Hollow, voiceless screams fill Madge's nightmares. Mouths contorted in visceral agony. It haunts her to no end - screaming and pleading and not able to hear anything at the end of her sentences. She flees from the red tide of blood that threatens to drown her whole, only ending in the town square. A million grotesque hands reach from beneath the ruins. Grabbing at her ankles and trying to drag her down into the fate she should have shared with District 12.
One of them inevitably succeeds. The bricks and rubble cave in and she finds herself in the Mayor's office. Listening to her father discuss coal production and the pressing energy needs of Panem's future. Her heartbeat goes steady when she recalls those familiar moments. Content to sitting in the sparse, concrete meeting room's corner behind rickety wooden benches. Typewriter in her lap. Like a fly on the wall. Pretending to understand talk about quotas and factories and logistics.
"There wouldn't be any better person to implement these changes to the production than my capable daughter Madge Undersee-"
She jerks upright at the mention of her name. A dozen stony-faced men stare at her, fingers frozen on the keys.
A Capitolite representative glares straight at her, "Oh yes, she looks very wise beyond her years. And if she doesn't, I'm sure we'll be more than happy tearing her to little pieces with our bare hands and feeding them to President Snow's dog."
This is a nightmare. This can't be real.
Let me out!
She thrashes about, trying to open her eyes and see the glimmering lake again. Her feeble heart plugs her throat as six men get up from their seats and move towards her.
Father?
Her eyes hurl towards Mayor Undersee walking out the room. Door slamming in her face. Abandoning her like the night the bombs fell.
Stop!
A dozen hands grab at her. Ripping her white cotton dress to shreds. Disheveling her prefectly coiffed blonde hair. Destroying her flesh like the forest and its relentless turmoil did. She screams and screams throughout the entire ordeal
But hears only ringing silence in her head.
Madge's eyes bolt open. The bare concrete overhead throws her into a blind panic. Flickering fluorescent lights and the dull hum of machinery confirms she's woken from her nightmare into the same nightmare. Doomed to repeat for eternity. She trashes around in her bed, fending off the imaginary arms coming to rip her apart like a warm loaf of bread. Tears bleed down her face. Warm, salty streaks that scream on her behalf for the lake's serenity again. She'd take the harshest winter day over this nightmare. Any time. Sleeping on frozen soil rather than this bed.
Bed.
The cottony softness beneath her back stills her limbs. Springs squeak when she shifts about. A bed. The unfamiliar comfort strikes her cold and she cranes her ears for any semblance of a sound that could pierce through the ringing silence still rife in her ears. Beep. She turns. Heart-rate monitor. Wires and tubes sticking into her body. Is this…a hospital? There weren't any hospitals in District 12. Or anything left. The sparseness of the concrete bunker is suddenly invaded by an older woman's presence. A wrinkled hand presses down her chest and calms her heart.
"It's fine…fine-"
Madge blinks through tears and squints at the wiry-thin woman before her. Greying hair interspersed with strands of gold. Sunken cheeks. Eyes that emptied themselves of all soul and meaning a long time ago. Yet still held her down like she were a child. A daughter. The semblance seeps back into her memory like a long-forgotten past she gave up trying to remember.
"Mrs Everdeen," Madge croaks.
"Shh," Mrs Everdeen hushes, "just stay still."
The woman unhitches a stethoscope and listens to her lungs, warm hands sliding beneath her hospital robes. Tender fingers grasp her wrist, taking her pulse. Madge settles back and allows the warmth to spread through her body. The unfamiliar peace of being cared for. Loved. Like she found a mother she never had. It brings another round of tears to her eyes. For the first time in ages, someone's around to wipe them away for her.
"Is Katniss-"
"She is, yes," Mrs Everdeen presses her chest again, as if the slightest movement would shatter her.
The bed shifts as her carer gets up. Don't leave me. The departure of Mrs Everdeen's loving touch feels like falling to her. A frigid void hurling her back into the woods with its blood parasites and deathly cold and nightmares that send her into sobbing fits. Here lies warmth and love and the steady beep of a heart monitor telling her she's alive. And Mrs Everdeen's turned back walking out of the room feels so blatantly unfair to her.
She returns with tea, which Madge spills over herself in ochre droplets blooming on her gown. The warmth settles into her belly like a hug. She nearly faints with relief when Mrs Everdeen feeds her gloopy applesauce. Saccharine spice tasting like chemicals.
"Poor girl hasn't eaten well," Mrs Everdeen brushes her blonde tangles, "you've been through so much."
How would you know? Madge thinks - before she looks deep into the woman's eyes, sunken with grief. Everyone's suffered so much. She's just lucky to wind up in a hospital bed instead of buried in ruins like her parents. Madge resists the onslaught of shame and asks about Katniss, about Prim - her heart cracking when the woman shakes her head. Eyes glistening with tears that weigh down on her conscience each night when the lights go off and she stares at the ceiling.
"You're brave, very brave," Mrs Everdeen listens to her recount her time in the woods.
Her heart shrinks at the words. Brave. Is it any bravery if she's compelled into action, into survival? Was there any bravery enduring the elements and killing people from the shadows? The thoughts muddle in her brain, still murky from the chemical-tasting food and the drugs Mrs Everdeen injects her with. Then she wakes herself in cold sweat from her nightmares. Violent pounding in her head and the last images still haunting her closed eyelids.
And she wishes for some more of that bravery to see her through each night.
A week passes and Mrs Everdeen finally removes the IV tube from her arm.
"I've been told to pass this to you," she says, placing a dusty book on her lap.
Urban Planning Theory, 4th Ed.
A thumb swipes through the dust, throat closing when she realises it's from her house. Dad's bookshelf. Upstairs study collapsed into ruins and they thought it appropriate to pull this out? Her head cranes to a satchel by Mrs Everdeen's feet, undoubtedly filled with more books. A sudden urge to hurl venomous words at the woman overwhelms her. But her hand rests on the blanket again. An unspoken love from her hospital mother, as close to a real mother she's ever going to have.
"They've salvaged some of your old stuff, Thom and the rest are still working on it. But they've sent these off to you, for some reading - not sure what that means," the longest sentence Mrs Everdeen has spoken to her.
She looks up at her, eyes still narrowed with how surreal this feels. A nurse peeks in and asks for her help, leaving Madge alone with the book. Hesitation freezes her fingers, but curiosity has always gotten the better of her, and she flips through the pages.
It's annotated.
Her eyes water at the curl and swoop of a Mayor's handwriting. Filling in the margins. Parchment sketches interleaved between lengthy paragraphs. Various points underlined. Towards the back lie envelopes addressed from the Capitol. Madge starts from the first chapter and reads through a pre-dark days professor's lengthy discourses on the key tenets of building a city. Infrastructure and zoning and public spaces. She traces the first words her father penciled in next to a paragraph on water supply and sanitation services.
THE CAPITOL WOULD NEVER ALLOW THIS - PERHAPS IN NEXT YEAR'S BUDGET.
She struggles not to outpace herself and reads chapter by chapter. Filling her head in with theory and case studies. Taking in the ghost of her father's exhortations.
EASIER TO FRAME THIS AS A WELFARE FACILITY RATHER THAN A PUBLIC GATHERING POINT, THEY HATE THAT
IF WE INFLATE INFECTION STATISTICS MAYBE THEY WILL CONCEDE ON THE WATER TREATMENT - ASK MILLER
SHIFT SURPLUS REVENUE TO GET THE SUPPLY ROAD FIXED
The realisation slowly dawns that her father had fought as hard as he could for the District all this while. No wonder he never had time. All the long meetings and reading and arguing with officials just to get a little more money to improve people's lives. The best memories she'd been able to wrangle were only of his deep voice, speaking at length about the year's plans and projections.
There's nothing to do in the hospital bed anyway. She tears through the book in a day. Feeling her father's soul seep deeper into her chest with each page. Reaching for another book about coal mining and watching the same story unfurl before her eyes. The same heartfelt desire to make the best out of a bad situation.
AN ENGINEER FROM DISTRICT 3 DESCRIBED THIS MACHINE. WE MAY HAVE TO PIECE IT TOGETHER FROM PARTS.
The sketch sits unfolded on her lap. Numbers and specifications telling a story together with isometric drawings of machinery and mineshaft plans. Different models of automated coal diggers able to do the job of twenty men from a sealed cockpit. Levers and buttons operated by a single person. Tracked conveyors and elevators that ensured no one would ever have to make the hazardous journey up and down the mineshafts unnecessarily and risk death.
Like Katniss's father.
She looks up at Mrs Everdeen setting down a plate of bread and ham. Hollow-faced grief etched into the lines on her face as she scribbles down her vitals.
"You have a visitor," she says, without looking around.
Madge's eyes light with joy. She nearly smiles before a man enters. Pauchy and red-faced like he'd just been drinking. Mrs Everdeen takes a cursory check on her pulse and excuses herself.
"Well, well, if it isn't the last of the Undersees," the man speaks. His voice is deep. It reminds her of the dull hum of a radio set. Madge takes a good look at his face and tenses up when she recognises him as one of the Gamemakers who put Katniss away. Plutarch Heavensbee. The tension creeps onto her face as a scowl.
"Katniss is fine, she's back home," he reaches into his jacket and lays a letter on her lap, "I understand that you are very dear friends."
A litany of emotions slam into her chest when she looks upon the envelope.
To: M.
Has he read it? Does he know? Can I trust him?
Madge fights off the clenching urge in her chest to tear apart the envelope and pore over every single one of Katniss's words. Carve each letter into her heart. Memorise each syllable as though she'd wake up from this dream back into the forest where she'd have nothing but those affectionate sentences to feed her until she dies.
She manages a shrug, and slides the letter behind one of the books she'd been reading.
"You knew my father?" Madge speaks directly to his eyes.
"I did, yes," Plutarch answers, "we've made it a point to be in contact with most of the districts' leaderships. At least towards the ones amenable to our persuasions."
"By 'we' - I assume you're talking about the ones responsible for this mess. This war."
Plutarch sighs, and reaches for a cigar in his jacket. Before remembering he's in a hospital.
"The ones responsible for bombing District 12 have been dealt with. Thanks to your friend - Katniss Everdeen."
The name ticks in her head uncomfortably. Katniss Everdeen. She'd whimpered it to herself as she slept in the cold rain. Stared at it on her letters through tear-flooded eyes. Longed for it. Craved its presence next to her again so she could whisper it into her ears. Hearing the name thrown from a bureaucrat's mouth spread a tinge of numbness across her chest like it didn't mean a thing at all.
"When can I go back?"
"Very soon," Plutarch picks the coal-mining book off her lap, "I see you've been reading your father's old collection of books."
"Was it you who sent these here?"
He looks up at her briefly. Huge smile gleams in a chuckle, "You're as smart as he says you are."
She looks down. The undercurrent grief stings her like electricity. Too light for her to break down into tears. Heavy enough for the pain to show on her face.
"Why?"
"This war has taken a lot of things from the youngest of us, the bravest of us. People like you and Katniss," Plutarch sighs, "It has wiped an entire District off the map. Its leadership and its family gone-"
A surge of tears behind her eyes forces Madge to cut him off, "Why? Why are you telling me all this?"
"There will come a time to grieve for Mayor Undersee, but I understand that you've worked with your father all this while, right until the Quell," Plutarch shifts closer to her, "I do believe Mayor Undersee would like you to continue his good work, in honour of his memory and those who have died."
The words whirl around her head like a blizzard of grief. Before every fleck of snow crashes upon her shoulders in an avalanche.
"You cannot be serious," Madge turns up her hands, "I'm not even nineteen and I've nearly died from sepsis and malnutrition, you can't expect me to go back to work-"
"There are survivors. People will return to their homes. Rebuild what's left into the mold of a new Panem free from tyranny and war," Plutarch continues, "I'm asking you to lead the District into this new time. The offer lies on the table. But I know you've been through so much, so-"
Madge squeezes her fists tight. Trembling at the prospect, and only hearing her Father's voice at the end of this dark, hollow tunnel. Not unlike a mineshaft.
"So?"
"Think about it," he pats her lap, "give me a call when you get settled down. I'm sure Katniss has a lot of stories to tell you."
He rises to leave. The vacancy of his departure immediately erases the entire conversation from her mind. She reaches for the stowed envelope. Eager to hear the only story that matters. The one Katniss has just for her.
Dear M.
I trust you are well - at least my mother has promised me this much.
It's hard knowing how much you've suffered. Sometimes in my weaker moments when the grief becomes too much to bear, I think about how you were before the war. The light in your eyes and fearlessness in your heart. It pains me to know of the burdens you've borne. How much I wish I could be a little stronger to help you carry this. Selfishly thinking that this world should never impose so much hurt on people like us.
Dr. Aurelius told me to write a book, just to spill the memories I don't want to keep and store the ones that I do. Yet when I sit down with a pen and parchment and stare at its blank roughness - all I can think of is your name. Madge. If I should write a book, every page would start with Madge and end with Madge. My words would be underlined by golden strands of your hair. Sentences punctuated with the infinite depths of your grey eyes. Whole chapters devoted to the memory of you. Because what are all my other memories of the games, of war? If not the mere binding that accompanies the only memory that matters. Of you.
It stings me with fear to think about how much I'm lost with thoughts about you. I wonder if Peeta would be jealous if he discovers our letters. Jealous in the same way I'm envious of the stars that lay in your eyes each night. Of the wind that slips past your lips when you breathe, or the darkness that nestles your bosom as you sleep.
All these years, I've been a lot of things to a lot of people - the hunter and provider to Prim and my mother, lovey dovey tribute in those godforsaken games, a tainted victor Snow didn't need, unwilling symbol of the revolution Coin never wanted. Soldier. Tragic assassin. Peeta's hope for a future. The only person I'd ever care to be is that girl who's hopelessly unravelled beneath your gaze. Forever lost with the lightest of your touches. That's the only Katniss I know. That's the only Katniss I'd ever want to be.
This war has probably changed me as much as it has changed you. Perhaps we'd find a missing piece of ourselves in each other.
Tell me, Madge - if you could start things all over again. Would you want to build back what we had together?
With greatest love,
Katniss Everdeen