee who never volunteered for the games because his brother went in first, leaving him sole heir to the family fortune. With a turning stomach, I realize that his brother was not the Victor of his games. I feel grief, if only for a life lost.
My empathy dies a little as I gaze into the cold eyes of the man on the page.
He has been trained to kill, suffered because of it, lost loved ones because of it, yet smiles confidently at the camera. His own brother was causality to the cruelties of this world, but he looks as if that same world is his to conquer.
I discard him from the running, knowing without a doubt that this man's heart has been tainted beyond repair.
The next selection boasts a tanned male with stern features and a bald head. Again, he is rather pleasant looking, despite the harshness in his appearance.
Cuderae Zillwana, 19
Some of these names are exotic to me, but they are old family names passed down from different parts of Panem.
The list below his picture begins by mentioning his wealth and status in District Four, before boasting that his family has long run the rehabilitation center for reformed Avox's. I pale as I read this, my eyes flicking back to the black eyes of the man in the picture. Who would know simply by looking at him, that under he and his ancestor's hands many have lost their tongues, freedom, and identity. Because of this, I refuse to even briefly entertain the idea of being his wife and he swiftly goes into the discard pile as well.
Many others meet the same fate. Some of the faces are fairly normal and natural, while others boast altered appearances liken to most Capitol citizens.
My eyes glaze over as I continue. The faces all muddle together, becoming indistinguishable. Truly, none of the prospects are good and my will to continue wanes quickly.
I keep flipping the pages. The small flicker of hope in my chest dies each time I find yet another reason to reject the man in front of me.
This book is extensive. I'm not sure how much time has gone by, perhaps an hour or two, but I'm almost towards the end of it now. There are only a few choices left and I dread each new face I see.
"The boy from District Three seems promising."
My father's words echo in my head. My sweaty fingers slip across the laminated paper as I move onto the next suitor.
William Boland IV, 16
His skin is tan, as if he has spent time often in the sun. Though he smiles brightly for the camera, something cunning in his green eyes makes me think it's not as sincere as it seems. His face is humble, not artificially enhanced in one way or another. However, I note, his features are actually quite appealing. There is a strong chin and plumpness in his cheeks. His intelligent eyes are shielded partly by shaggy, auburn hair.
I read on to discover that his father is the Mayor of District Three and he is currently set to inherit the Mayorship once his father retires. I decide that, at the very least, this boy is not chopping off tongues everyday or training with zeal to murder other children in an all out battle to the death.
I gaze at his features a little longer, wondering if this is a face I can stare at for the rest of my life.
I finish with the binder, ending up with, out of over a hundred men, only two potential prospects. I can barely begin to consider either of them my-
I picture myself standing next to a man. I can see myself clearly, as if looking in a mirror. For the man, there is a body, but no face. It is blank space, no image I can conjure to put there. None of the faces in that binder will materialize in that place, the place of my-
-my husband.
The only other match I found appealing was a meek looking, mousy sixteen year old boy with caramel hair from District Six named Horgon Wheeler. His similar age - and the fact his life seems utterly simple and uncomplicated - is what most draws me to him. His parents head a government run packaging and mailing facility. It is likely he will follow in their footsteps, managing the business.
A life with him will mean less politics - less scrutiny and masks and listening ears - but in a way I feel I don't deserve such an easy out.
There is a sort of relief felt by being done with the arduous venture of finding someone to pair my life with forever. For now, for only a moment, I am free. As soon as I inform my father, the cogs will start turning and I will be trapped in a fate of my own choosing.
While I am grateful for having at least some choice, even if most of the choices are grim at best, I can't help but feel sick as well - as if I am picking out my own executioner.
I place the large binder back into my nightstand drawer, determined to never open it again.
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Overall I'm satisfied with the chapter, but I am sorry if it feels repetitive with some of the internal dialogue. I hope you liked it regardless!
Please please please review! It means a lot. Until next time, everyone!