Chapter Text
Effie remembers sleep deprivation when she was a child. Endless hours of training, of modeling, of literally staring at the mirror for hours to check for something her mother might condemn her for. Obviously, those hours weren’t enough. Flamara definitely always found something new to criticize about her, whether it was her slightly chapped lips, her too pale eyes, her too common blonde hair, her weight or for another 2nd place trophy displayed in her cabinet. And thus the four hours at best of sleep, trying to get herself to perfection she couldn’t quite reach.
It was a good way to break someone down, to indoctrinate them. It's hard to question what you're being told to do, when you're too tired to think. Eventually though, she just stopped, realizing that whatever she does, she would never be enough for her mother, never would be deserving of those kind and affectionate comments she makes for her sister. She tried her best not to obsess on it.
Effie remembers sleep deprivation to feel partly like this, like how it’s getting harder and harder for her to sleep. Once upon a time, she would have reached for the bottle of sleeping pills in her bedside drawer. She would have swallowed one and waited for a few minutes for the effect to finally hit her. Once upon a time, she would have taken those pills as if they were water.
But it’s a different time now, and a lot of things have changed. Like the fact that Haymitch Abernathy was sleeping so soundly beside her without the excuse for sex. Sex was, afterall, the very foundation of this thing between them. Effie tried to remember when they had become too comfortable with this set up, when it was definitely okay for one of them to be sneaking up on their bed unannounced, to be entering their room as if they were lovers – which they certainly were not.
Perhaps, it had been the 67th games, when Haymitch spotted gripping marks, and bruises on her inner thighs that were not his. He could be rough but never that rough, too afraid he may actually hurt her beyond what she could take. And of course that wretched man knew how to put the pieces together, knew how to connect the sponsoring pledges she made him sign that morning and those marks all over her body. She knew him too well already to know that he was contemplating on what to say, that he was struggling to get the right words out of his mouth, so she had no choice but to kiss him. No, it was not a gentle one. Never a gentle one. She tugs at his bottom lip brutally. It’s not slow and sweet, and it’s not romantic at all. She’s not sure what this is entirely, but it feels good. Cathartic even. Haymitch humors her by letting her slip her tongue into his mouth. She moaned into the kiss, knowing full well it would distract him from his thoughts from seconds ago.
If only it were that easy. When he had held her tightly on the waist and leaned more onto her, she thought she had succeeded in fooling him. But he suddenly pulled them apart, leaving her gasping, catching her breath. She should have known better, really. She should have known that whatever game she was playing, it wasn’t having the results she had wanted. She should have known better when his shoulders were still tense, when his gray eyes were wary and full of… concern. He looked almost sad. “Effie, you know you didn’t–”
“Don’t.” She cut him off. She didn’t need another lecture from him that she didn’t have to whore herself out for sponsoring pledges. Of course she had to. Their tribute Dahlia would have died from infection earlier if it weren’t for the medical supplies they had sent. He had to know one of them needed to do it. It’s not that she was totally fine with it. She had just grown used to the leering glances, lingering touches, and the whole thing by now. You don’t get to be in both the modeling and the games industry without experiencing any of those. “Haymitch, you wanna help me forget, you fuck the shit out of me on this bed, and make sure I don’t feel that old man’s hands all over me ever again.” Just like that, the unwanted pity on his eyes turned into lust and madness. He had that predatory look in his gray eyes that always told her she was gonna have it hard by the end of the night. Just the way she liked it.
When they were done though, when he was spent, she had expected him to get dressed right after and then leave. It was how they do this, after all. When they do it in his room, she leaves. When in hers, he takes the initiative and goes back to drinking in his own space. That worked just fine, they could live with that arrangement. That night was different, however. He stayed in her bed quietly, not moving his limbs within an inch. She thinks of something to say, perhaps to ask him to leave. But she fails to do so, fails to send him back into his own room because she knows him well enough to know that he’s entertaining the idea right about now. But he doesn’t pick up his clothes to leave. Instead, he snakes his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. He hugs her from behind, giving off heat that chases away the chill that surrounds her. He hugs her like he’s been meaning to do that for years. Effie hums into his skin, something she had not meant to do, not really. She visibly tensed at it, afraid that she had just broken the spell around them, afraid that he would let go. She didn’t want him to let go, she wanted… She curled her legs up her stomach, locking him in position so tightly that there can be no doubt about where she was, no doubt that right now, right here, she’s safe. Haymitch seems to have the ability to read her mind because he just melts. He rests his head on her hair, sniffing, nuzzling into it and breathing deeply.
The next day they continued acting as if that night had never happened.
She was pulled back into the present when she felt Haymitch tense beside her. She heard his small grunts of resistance. Nightmare. He’s about to have a nightmare. Effie doesn’t panic, she has been a witness to these quite a few times now that she knows how to deal with an about-to-have-a-nightmare-when-in-her-bed Haymitch. She gently reaches out to him, carefully places her hand on his trembling ones. She whispered ever so softly, “Haymitch, Haymitch.” He seems to get the message after a few minutes, because his hands were beginning to be steady, his brows stretched into a fine line, his breathing taking a normal pace.
Effie was about to go lay on her back again when he murmured something. It started off to be unclear, as if he was only learning to talk, but eventually, she was able to understand bits of it. “... love you.” He says. His voice was rough, and raspy, but never sounded truer. She did not know what to feel about… that. She had always known he would associate those words with getting his loved ones dead, that saying those words means there would be car accidents or burned houses . She had always known that to be the reason why he never utters them. But hearing him saying those words out loud, finally hearing them, it’s… It’s not only that. Being able to know that all this time, she was not pining all by herself, that he feels the same way about her is something.
Effie had long known that she had loved Haymitch, that somehow, he found his way deep into her heart, carved his name into that ugly bloody organ of hers as if it was his. And maybe it was. She had long known that she was in too deep. Every time their eyes meet for longer than a second, every time he holds her as if she was his… she knew it was inevitable, that she was…
She was in too deep.
Too deep.
With him.
“Hana, love you so much…” Haymitch grunts and turns his back on her. Of course, he wasn’t addressing her. Of course, he was still in love with her, still pining on a ghost, and no amount of women to sleep with would change that. Of course Effie Trinket had no place in his bloody heart. Of course she was just a pastime he decides to fuck once in a while. Of course, he felt nothing more than lust for her. She muses she’s just one of many others. Of course … how very foolish of her.
She wills the tears to stop, and thankfully, they do. She does not need to humiliate herself more by letting him know what she had thought. He would laugh at her, and would probably continue his day tomorrow sharing the words to his friends. She didn’t need that. She didn’t walk out either. Walking out means accepting defeat. And she has never taken defeat very lightly. Doing that would mean she was a coward. And she has never taken pride in admitting she was exactly that .
As she begins to stir into sleep, though, she thinks of just how foolish they both really were. She was pining after a man pining after a ghost . Take your pick.
Cinna and Portia are more secretive than ever. Haymitch is, too. Effie notices but does not speak on it. She does not ask, aware that whatever they have on their sleeves at this time are better left at arms reach. She couldn’t be involved with it. She pretends she doesn't know about the secret meetings they hold, about how the victors from certain districts seem to be standing too close together during social events. Most of all, she pretends she doesn’t know that Haymitch is beginning to cut out his alcohol intake. He was in anguish pain. She sees the effects of it immediately, how his hands tremble so violently, his recurring nightmares, how sex with her seems to fail to calm him down when it could very well work as a distraction back in the days. It’s stressing her out.
Everything is stressing her out. Ever since the Quell Announcement, ever since finding out that she needed to send them back into the arena. Her team. Her family. And nothing could compare to the silent grief she had to go through during the reaping. She did not want to reap their names again. They were her kids, and Haymitch… But she had to do so, anyway. Not having to do it means it’s going to end badly for her and for them. She hoped her slightly trembling hands during that were far from the focus of the camera. They had enough on their plates now, they didn’t need another problem adding onto it.
It does not matter now, anyways. She had drawn Haymitch’s name, and Peeta volunteered. Sometimes, it hurts Effie to see just how love can make someone go on great lengths for their loved one. It hurts because she wasn’t sure she’ll ever feel that in her life. Of course, he would volunteer for the girl. Of course, he would do anything to protect Katniss. She wasn’t sure how she should feel about that. She loved Peeta like he was her own, and it pained her so much to be sending him back to the arena, to the same place that had broken him down. But Haymitch…
She loved him. Despite all the things he had told her, despite the rude, mocking, and taunting comments she often got from him, her heart was too stubborn to just let go. She loved him even though loving him is asking for her heart to be ripped out into pieces over and over again.
Some nights, it was easier for her to accept that all these were really happening, that the children are going back to the arena, that it will be kill or be killed all over again. But some nights, on some cruel, silent nights, it was hard for her to even breathe. Pills weren’t helping out either. She finally understood why those never worked for Katniss. Even when she had taken almost all the pills inside the container, it just wouldn’t go away. Haymitch had been seething mad when he found out about that, a thing she couldn’t understand. He must feel it too, mustn’t he? He must feel the need to drown in alcohol, now more than ever. He must feel that dreading pain stabbing his heart and he could do nothing, absolutely nothing, about it.
“Effie, for God’s sake, get yourself together!” He snapped. He lifted her from the floor back to the bed as if she weighed no pounds. She was almost grateful for it.
“I was just trying to see if it would help. I don’t think they do, not anymore.” Effie said with a sniff, wiping her tears with her free hand. “How are the kids?” She asked ever so softly.
He raised his eyebrows and pulled the covers up to her chin. “They’re in their own rooms, they should be sleeping by now.”
She closed her eyes. Oh, must she feel so vulnerable right about now? “Good, that’s good.” He leaned across the bed to reach for the bedside lamp and turned it off. Effie cringed with the sudden darkness. “Turn it back on. I still have things to do.”
Haymitch scoffed. “In your state? No way, sweetheart. You need to rest. It’s a big big big day tomorrow! ” Did she really sound like that?
“You’re never good at imitating me.” She commented. He only flashed her an amused grin. For seconds, they sat in comfortable silence and she began to drift off. She was about to give in when she remembered she wanted to say something. “They were supposed to be safe, Haymitch. Katniss and Peeta, Finnick and Johanna, the others, too. They’re just–”
He cut her words off before she could say something more dangerous. There were bugs all over the place, she knew that. But she was kind of feeling wreckless that night, must have been the pills. “What did I just tell you about playing it safe, sweetheart?” He sounded irritated, mad even. She opened her eyes once more, her teary eyes finding her grey ones. She found herself transfixed into them once more. She thinks his eyes were the only shade of grey she will find admirable, lovable. He loomed over her, his thumbs wiping the tears that were yet again out of her eyes. “I know it’s all hard for you, Effie…” He trailed off. Her name rarely passed his lips outside sex that it sounded so soft and sweet in her ears, that it sounded so close to a confession . “But the kids, they need you now. They need you strong, and they need you alive.” She wished he had it in himself to say that he needed her to be strong and alive. That he needed her .
But she knew it would be too much to ask. And she knew all she could do was to grant what the kids wished of her. If they wanted her to be strong, she could be just that. She would break down when this was all over. She definitely would.
It was the first night of the games. Neither Haymitch nor Effie slept. How could she when she could feel in the deepest of her bones that something was up? When it was getting obvious that there were peacekeepers shadowing her every time she went out? When there were cars with windows tinted so black parking near her apartment? When Haymitch was more grumpy than usual? When he snaps with every reckless word she whispers inside the penthouse?
“Do I need to know where you’re going?” She whispered as she saw Haymitch leaving the penthouse. He stopped on his tracks. Effie was parched on the sofa, head turned to his direction. He must have thought she was asleep if his suddenly tense shoulders and stiff posture were any indications. Haymitch approached her with light footsteps. She swears she could have seen his eyes tainted with tears threatening to shed down his cheeks. But then again, it was dark, and maybe it was just her imagination playing tricks.
“Sweetheart…” She thought his voice couldn’t be more raspy than it was right now. When was the last time he got a good night’s sleep? “I-I can’t tell you anything.” He whispered, his warm, trembling hands enveloped hers. The touch was just what she was craving, she mused. It was so welcomed that it sent an arrow of warmth all over her, and the tug on her heart has never been so strong, she feared this may be the last time she’ll feel it. Effie wondered if he felt it, too. If he, too, had his heart aching so badly, that it can only be silenced by her touch, her presence, her love . Maybe not. A deafening voice in her mind supplied.
It hurt to hear the implication in his words, that he didn’t trust her enough to tell her anything. Silly, because she trusted him with her whole being, there was no doubt in that. She also knew it would be for the better, if not for the best, if she had nothing to know about their plans . She loved the children and wanted to protect them, but there was only so much she could do, so much she could sacrifice.
“It’s fine. You should leave, then.” Effie really did try her best to sound so distant, but what use could that be right now? “Keep them safe, Haymitch. Get them out.” She didn’t even try to urge her tears back, didn’t try to keep them at bay. The feel of Haymitch’s calloused fingers brushing over the back of her palms were soothing her, though. “Promise me.” She whispered.
“I will.” They had done so many lies of promises before, but she was aware of the need to utter them now. Because at the end of the day, keeping their children safe was the only promise both of them could keep. They trusted each other enough to do it. “You’ll be safer here. They wouldn’t — They wouldn’t hurt one of their own. Just keep the act solid. Play the games, Sweetheart.” His voice broke when he trailed off. There was a lump in his throat.
She softened her gaze and held his stare. Haymitch smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked as if he was ready to spill secrets between them. As if he was contemplating on telling her every single thing he knows, to assure her that everything will be alright, that she just needs to wait for that to happen. He carefully raised his hands and brushed a soft kiss on her palm. Effie felt her heart stutter at the feeling of his dry lips. She couldn’t help but notice that the golden bangle was gone. “When the time’s right, get the golden bangle from Finnick back. It’s a gift. You never give away a gift.”
He scoffed in return. “I’ll see you again, sweetheart.” She knew it was a lie. But she’d take anything from him at this point, even if it was the most bitter lie someone has uttered. She felt the weight of his words pierce her heart like a dagger, yet she held onto them desperately. She could make wonders from that. She could drown herself in the hopes that it will be true, because right now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’ll never be able to see him again. The truth, however, was a distant echo, drowned out by the cacophony of her longing for a love that was slipping through her fingers like sand. Suddenly, she wants to kiss him, not the usual way they do it. She wants to cradle her palms under his chin and kiss him so gently, so slow, and so, so tender. But she doesn’t. It would feel so much like a goodbye.
“I love you.” She froze when she realized she had said the words. It was too late to swallow them back because then, Haymitch’s eyes were piercing cold, his hands that were on hers a second ago were taken so brutally back. He looked as if he wanted to leave, to run away, to never come back. Effie found herself not caring a bit. She was afraid she was gonna burst if she failed to tell him how she felt. It would kill her.
When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything, she spoke again. “I love you, I know that you still love her, but I do, Haymitch. And I need you to know that.” She refused to let her love go unspoken, even if it meant risking the fragile remnants of their relationship. With a trembling voice, she whispered, "I love you," once more, the words echoing in the hollow space between them, a plea for understanding, for connection, for a chance at redemption. And in that moment, she realized that even if he left, even if he never returned, she had bared her soul, and that alone was worth the shattered pieces of her heart.
“Do not say that ever again. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spat the words so harshly. The raw pain in his eyes mirrored the ache in her own heart, a silent testament to this thing that had withered between them. She stood there, a monument of vulnerability in the face of his cold dismissal, her resolve faltering but unbroken. Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall, unwilling to grant him the satisfaction of witnessing her unravel. Haymitch stood up so abruptly, started to walk away without glancing back.
She watched him leave with a fug of heavy silence.
Effie faintly remembers her pink and lilac dresses, her gold wigs and the satin gloves she used to wear.
She barely remembers the elegant parties she used to attend, the music that filled the air, and the laughter that echoed through the halls.
Effie hardly remembers the feeling of being the center of attention, the sparkle in her eyes, and the joy of all of it.
She vaguely remembers being a person.
She can recall the gripping terror she'd hidden behind a stoic, determined face, but she couldn't remember what existed outside of this void.
How long has it been anyways? A couple of days? Weeks? Months? God forbid, years?
Time didn't seem to be a constant here. Everything that ever was or would be could not permeate this place. The banal nature of the passage of time seemed to be of no consequence here. Seas and mountains could rise and fall; empires of men could ascend to power and crumble to dust within the timespan of one moment. One thought.
This place was the only real existence.
She remembers, but not so much that she could clung to those memories.
Mostly, though, she remembers the hands that took her wig, her make-up, the voices that made her strip off her clothes to get her into a prisoner uniform.
She remembers the maniacal laughs they shared watching her lose her shit just because she was not her anymore.
She remembers the interrogation, questions about Haymitch, about District Thirteen, about the Mockingjay, where they were, what their plans were.
To all those questions, she had the same answer: No, I don’t know anything.
And to every answer, she remembers the palms that hit her face so hard that she could feel it burning, the fists that tugged too harshly on her hair that she was sure one day her hair would fall off, the same fists that knocked her guts, the whips on her back, the knives on her inner thighs, and wires on her neck.
She remembers how it often starts. They would ask her the same questions. Though, she didn't know why they still did because a person in their right minds would have gotten the hint that she truly didn’t know anything. Did they really think she would be able to bear the pain of being tortured over and over again without spitting something – anything – out?
They would ask her questions just for the fun of it, and for each wrong answer, she was rewarded with a punch, a cut, a slap, something worse.
They would laugh that sounded so much like the mutts.
She remembers the taunting, the smug grin on their faces when they had told her Haymitch left her to rot, that he never really…
But she already knew that, didn’t she? She already knew that she wasn’t worth any love from him, that he might have cared for her enough that she could feel it, but at the end of the day, he would never be able to love her.
She remembers how they liked to call her a slut, a whore, a fool for even letting a district pig have his way with her.
She remembers the unwelcomed touch afterwards.
Effie remembers too many things that she’s already tired and sick of having to deal with. She does not want to remember . She wants to be able to make new memories. She wishes to wear her dresses once more, to eat properly, to bathe in her tub, to sleep on her bed, to dream of normal dreams people tend to have. She wishes to see her kids once again, wishes to get to lock them in her embrace to keep them both safe. She wishes she has never opened her eyes to the terrors of the Capitol. She wishes she had stayed dumb, wishes she never had to play the game, wishes she was still as naive as she was a decade earlier.
Most of all, she wishes to have Haymitch hold her like he did that night during the 67th games. She wishes for him.
For him to what?
To save her? To come knocking down the door to her cell? To rescue her like a knight in shining armor? That’s hardly realistic, hardly something he would have done. She bets he sits down on a soft cushion chair all day, a drink in his hand, couldn’t be any more happy because she is finally gone, because he finally wouldn’t be forced to face her, to hear her shrill and high-pitched voice. She bets he’s fucking another woman in delight.
No, maybe she didn’t want to see him at all.
She didn’t want to see him because she fears once she does, she’ll come running for his touch, his body, his… She fears she would easily give in, even after everything.
She does not fault him for it, and does not blame him for what happened. Either way, her love for her victors have made her into a rebel in the eyes of the Capitol, in the eyes of President Snow. If anything, it was her fault for acting so reckless, for the tokens, for the fact that she slept with Haymitch. It was all her fault.
It still pained her, though.
From time to time, when it took longer for them to visit her in her cell, she was calm enough to not flinch every time she thought she heard the cell door open. She hugged her knees so close to her chest and closed her eyes the hardest she could. For some seconds, she saw dark spots before her eyes. It was almost like darkness. Sometimes, she held her breath. She could almost fool herself into believing it was dark, if only for some blissful moments.
Her mind couldn't be kept in the dark. Whenever she tried to hold her breath and see how soon darkness could overcome her, Haymitch’s voice was always there. Soothing her. Telling her that she was brave and definitely not mad. Not mad.
You are not going crazy, Sweetheart.
His voice was warm and understanding. His voice was mischievous and challenging. His voice was angry and ready to go into debate over the matter.
But most of the time, like when the peacekeepers had dragged her to another cell just for her to find out Johanna was there, she was so sure she would go mad, insane. She knew right away why they had dragged her there. They couldn’t possibly think she still has the information they want. No, she was sent there to get Johanna to talk. Would seven’s victor even really care? She didn’t know. She couldn’t remember.
After that, she was sent back to her own cell, and her fingers wouldn't be still. Her thoughts wouldn’t stop. She thinks she has broken her shoulders very badly. The pain wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t.
Not mad, not mad, not mad.
She swore she was not going mad even when she just sat on the floor with her knees drawn to her chest and rocked her body forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back. Repeat. Repeat. Forward and back.
She would extend one hand; cradling it lightly and against the wall and would use her body's momentum to drag her fingernails lightly across the surface of the wall. Scratching lightly.
She swore she was not going mad even when she used her own blood to write her name on the wall, on the floor, on some parts of her body, just because she thought she could use a reminder once she finally goes insane.
Not mad, not mad, not mad.
On the worst nights, like when the peacekeepers had dragged her to yet another cell only for her to find out that not only Johanna was there, but Peeta too, she knew it would be her last straw.
Why the fuck is Peeta here?
Haymitch had promised he would get them out, so why the fuck was he here now?
“Effie…” The boy muttered, perhaps shocked to find her down here as well. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Effie found herself to be ashamed for the boy to see her in this situation. “Don’t… don’t hurt her, please. No, not Effie.” He pleaded with a shaky voice, trying to get to her.
Oh, but hurt her they did. And they took great pleasure in doing just that.
They used whips this time. If she was still in her right mind and had not lost the ability to count, they sure did a number on her. Johanna and Peeta sure protested, shouted, begged them to stop but they never talked. And when it was clear to the peacekeepers that they wouldn’t give them the information they wanted, they stopped and threatened to get back to them.
Effie screamed, and shouted. She couldn’t… She couldn’t let them get hurt when there was something she could do if only to delay their own punishment for a little longer. She could… she could protect them. Her kids. “D-don’t. Not them. Not them. I could take more. Hurt me.” Her voice sounded so strained and strange even to her own ears. She wonders when the last time she had actually spoken. “Kill me.” The last words were uttered with so much sincerity it had pained her to hear them.
Did she really want that?
If a person had told Effie Trinket a decade ago about the words she had uttered just now, she would have laughed at the person’s face.
She loved life too much. Didn’t she?
She has finally gone mad, she thinks.
But they didn’t kill her, no. Of course, they wouldn’t. Death was an easy way out. They wanted her to suffer. They wanted her to beg for it. They wanted her broken into tiny bits of pieces that the only thing that would fix her was death.
They didn't send her back to her own cell that night. They took Peeta away, though.
She has finally gone mad, she thinks.
Johanna was feeling rather talkative at that moment but Effie did not have it in her to even process what she was saying, did not have it in her to even uncurl from her position. She does not move for the foreseeable hours to come. She just lays there, on the cold, dirty floor.
At some point, she feels Johanna lay right beside her, their backs touching. It was comforting to feel another person after everything she went through. It was comforting to feel another person’s heart beat right next to her fading ones. It was comforting to have a warm body next to her, to let her know that she was still very much alive. Insane yes, but not dead. She could force herself to deal with that.
And at the very dead of the night, she hears herself say, “Haymitch will come. Soon, he will.”
Haymitch comes. But not for her. Of course, not for her.
This has happened so many times before. When Haymitch’s voice inside of her head seemed to be too real, too raw, too haunting, and too… him . When she could have sworn the door to her cell burst open, when she could feel the warmth only he could ever radiate off, when the pull on her heart was suddenly so insistent on tugging, tugging, and tugging…
But it was different that time. Something was up. She knew because she heard an explosive go off, smelt something equally foul as the stench in her cell but so different . If she put her mind to it, she would be able to name it.
A shift in the air alerted her to an impending change. It wasn't the haunting resonance of Haymitch's voice, not anymore; it was an ominous undertone that set her on edge.
There was banging, Effie soon realized. Different from anything she had heard here before. There was a commanding voice accompanying the bangs, words shouted in sharp staccato, their meaning not taking root. The banging grew in sharp crescendos, threatening the very structure of whatever place she and the others were kept in.
They seemed to be in a hurry.
Effie's heart raced as the chaos outside her cell intensified. She pressed herself against the wall, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she tried to make sense of what was happening just outside of her cell.
She thinks they’re transferring prisoners out.
She clawed at her face now, trying to cover her ears from the noise, grabbing harshly at her scalp and dragging her bleeding fingertips over her face and scalp, leaving long, bloody streaks down her face.
She wondered if they had found Johanna, Peeta, and Annie already.
She wondered if their mission included rescuing her. she couldn't shake the thought that perhaps they had already passed by, indifferent to her presence, consumed by their own urgency.
She wondered if they, too, hated her enough to not even glance her way, and if they just really did not give a damn fuck that she was dying.
She wanted to scream, really tried to. She wanted to break free so damn bad, but she was rooted to her place. She couldn’t move her limbs, still wracked in pain. She’s just so so tired.
They would rescue her if rescuing her was what they were told to do, she thought.
And if not then, what difference would rescuing have made to her already broken body?
Effie takes a deep breath. And another. And another.
There were two peacekeepers standing in front of her, when she awoke. She feels something so heavy in the air.
Perhaps, they’ve come to kill her. Perhaps, now that the children were rescued, there was no real use for her.
This is her punishment, she thinks. They were going to get back at them by killing her.
This is her end, she thinks.
Once upon a time, she would have felt an uncomfortable sensation to the ends of her spine just with the thought of dying. But now, it was so welcomed she found herself smiling at them.
One of them walked closer over her. She tried her best not to flinch, but she did anyway. One brush of his gloved palm around her body and she knew the rest would hurt. She winced once his grip had tightened on her arm.
She missed the gentle hands that held her with so much care.
She missed the tender brushes over her hair, the light circles drawn on her stomach.
She missed the man with the gentle hands and tender touches.
She missed Haymitch.
She would not have thrown a fit days earlier but her body was so beaten to exhaustion at that point already that she found herself protesting, shouting.
She had long since stopped to register that guttural, repetitive sound underlying deep from her throat. It used to be a word.
She used to know what it meant, what it was for. Now it is just a cycling string of sounds, not making any discernible sense to her. She wasn't sure what the word sounded like on its own anymore, it would just keep cycling, in beat with her rocking.
“Nononononononono.” She pleaded. It hurts. All over her. It was just pain all over.
She used to whisper it, as light as her fingers against the wall, repeating it under her breath in a fluid way. This was all that had ever been or ever would be. This place. This floor, this white wall. Sometimes she would feel impulses and emotions from somewhere in her mind. Pleading, anxious sensations that nagged and caught on her fraying consciousness.
But she couldn’t whisper. She could just shout, scream, beg and plead.
She’s not sure what happens next because then she just dies .
She’s dead. She must be. If death was seeing darkness for the rest of the afterlife, then she was dead.
That’s what she thought for a long time after she was transferred. She had actually believed she was dead.
She should have known better.
It was just another cell, another form of torment.
It was so dark in here, no windows, no bed, and it was so small she could feel the ceiling even if she just tried to sit.
She wonders how many people before her had died here.
She wonders if they look over her in the quietest of the nights – days.
She wonders if they know how she will die.
Starvation, mostly.
They rarely feed her nowadays, barely paying her any attention, really.
She doesn’t know how she still manages to hold up. She has broken a number of bones inside her. She bleeds quite often. Infection is in no doubt to happen when there seems to be a thousand wounds and injuries all over her body.
Effie doesn't know how she’s still breathing.
She’s too stubborn. Too stubborn to die.
But no amount of stubborness could stop it from happening. She was just a human, after all. And humans tend to die. Often brutally than not. At least, in her world.
She must have had a life before this. A mother, a father, a home. But it had been so long—too long—and now all she knew was this bloody game. Her hands knew no other shape than her fingers reaping papers from a bowl, finding its mark through skin and bone.
She had killed too many children in her life. It was only fair to die just as horribly as most of them did.
And that’s when she felt it. The weight of a gravity pulling her towards the unknown.
It must have been death.
It must have been pressing down on her battered soul, slowly but surely. It must have taken great pleasure in seeing her suffer, in seeing her body and soul slowly break into a million impossible pieces.
She lets herself cry this time.
She cries not because she does not want to die, but to grieve for the woman she once was before the war.
She was Euphemia Trinket. Effie for short.
She thought one last time. Even if it sounded so strange even to her own mind.
She was going to die in a nameless grave, but that doesn’t mean she would let herself forget who she is, who she was .
It was the least she could do for the little girl who had the most vibrant dresses and the most beaming smiles. She owed it to her.
She took a deep breath once more. She had done it despite the clench in her guts she felt every time she breathed.
Effie closed her eyes, whispered a prayer of peace for her kids she will leave behind, and for Haymitch, for the fallen tributes whose blood was on hers just as it was on their killers’, and for Euphemia Trinket.
She prayed because she had to believe the rebels would win.
She had to. For the children. For Haymitch.
It was all she could do, both for herself and for them.
She hoped it would be enough.
And she doesn’t understand because the cell door bursts open. She covered her eyes against the sudden light, briefly seeing a silhouette surrounded by misting fog, seeping into the dark, dark cell. She paused, as if frozen in time. Too afraid to move, or look away and yet, light recognition tingled in her brain.
It hurt.
The face. The man's face was one she had seen before. A lifetime ago, as well as in her waking dreams, only this time he was frantic and wild eyed, not like the gentle, teasing, inquisitive face she remembered. If remembered was the right word for it.
He was standing still in the doorway. Frozen. All of the strength and fight he used to break down the door seemed to dissolve, hardening him into a statue.
“My God.” The new voice whispered. “Effie.”
The antiseptic smell was overpowering, she thinks as she slowly opens her eyes.
It was still dark, Effie soon realized.
If it was still dark, then that only meant she had been hallucinating, again.
If it was still so dark, then that only meant the man was never there.
If it was still so dark that she couldn’t see a single streak of light, then that only meant she was already insane.
But…
The smell… There was something different.
The softness that supported her back… Something was different.
The absence of pain that was replaced by a heavy numbness… Was she really still in her cell?
She didn’t know what to believe. She wasn’t sure she wanted to believe in anything anymore. She wasn’t sure she could even remember how to trust .
But when she finally breathed in, and there was no pain – no pain at all – in the deepest of her guts, she mused she could stay here a little longer.
The relief didn’t last for longer than a minute, though. The darkness bothered her.
There was a fine line between the darkness that she became used to in her cell and the darkness that existed now. She knows it. She does, but…
She lifted her right arms to reach for her eyes. She fears they must have done something to them. Have they blinded her? Have they taken her eyes away? For what? Her mother always said it was too pale, too lifeless… who in the right mind would want them to themselves?
She knew someone.
With a shaky breath and trembling fingers, she carefully reached for her eyes. She didn’t feel them, though. All she felt was fabric. Rough and continuous. It rolled from her forehead to the back of her head on what seemed like many layers of something .
Effie knew what it was called.
She tried to remember and failed. Like she always did back in her cell.
Her heart raced as her fingers traced the unfamiliar fabric covering her eyes, her mind swirling with confusion and fear. The realization dawned upon her like a crushing weight — she was no longer in her cell. But where was she now? The absence of pain, the softness around her, the strangeness of it all, it overwhelmed her senses.
Tears welled up behind the blindfold, unshed and heavy with unspoken emotions. Was this a new form of torment, a different kind of confinement? Or was this an unexpected reprieve, a glimmer of hope in her dark existence? The uncertainty clawed at her, a relentless reminder of her shattered trust.
Effie's chest tightened with a mix of longing and despair. The memories of her mother's words, the echoes of her own self-doubt, haunted her even in this unknown place. The darkness that enveloped her now felt suffocating, a stark contrast to the dim familiarity of her cell.
She yearned for answers, for a sliver of clarity in the murky haze of her thoughts.
She clung to the remnants of her fragile resolve, her heart aching with the weight of it all.
It took her a few minutes to realize that the sound in the room wasn’t only coming from what seemed like machines nor her constant sniffling. There was a buzzing sound, a deep one.
A sound she feels familiar to but not enough that she could pinpoint what it was. It was almost like someone was sleeping right beside her legs. She forced herself to stop crying, swallowing the burning lump in her throat to focus on the sound…
Then there was warmth, she noted.
It couldn’t be the kids. It couldn’t be them because they’re with the rebels now and they’re safe.
Whereas, she wasn’t.
And… there was more to the warmth. She felt as though she was safe .
That was a thought she immediately dismissed because she wasn’t seeing fucking anything and the smell may be different but it was still off-putting, still suffocating, and she couldn’t trust everything to be as explicit as they seem to be.
This might just be another form of torment and she might just be putting herself in a situation where she would get hurt for simply yearning. But…
Safe .
That was a word she no longer thought she would feel. It was just during this time that she realized just how much she was craving for it.
Just how much she was craving to feel as though the whips, the knives, the fists, and wires are just the ghosts of her very, very bad experience, forever enclosed within the confinement of her cell.
Just how much she was willing to get off the numbness and turn it back to pain if it meant she would have the person who has always made her feel and stay safe back on her side.
Just how much she was craving for him.
Any rational person in her situation would have gone mad and would resent Haymitch for not thinking ahead of the situation.
How could he fail to even think that this was going to happen when he’s the type of person who has a plan for everything ?
How could he not see that she will be interrogated, locked up, tortured?
How could he not…
She was simply just not his priority, she mused.
How many times had it been her doing the chase, running after him all those years?
Too many, that she had been allowed the right to feel just a bit resentment towards him.
Just a bit.
Just a bit.
There was an itch in her skull. She winced. It feels like she’s being pulled back to the insides of her mind. She found she didn’t want that.
She had to be conscious here. She didn’t want to be asleep again, not with the unfamiliarity this place has to offer.
She found she wanted to go back to her cell. She missed the familiarity. She missed the darkness that existed there.
She…
She feels the warmth move places.
She hears a grunt, as if someone was waking up.
There was an itch in her skull. She winced.
No, she couldn’t fall asleep. Not now that she was about to find out what the warmth was.
But the itch…
It’s starting to hurt real bad.
There was an itch and there was a screech in her skull.
It won’t stop.
Stop.
Stop.
It hurts so much.
And she was just so tired…
The next time Effie wakes up, it’s not because of the smell, nor because it was too dark that it bothered her to no end.
A finger on her palm.
No, two .
She wanted to scream. There was someone in the room.
Peacekeepers.
What are they doing?
She wanted to scream.
She opened her mouth to do just that but her throat was undeniably rough.
Why?
She couldn’t remember a thing.
Her throat hurts.
Had she been screaming?
She hated that she couldn’t keep herself calm. She had to compose herself.
But her breathing was shallow and hurried and ragged and the machine beeping did not help at all. The person must have noticed the changes in her behavior because the fingers that were still were now moving.
They were running softly and tracing patterns on her palm, it felt rough and smooth at the same time.
She was confused as to how something calloused and rough be so smooth to the feeling that it manages to cause a tingle on the end of her spine.
It calmed her.
The paradox of the rough yet smooth touch on her palm stirred a whirlwind of emotions within her. It was a sensation she knew well, yet had longed to feel again. The calloused fingers spoke of war and battles fought. And yet, the gentleness in their caress hinted at a tenderness and care she had yearned for in her solitude.
It calmed her like no other thing could.
“Sweetheart, it’s – It’s only me. You have to calm down.”
The sound of her own heartbeat thudded loudly in her ears, the scent of familiarity and uncertainty mingling in the air around her, and the taste of anticipation lingering on her tongue.
That voice…
It was a voice she thought she might never hear again, a voice that had once been her anchor in the stormy seas of life. Despite the blindfold, she could almost see the face that matched that voice, the face she had memorized in her heart.
But…
She could almost see the hurt on his face when she took her hands back.
She didn’t have it in herself to believe in anything yet.
She missed his touch almost immediately.
She longed to reach out, to bridge the gap that had widened with time and circumstance, to erase the hurt etched on his face. But doubt and fear held her back, chaining her to the shadows of her own distrust.
He laughed bitterly. “Right. Look, I’m sorry. I just wanted to know if you’re doing alright.”
Was that even a question?
“Why am I still here?” She had intended those words to be spoken with disgust and anger.
It turned out to be so soft, so vulnerable.
“What do you mean?” His response sounded like a growl. He seemed to be… mad?
She dismissed the question. She was feeling reckless. “Where did you bring me?
“You’re in a hospital, we’re at the Games Center.” She scoffed, why would they bring her to a hospital? Why would they bother to let her heal and recover when they were the very same people who had caused damages to her?
Perhaps they want her new and fixed again so they could break her once more.
They were sick like that.
“Couldn’t let go of me, could you? Why, thank you for the sentiment. But I would really like to go back to my cell now. There’s no use trying to get me to recover when you’re just going to break me again.” As her words hung in the air, heavy with resignation and bitterness, she could sense the shift in the atmosphere, a crack in the façade of composure he had worn.
His silence spoke volumes, a wounded silence that pierced through her own armor of defiance. The indifference in her voice, so unexpected to her own ears, seemed to strike a chord within him, awakening a pain she had not intended to inflict.
Or maybe she had.
Maybe underneath the longing, the yearning, and the pining…
Maybe she resented him.
Maybe she had it in her to loathe him all along.
“Stop saying that. You’re safe. You’re with me, Effie. I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. Took me months, it was just – you’re safe now. That’s got to be something, right, Sweetheart?” The truth in his words echoed in the hollow chambers of her heart, a truth she had been too afraid to face.
No .
No, she can’t trust this .
How could she believe in rescue when all she had known was captivity and torment?
“Don’t you dare.” She spat the words out. “Don’t you fucking dare make me believe. Just fucking take out your fucking knife, wire or your whips, I don’t really fucking care how you intend to hurt me. Just don’t. Don’t you dare use him . Don’t, I…”
It wouldn’t be the first time they used Haymitch to hurt her. The things they said, the horrors they made her believe.
He was dead, they said.
They were going to toss his corpse in the same cell as her, they said.
The rebellion lost and they were going to execute all those who were involved, they said.
They were going to make her watch, they said.
It was all too much.
But back then, she had a distraction.
The pain — it was a distraction for her. It was hard to make out the words sometimes when the pain was overwhelming, when it hurt so much that she thought she was going to die…
But now…
Now, she didn’t feel any pain. Just sparks of it from time to time, but mostly, she felt numb. Heavy, sure, but numb still.
She could feel the tremor in his exhale, a tremor that mirrored the fracture in his resolve.
She could feel him reaching out for her hand.
“Effie, can you tell me who I am?” He whispered when his hand landed on the back of her palm.
She took it back almost immediately. It was hard to answer that specific question when they were in contact because of his skin… His touch… it’s too him .
“I’m sorry. I just —” He explained afterwards.
Whatever technology they had to use to pull this had to be so much expensive.
Or maybe they had done something in her mind. They had done it to Peeta already. She had seen the horrors they could do. Maybe they had done the same thing to her head.
Maybe she was insane .
“I don’t really care to remember the names of those who hurt me.” She chuckled at the end.
It took him a few seconds to answer. “The plaster around your eyes, it’s… It’s for the lights. The doctor mentioned something about your sight not bearing the strength of any light after being kept in the dark for so long. They would have to remove it anytime soon.”
Right. As if she would believe that.
She opened her mouth to answer, but he was adamant. It was almost like he was babbling.
His voice was strained when he spoke, it sounded like a restrained sob. “We won the war, Sweetheart. Snow is about to be executed.” His voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat.
She didn’t say anything, didn’t move a muscle because what was she supposed to answer, anyway?
“The kids… they’re okay. Well, not really okay, but they’re both alive. Peeta – he’s starting to see a doctor. He needs help, and I could only give him so much. They messed with his head. They said –”
“I know.” She growled. Effie didn’t need any reminder of what had been done to him. She didn’t need it because she was there. She could hear his screams, so loud that she could almost see what they were doing. She didn’t need the reminder because she was behind the cameras with a gun pointed at the back of her head every time they made him do those interviews, to make sure he would not slip, to make sure he would keep the act.
But he did, once.
It turned out to be bad for her, and for him.
It was worth it, if only to protect the other half of their team.
Haymitch continued, unbothered by the bitterness that lingered on her tone. “Katniss is still recovering, and I don’t think it will be anytime soon until they release her. She’s been through too much, Sweetheart. They both have been.”
Katniss…
Peeta…
Her kids…
Fuck, but did her heart soften up.
She had to believe that she’s safe, that was his intention.
He had used the only thing he knew that would make her relent.
She loved the kids too much.
“Now, Effie, can you tell me who I am?” Haymitch asked. It wasn’t demanding, at all. He said it so softly as if he was scared she would slip away yet again.
She thought about saying some lie, knowing he'd let it rest for now. Knowing it would hurt him that she lied. Knowing that he wouldn't give up and would get it out of her, sooner or later.
It was as if she suddenly couldn't speak at all, be it truth or lie. Had she altogether forgotten how to draw breath?
This time, when his hands reached for hers, she didn’t take it back.
She just let him. It felt like a shock - so real, still the shock of it being real - and her body instinctively drew breath.
And then the sob came.
“Sweetheart…”
His voice was as warm as she had imagined it in her cell. Only real, real, real.
"Haymitch..." She tried to say, her breaths being too fast and shallow. "Haymitch..." She fought so hard to hold back the tears. It wasn't working. Her right hand grabbed his. "It’s you, Haymitch…" She finally managed to say, despair all over her as tears began to roll from her eyes. She felt the plaster dampen.
He didn't contradict her, didn't say anything in fact. He merely drew himself closer to her and brought her bruised knuckles to his lips.
His lips.
His touch.
His warmth.
Haymitch…
And she finally sobbed her heart out against his heart. She finally accepted that reality and need, and nobody but him could guide her to it. Her breath went from frantic to even, her tears eventually dried on his nightshirt.
There, in his embrace and with her face buried in his chest, it was finally safe . She could hide, protected by him. His large hands were stroking her back soothingly before he spoke.
"You’re safe now, Sweetheart. I’m here, just here. Never gonna leave you again. Never gonna let anything bad happen to you again. I fucking swear on my fucking life, Effie. I won’t fail you this time."
And so he whispered to her in the dark, in a low baryton until she slept in his arms.