Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s just another thing Madge's gotten used to.

Her mother's blue eyes settle on her—but never for long. Not anymore. Everything always circles back to her aunt.

Madge’s aunt, Mama’s twin sister, Maysilee. Reaped and killed nearly twenty-four years ago, yet somehow still steering the course of Madge’s life all the way from the grave.

It wasn't always like this, at least for Madge.

Mama is always painstaking on Reaping Day. Dress your best, look your best, act your best. Rules that are etched into little Madge’s very being. Prim and proper. Though that gets Madge called uppity and highfalutin at times, just last week the tailor's youngest Susie Roane told her to quit putting on airs-- still, Madge doesn't ever backtalk Mama.

One year, on a Reaping morning when Madge still isn’t old enough to be eligible yet, she makes the mistake of dressing early— too eager that she can now get dressed all by herself. She just wanted a piece of bread with some sorghum syrup, but she spills some on her skirt. When Mama sees the stain, she spirals. Tears the dress from Madge, muttering, “Oh no, that won’t do. Maysilee’d have a fit if she saw that stain. Not on Reaping Day, no.”

“Maysilee?” Madge asks, puzzled. Who is Maysilee, and why would she even see Madge’s stained dress, let alone have a fit over it? 

Mama freezes. Her eyes lock onto Madge’s, but her gaze goes distant—the blue of them are clouded over in an instant like a storm is about to break. “No, I’m Merrilee,” she mutters, almost like she's not doing it on purpose.

She furrows her brows, falls silent, then abruptly stands. Taps her forehead lightly a few times, as if trying to knock something back into place. It takes a few blinks before her eyes clear and she seems to return to herself.

Mama then smiles down at Madge like nothing’s wrong, but Madge can see her lips shake as they stretched. “Sorry, baby. Got lost a bit there,” she said, smoothing the fresh dress Mrs. Shands had just pulled from the closet. “There you go, all better. Prim and proper.” Mama sighs, cups Madge’s face in her hands and brings it closer to drop a kiss on her forehead. “Like we are.”

But the moment is already stuck in Madge's head long after the day ends.

“Who’s Maysilee?” she asks her father.

He’s working in his study. It’s a beautiful summer day outside, but Madge can’t go out—Mama’s sick in bed again, and she doesn’t let Madge wander off on her own. So, Papa says she can sit quietly by his side while he works, rather than sitting alone in her room in boredom.

Only… she hasn’t been very quiet. The six-year-old sits cross-legged on the rug, her dollhouse and its inhabitants scattered around her. She huffs, sighs, moves one doll up the floor so it can use the vanity, moving sluggish as she’s half in game, half in her head.

The question’s been sitting on her chest since Reaping Day, about a week ago.

She’s noticed the pattern now. Mama is always worse this time of year. As soon as the reaping's over, something in Mama changes. And no matter how hot the house gets in the thick of summer, she won’t step outside her room, let alone leave the house. Curtains drawn, door closed and windows shut.

The weeks after the Reaping, Mama locks herself out of the world.

Papa’s head snaps up from his binder—pages thick and full of things Madge once thought were magic until she learned to read. Now she sticks to her fairytales. The real world’s words are just coal, coal, coal. Always coal.

“Oh?” Papa asks. "Who...who told you about her?"

“Mama said Maysilee’d be upset if she saw my dress got dirty,” Madge answers, eyes on her doll. She smooths out its skirt carefully. Prim and proper.

Papa sighs and gets up, crouching down to sit beside her. She immediately hands him a doll—it’s rare he gets to play house with her. Papa holds the doll with care.

“Madge, love.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll tell you something—but it stays between us, alright?”

“Okay!”

“That means no telling Mama.”

“Oh…”

Madge hesitates. She tells Mama everything she knows, even if that’s not a lot yet.

Papa chuckles softly. “Don’t worry. Mama won’t be sad… unless you bring it up.”

“Maysilee makes her sad?” Madge asks, looking up.

Papa’s face shifts. He holds the doll a little tighter. “Sort of,” he says. “Maysilee is Mama’s sister.”

“Really?” Madge’s eyes widen. She’s always wanted a sister.

“Really,” he nods. “Twin sister."

"Twins?" Madge asks, "Like Will and Elm?"

There aren’t many twins in Twelve, at least not in Madge’s circle. The Buchanans run the butchery, well, Rooba Buchanan does, and her youngest boys, Wilmer and Elmer, are just a few years younger than her. They go around town daring people to tell them apart, betting sweets or pocket money on it. Madge has fallen for that trick one too many times in her short life.

"Yep." Papa says, "So that makes her your aunt.”

“My aunt Maysilee,” Madge repeats with a smile. But it falls off quickly when another thought comes in, “Then where's she? I never saw her.”

“That’s the thing,” Papa says gently. “Aunt Maysilee’s not with us anymore.”

He runs his fingers through Madge’s hair, tucking a strand behind her ear.

“She passed away a long time ago, before you were born. And Mama… she misses her every single day. It makes her very sad.”

Madge’s smile fades. That makes her sad too. She presses her doll to her chest. “So I shouldn’t say anything to her?”

“That's right,” Papa says. “But if you ever want to know more, you can always come to me, love. Alright?”

“Okay, Papa.”

He holds out his pinky. “We got ourselves deal?”

"Hm," Madge narrows her eyes, “Only if you play with me.”

Papa glances at the mountain of papers waiting for him on his desk, but then he smiles, lies down beside her on the carpet and sets the doll upright.

“Alright, what are the girls up to today?”

“They’re fighting over a boy,” Madge sets up the scene. “He told both of them he loved them, but actually he’s been playing with their hearts and won’t marry either.”

“Now where on earth did you learn that sort of thing?”

There are more moments like that—strange breaks during their day to days. 

At first, they are occasional, brushed off with a quiet sorry then forgotten, or ignored all together. But as Madge grows older, they start happening more often.

Because those two things go hand in hand.

The older she gets, the more she comes to resemble Mama—same blue eyes, upturned nose, high cheekbones, all of it. And the more she looks like her, the more Mama seems to choke on her own breath whenever their eyes meet.

Now Madge understands. The older Madge gets, the more she looks like her mother, and so the worse Mama becomes. Because it’s not just Madge she sees.

Madge, age seven, breaks her promise to Papa. She made it just a year ago, but she still does it.

Because when the break happens again, what Madge has started calling Mama’s strange disappearances from the real world, she blurts it out without thinking.

“Mama… how did Aunt Maysilee die?”

Mama, in the middle of, well, sitting. She doesn't do much, sometimes knits. Mostly spends time sitting around the house, or going on walks with Granny.

They're alone together, sitting on the back porch, sharing a plate of persimmon pudding. It's a chilly autumn day. Mama’s just come out of her latest shutdown, long after August had passed, and though she barely eats herself, Madge keeps offering spoonfuls anyway. Mama never once rejects her.

Mama’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “Madge... You remember Maysilee?”

And just like that, the cat’s out of the bag. Madge doesn’t want Papa to get in trouble—her parents already fight more than enough. So, for the first time in her life, Madge lies.

“Kind of,” she says with a small nod.

Mama’s lips twitch toward a smile, but it falters halfway through. “She went to the Hunger Games,” Mama says quietly, eyes drifting off to the bare trees beyond their yard.

Madge swallows. She’d had the talk earlier that year—after Susie, that girl again, made fun of her for not knowing what really happens in the Hunger Games. She’d gone home crying, cheeks hot with shame-- you're the Mayor's daughter, how can you not know this? Mrs. Shands sat her down first, explained things, then passed the still-sniffling girl to her father. That was when he told her, no one from their district really comes back from the Hunger Games. 

The Hunger Games, Madge thinks, must be something like Death—forever and ever.

“I used to take you to see her,” Mama says, smiling fondly. “Every day, when you were a baby. But we stopped a while back. I'm surprised you remembered her name.”

"Why'd we stop going?"

Mama’s smile fades. She presses her lips together for a moment. “You got real sick one winter,” she says finally. Her eyes cloud over, “After that… we didn't go again.”

Madge takes another bite from the pudding. 

“She would’ve adored you, you know?” Mama grabs a napkin and reaches over to wipe a crumb from the corner of Madge’s mouth. “You’re everything she loved. Prim and proper.”

So that’s where Madge and Mama's prim and proper comes from.

“Do you still go see her, Mama?” Madge asks, tilting her head.

“I do,” Mama nods. “You know when Granny and I go out together? That’s where we go. To see Maysilee.”

“Can I come next time?”

Mama’s smile brings summer back to fall.

Aunt Maysilee’s grave is a myriad of colors. Even in fall, there's all kinds of wildflowers.

“We used to plant something new each year,” Mama says. “Well… we did, for a while. But we ran out of seeds, so now we just plant whatever we can find. ”

The scene-stealer is the showy clusters of pink and purple that crowd the center. Those are fall phlox, Granny says.

Beneath and around them are small blue daisies—Blue Wood Aster, Mama tells her—and off to one side, bright splashes of yellow have taken root—and those are Blackeyed Susans. 

Maysilee Donner, the headstone reads. Daughter. Sister.

Mama kneels beside it, brushing away fallen leaves and takes out a napkin, starts cleaning the grooves of the engravements. Meanwhile, Granny pulls out a pair of scissors from her bag and begins trimming the flowers and pulling weeds out, humming under her breath. They look like they got a rhythm set long ago.

Then Mama wraps an arm around Madge and gently draws her closer to the stone.

“Look who’s here,” she says, her voice real soft. “Madge wanted to see you.”

“She’s all tall now,” Granny adds with a smile, her eyes lingering on her with that look she’s worn since Madge can remember—part joy, part devastated. “You used to try to eat the flowers here, y’know?”

Madge giggles. “I did?”

“The colors were appealing to you,” Mama joins in, smiling. “Guess she takes after her aunt. Y'hear that, May?”

They sit around Maysilee. Their smiles don't hold up much. Granny cries. Mama does too. Madge almost does.

She wishes she could. Wishes she could cry like them, like she belongs in this grief too. I’m here. I feel it too. Something to bind all three of them together.

That was back when Maysilee was her beloved aunt in Madge's mind. She didn't have the large presence she had now, holding Madge's life by the strings, however unintentional because she's dead. Before the name Maysilee became something she starts to resent.

She's ten, and the 68th Hunger Games has just began, and Mama is upstairs. Madge is laying down on the couch, her head on Papa's thigh as she absentmindedly plays with the wooden limberjack. Papa had taken up woodcarving as a side hobby a while back, just to reduce the stress of his job. And have been carving toys for Madge ever since in little time has to himself. Mama jokes that he can retire from being the Mayor already and just do this. 

Madge sighs, and turns her face up to her father, a book in his hand. Probably something about coal, like everything in school, Madge gave up on looking a long time ago.

"Papa," she says.

"Yes, pumpkin?"

"Will Mama always miss Maysilee?" she asks. 

Papa lowers the book, and their eyes meet. “Madge, honey… it’s not easy to let go of someone you love,” he says gently. “Mama loved her sister very much. And… the way she lost her, well...it makes it harder. She needs time.” but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

She needs time. Aunt Maysilee died before Madge was even born, and now she’s ten. Ten whole years. That's just too many years of missing someone. How much longer will she keep missing her? Isn’t Madge enough reason to want to live in the world?

After a pause, she asks, “Does Mama love her more than me?” 

Papa blinks, caught off guard. “No, dear. No. Mama loves you more than anything. She just…” He pauses, struggling for the right words. “Sometimes when you lose someone that close, it leaves a hole. Even if your arms are full again, that kind of pain… it never fully goes away.”

"I can’t fill it?”

“Madge,” Papa frowns. “Where’s this coming from?”

“Mama’s always sad,” she mumbles. “She doesn’t play with me. She’s always tired. She keeps getting weird. It’s because of Aunt Maysilee, right?”

Papa strokes her hair. “It’s because she's mourning her.”

“So… how much longer?”

“We can’t put a timer on grief, Madge,” Papa says, a little more firmly now. “You know better than to say things like that.”

She knows Death is forever. So are the Hunger Games.

Is mourning forever, too? Is grief?

“I know, I’m sorry…”

“It’s alright, love. As long as you get what I’m trying to say.” He lets out a long breath. “That hole Mama feels—it’s not your job to fill it. It’s not anyone’s. Trying to would only end up hurting you both. What you can do is live with it. Make every day count, for the people you love. And Mama does that.” He smiles at her. “All thanks to you.”

“Me?”

“That’s right.”

“So… I help her?”

“You already have, sweetheart. More than you know. And I think your aunt would be grateful to you, for keeping Mama going.”

Madge smiles. Aunt Maysilee doesn’t need to worry wherever she is-- Madge’s got Mama on this side.

But her dead aunt's influence is not only in their house, in the bonds of their relationship. She lingers in their closets, too.

Mama never wore anything colorful herself, stuck by off-whites and grays. No black, no pinks or purples, no blues or reds. Her wardrobe always looked like some creature of the night sneaked in and stole all the colors of her clothes. Considering Maysilee's grave, that's probably where all the colors of Mama's life had ventured to.

Exact opposite, Madge’s life’s never been short of color. Mama and her grandparents dressed her in every color that’s ever made in the world, commisioned every tailor and every craftsman to dress her up.

As the years passed, the attention of her Mama faded, bit by bit, like the colors in Madge's wardrobe, until there was but a drop to hold onto— and Madge treasured that drop of attention with everything she had.

Certain colors make Mama look away, or scrunch her face like something hurt. Purple was an obvious no—Mama can't even glance in her general direction when she wears it. Pink gets her a pitying look, like how Mama looks at herself in the mirror when she thinks Madge doesn't see. The rest are fine, compared to the first two. Madge sticks to whites and pale blues, for the other shades weren't just her.

And so, even though she loves purple the most, Madge, age ten, lets the color go.

Against her best efforts, by eleven, Mama’s gaze start to catch on her more and more, and her face would go blank for a second, her eyes would tremble—then move on quickly, as if Madge's face was something been dreading to see. Her face would go through a myriad of emotions.

Back then, Madge used to think that was because she’d be of reaping age soon.

She should've known better then.

Her first Reaping, and Mama gives her a mockingjay pin.

It's an old-fashioned thing. Gold, with the bird mid-flight.

It doesn’t feel right on Madge. Not that she hates it—it’s just not something she’d choose for herself. Songbirds are nice to look at sure, she supposes, but her choice of accessory would be more like flowers or butterflies. Maybe she’s nitpicking.

What surprises her more is Mama giving it to her at all. Growing up, Madge had drawers overflowing with ribbons and bows and hariclips, but Mama never let her wear jewellery. Earrings, she has a pair, and maybe a bracelet or two. But anything more than that? Nope. The excuse had always been that she was too young. And maybe she believed that for a while, then Delly Cartwright started showing up to school with necklaces, charm bracelets, and pretty rings on nearly every finger.

Still, it wasn’t something Madge couldn’t live without, so she never got too upset about it.

And when she opens her hand and places the pin in Madge’s, Mama looks like she’s just ripped out her heart and now she's offering it up.

Madge can’t say no to that.

“I love it!” she lies.

“I’m glad.” Mama smiles so wide, the weight of the day seems to lift in an instant.

“Is it something lucky?” Madge asks as Mama fastens it to her chest, just above her heart. Her fingers linger there, then move up to cup Madge’s cheek.

“It was your aunt’s,” she says.

And there it is again. Aunt Maysilee. The girl who died in the Hunger Games twenty years ago.

Suddenly the pin feels heavier than a brooch has any right to be.

But Mama adds, “She never got to wear it. I had a matching one too, but I lost mine. I thought maybe, you might like it?” and she sounds so hopeful and sincere, once again, it lifts Madge above the clouds.

“Thank you, Mama,” she says, hugging her mother. “I really, really love it.”

After Mama leaves, she spends twenty stressful minutes trying to make the pin work with her sky blue, scallop-collared dress. It clashes with the neckline and collar, looks too much, it just doesn’t belong.

Madge sighs and gives up. She looks at her reflection in the mirror one last time before stepping out the door. Next year, she'll have to pair it up with a simpler dress.

Scratch what she said earlier.

Madge, age twelve, doesn't like the mockingjay pin one bit.

Madge, still twelve, is sitting on top the stairs.

Mama and Papa are fighting.

They already fight a lot these days. And it makes Madge sad—because afterward, Mama retreats to her room, takes her medicine, and sleeps for hours. Papa cries in his study. And Madge is left alone. Again.

It's the night of her first Reaping Day. From Seam-side, Elihue Tolliver and Malley Myers are gone, and they're never coming back.

"I gave it to her for luck." Mama's practically spitting, "So she could--"

"For luck? You gave her Maysilee's pin just for luck?"

"Maysilee didn't even like that damn pin, so, so it's not like I'm trying to--"

"I know what you're trying to do." Papa raises his voice, "Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You can't even look at her anymore!”

"But I do!" Mama yells back. “You’re not even home most days. What do you know?”

“I know enough. Poor Madge runs herself in circles just to get you to notice her!”

“Don’t tell me what my daughter does—I know! I… I’m trying!”

“This isn’t trying. This isn’t healthy—for her, or for you—”

“Oh, now you care about what’s healthy for me?”

“I’ve always cared. Can’t you tell how I worried I am—”

Sure, I bet you were so worried when I was pregnant the first time, too!”

The first time?

“I was! What are you—”

“Oh, please! You were just glad you could finally marry me and—”

“Of course I was, I loved you! I do! But I’d never make you—”

“Right, right… I told you I didn’t want any of it. And what did you do--"

“Don’t even—do you hear yourself? I never made you do anything you didn’t want to!”

“Well, I never wanted this!” Mama yells.

Madge slaps a hand over her mouth to stop the gasp that rises.

“I never wanted to be a wife. Never wanted to be a mother. Not anymore—not after that. I know I’ve made nothing but mistakes, and I don’t need you reminding me of them all the time!”

Papa goes quiet. Then comes a hiccuping sob from Mama. Soon, his murmured ‘I’m sorry’s drifts upstairs to Madge’s ringing ears.

“I just want to be a sister…” Mama whispers.

“You still are,” Papa says gently, hushing her. “You’ll always be a sister, Merry.”

“But I'm not, not without her...I just want to be a twin again. I'm tired of--”

She doesn’t finish. Her words collapse into sobs, incomprehensible and guttural.

Madge stands up and tiptoes back to her room. She can’t listen anymore.

She yanks open her top drawer with a burst of fury, grabs the mockingjay pin, and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall with a clink before falling to the floor.

Then, she pulls the blanket over her head and cries. Because Madge is a twelve year old mistake. 

She goes quiet after that.

Not that she was ever too loud to begin with. Mama’s condition made it hard for Madge even to practice piano freely. There was always a schedule, but full of exceptions. 

No piano from July, all the way to late August, a week in April that always clashes with Mama’s birthday, and then the unpredictable stretches when Mama just doesn’t feeling well.

Madge just stops talking about Maysilee altogether.

She doesn’t want to know more. She knows enough.

She knows Maysilee didn’t like mockingjays. Didn’t like the pin either.

She knows she wore purple—Granny’s way of color-coding the twins. Granny controlled everyone’s closet in this family, no wonder Mama picked up the habit too, however unintentional.

She knows Maysilee had a sharp tongue and a mean streak. That’s what Susie Roane says, anyway. Her mother apparently never liked Maysilee—saw Madge once and told all about her to Susie, said Madge's aunt, who Madge exactly looks like, was the meanest girl in town. So that's why Susie has it out for Madge, as if being mean runs in blood like hair or eyes. So, even if Madge tries her best to be nice, she has to bite her tongue against people like Susie, so people won't think of her like that too. The things Madge would say to her face, oh, that she dreams a lot about.

She knows Maysilee always kept her chin high, spine straight. Look your best. Act your best. Like anyone in the Capitol. Mama always said as such whenever she'd dress Madge, "You're just as good as everyone," sealed with a kiss on the cheek.

Madge’s pieced it together from Mama’s half-formed sentences all these years.

Her aunt is gone, but it’s like she still has her claws in both Mama’s and Madge’s lives. Madge is scared that learning anything more about the dead girl will only ruin more things in her life.

Madge hates herself for thinking that. During the day, she pushes it away. But at night, when Mama doesn’t come to say goodnight, the grudge creeps back in. She feels like an evil person. But she also feels justified, and that makes her feel worse. Like a two-faced shrew.

Madge tells herself she’s kind. Everyone else does, too. She’s nice to her classmates, polite to their neighbours, sweet to teachers. Sometimes, 'nice' curdles to 'pushover' which she's never been. That’s a given however with how much she actually holds herself back.

So why can’t she be nice to Maysilee too?

By fourteen, Mama stops helping Madge with her hair on Reaping Day. She just lays out the dress and leaves the room. They always left her hair loose anyway—no neat braids for Madge.

By fourteen, Mama stops meeting her eyes.

By fifteen, Madge stops searching for them.

And by fifteen, Madge really, really resents her dead aunt. 

Maysilee didn't even like that damn pin.

So why did Mama give it to her? It's not just for luck.

To see what it would’ve looked like if Maysilee had worn it?

Still, Madge wears it. Whether it’s to honor her mother’s wish or as some quiet act of defiance against her aunt’s memory, even she isn’t so sure anymore.

Mama's bad days outnumber the usual days, and completely overcome the good ones.

On Mama’s worst days, she is not even conscious.

And it's easy to understand why.

Madge is the spitting image of her mother at the age when she lost everything.

And so, by extension, right now she’s a carbon copy of Maysilee.

So, Mama would be curled up in bed, drugged on morphling, the world around her soft and sweet like fresh marshmallows straight from Grandpa’s kitchen, but Madge has to thread carefully, one wrong step might dent that softness, or might just rip it all apart.

Madge, sixteen, just sits by her side and reads. Sometimes aloud, though no more than a whisper, sometimes in complete silence. Mrs Shands and Ms Celia would both be busy working, and Mama’s prone to falling when she tries to get up after morphling’s effect dies down.

The day before her fifth Reaping is the worst yet. The line between memory and reality dissolves like a sugar cube dropped in hot water, and so does the line between Madge and her aunt-- no matter how hard Madge has tried otherwise all these years.

When Mama stirs, still half-awake, eyes glassy, Madge’s eyes immediately go to her. Does she want water? She’s about to just ask when Mama reaches for Madge’s hand, her grip strong. Despite the tight hold, she can only tug Madge to herself weakly, no strength to her arms, but Madge goes along. A tear escapes Mama’s eye, but she smiles the softest Madge ever seen her smile, as if caught in the middle of a dream.

“Maysilee… there you are…” she exhales her sister’s name, and it’s the most relieved, most sincere way she’s heard Mama speak.

But Madge’s unable to summon her voice. Without even thinking, she nods, hoping that’s enough for Mama. Afraid her voice will disrupt the dream.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” Mama murmurs. Going in and out of consciousness, but her grip’s still strong, her desperation clear as day. “So…much. So, so much…” 

Madge doesn’t correct her. She can’t.

She just sits on the edge of the bed and lets the illusion run its course, because a part of her isn’t sure if Mama would choose to come back if Madge were to stop pretending.

What if Mama chose the dream instead? Chose to drift fully into it and never return? What if she let go of the present, of them, of this life and stayed in that place, where it didn’t hurt as much?

Madge doesn’t want that.

As much as it hurts, she always plays along—tries to make sense of Mama’s mumbles and whispers, even when they barely form real words. Her voice is always light in those moments, sometimes even playful. Mama’s always been loving, yes, fiercely so—but never jovial. Not like this.

So when Mama, thinking she’s Maysilee, asks, "Is it five o’clock?” Madge just assumes she means the actual time. She glances at the clock—just striking 5:02—and nods.

"Yes." she says, as quietly as she can. 

Mama’s face crumples in an instant. She starts to cry, her breaths quickening, unraveling into panic. She holds on to Madge and pulls herself up, trembling all over.

"I can’t… not yet, not yet. Madge is still—Madge… my Madge…"

Her voice breaks apart like glass, and Madge’s fumbling around, trying to get her mother to lie back down, because she doesn’t know what five o’clock meant to Mama, but whatever it was, it was clearly the end of something.

Mama is completely hysterical. Mrs Shands and Miss Celia rush in to help, but it isn’t enough. In the end, they have to call the apothecary again. The morphling dose is increased—just enough to get her to lie down without tearing herself apart. But even under the daze of the medicine, she keeps crying, calling out Madge's name over and over again.

She doesn’t have the opportunity to mull what happened over.

The 74th Hunger Games come as a devastating blow.

“Pretty dress,” says Gale.

Madge barely keeps herself from frowning. His tone is subtle, not outright mocking like Susie, but it still doesn’t sound like a genuine compliment.

Truth is, Madge doesn’t like Gale Hawthorne all that much. Sure, he’s nice to look at, handsome as they come, but that’s never been something she cared enough to think much about.

She presses her lips together, then forces a smile. She decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s hard to read boys, and she’s never been any good at it.

"Well, if I end up going to the Capitol, I want to look nice, don’t I?” 

Prim and proper. Look your best, act your best. 

“You won’t be going to the Capitol,” Gale says, looking at her pin. “What can you have? Five entries? I had six when I was just twelve years old.”

Ironic, she thinks, that he says that while looking right at the pin that belonged to her aunt—who did go to the Capitol. Who died in the arena.

He’s right, technically speaking. But it’s not like Madge didn’t lie awake last night thinking the same thing, clutching the pin in bed, praying Maysilee’s bad luck wouldn’t find her.

“That’s not her fault,” Katniss says, her voice is quiet but firm. Madge feels a flicker of gratitude, though she wishes, selfishly, Katniss would say it with a little more fire.

But Katniss is Madge’s best friend. Madge isn’t really hers.

“No, it’s no one’s fault. Just the way it is,” says Gale.

It is. There’s nothing to do about it. Nothing, except look your best and act your best, as you march to your death.

She quickly pays Katniss for the berries. “Good luck, Katniss.”

“You, too." Her friend replies, and Madge shuts the door. 

Looking at Katniss in the room for farewells hurts Madge more than she expects. But she has to be quick and say what she has to say.

“They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?"

She knows this because of her mother. Maysilee had been wearing a bunch of necklaces when she died, none of which ever made it back home. Mama still tosses and turns in bed, murmuring about them, how none were with Maysilee when they buried her. Another reason Madge can’t have necklaces. Her aunt went and died with them around her neck.

The ugly resentment clashes with something else— an incredible sadness, maybe. Maysilee was sixteen. And her biggest sins against Madge? Wearing purple, liking jewelry, and maybe being a little mean at that age. Tragically, her and Madge seem to like the same things.

Madge holds out the mockingjay pin.

“Your pin?”

“Here, I’ll put it on your dress, all right?”

Madge fastens it to Katniss’s dress. It looks right. The gold against the soft blue, the way it catches on her olive skin and dark hair. 

On Katniss, the mockingjay pin looks just right.

“Promise you’ll wear it into the arena, Katniss?” she asks. “Promise?

It'll keep you safe from sharing Maysilee's end.

“Yes,” Katniss’s voice trembles, just a little because Katniss is the strongest girl she knows, and Madge wonders—was Maysilee like this too, the day she was carted off to the Games?

Afraid she'll start sobbing if she hugs her, that's her only friend, Madge presses a quick kiss to her friend's cheek and leaves.

"Where's your pin, Madge?" Mama asks when she steps inside. Madge sits slumped on the couch, the energy drained from her the moment she watched her friend leave. Her eyes flicker, on accident, to Madge’s white dress—now missing its signature lucky pin.

"I gave it to Katniss." The words barely leave her mouth before she wants to cry. She might just burst into tears right there. “She didn’t have a token… and I wanted to give her something before she…”

"You...gave it away?"

"I did." 

She's given the mockingjay pin to Katniss so it will bring her friend luck. Her best friend. Her only friend.

Just thinking about Katniss makes her heart ache. But even amidst of the sadness, Mama's stricken face raises something ugly in Madge.

"Why? Isn't it lucky? Wasn't that why you gave it to me?" The words come out sharp and bitter, but she immediately regrets it.

Katniss, who once sang so beautifully on the first day of school—until she stopped, just like that, like a songbird cut off mid-flight after the accident that took her father away. She’s never been loud, but after that, she wasn’t anything at all.

Madge knows silence, too. Hers came from different wounds. She’s always been on the edge of things, used to being alone, not one to push herself into other circles.

But there was something in the way Katniss would sit in class afterward, with that faraway look in her eyes—it reminded Madge of Mama. She knows how to be around people like her.

One day, without planning to, she put her lunch tray next to Katniss’s. The Seam girl was sitting at one of the tables farthest away from the crowd, one Madge had been eyeing herself, but Katniss had beaten her to it. She sat down anyway, and the girl didn't say anything.

After that, more of than not, Madge slid over her apple slices or half a sandwich, saying that she’d had a big breakfast. Katniss never rejected the offering.

Madge considers her a best friend, even if they don’t talk about much. School stuff, mostly. Madge would love to, but her own problems feel small next to Katniss’s. And if Katniss doesn’t want to talk, then the least Madge can do is not make her.

She pesters Papa into buying from the girl. Katniss and Gale hunt and gather berries, especially during late spring and summer. When her father suggests Madge just buy them herself, she refuses. Someone her age commissioning might hurt Katniss’s pride. Besides, having the Mayor as a customer might ease the nerves of trading.

So Madge tells him to act like he’s over the moon for strawberries, though it'd be pretty low on his list of favorite fruits—like he just has to have them, even if it means getting them illegally. 

Papa plays along. And every summer, Katniss starts bringing strawberries. 

And now she’s gone.

Mama doesn’t answer. She just looks at her for a moment, then turns and walks upstairs. Time for her to shut down.

Later, in her room, she cries until her pillow is damp and cold. Then she prays for the mockingjay pin to keep Maysilee’s bad luck far away from Katniss. The pin kept Madge safe. It will keep Katniss safe too.

The next morning comes as a surprise. Mama is up and about—cooking and baking for the Everdeens. For as long as Madge can remember, Mama would spend time at the cemetery before coming home, shutting the world out. This is the first time Madge has seen her like this, on her feet, talkative. Present.

Madge doesn’t dare interrupt the moment. She stays quiet, listening all day as Mama talks. About Maysilee, about Katniss, about how unlucky little Primrose is, and how deeply Mama feels for her.

No mention of a mother losing her daughter. Only a sister mourning another.

When everything's ready, jam, pie, and cornbread tucked in a basket, Madge takes it to little Primrose and Mrs Everdeen. 

The mockingjay actually helped Katniss.

Madge isn’t naive enough to believe the pin itself had magic, but the mockingjays, both the pin and actual birds in the arena, really did help. The little girl from 11 —Rue— had told Katniss, “That’s why I love your pin.” Madge took it as a sign.

The day they win—both Katniss and Peeta!—Madge trudges to the cemetery. She finds herself in front of her aunt’s grave.

“So…” she begins, awkward. She’s never talked to Aunt Maysilee before—not like Mama or Granny do. She doesn’t know the girl. Can’t imagine what she’d say back. It just isn’t immersive at all.

“Your pin… well, my pin—actually, I gave it to my friend, so it’s Katniss’s now,” she says. “It kept her safe, y’know? Maybe you should’ve worn it to the arena.”

No answer. Not from the stone. Not from her own head. Maysilee is silent, like always.

“I don’t know what to feel about you, if I’m being honest,” Madge goes on. “You were never in my life, but you’ve also never not been in it. I can’t wear purple because you used to wear it. And I can't wear braids because that’s what you did, and I can’t wear necklaces because that’s what you did, and I can’t lash out because that’s what you did--"

Madge's voice cracks. 

“I just don’t get to be me. I’m you all over again. In the wrong body, or whatever.” She wipes her eyes roughly with the back of her hand. “I can’t be anything.”

The cemetery is still. A soft breeze picks up, the wildflowers around the headstone flutter gently. Madge’s gaze drift to the graves beside Maysilee’s. There are three to her right—one cared for, the others neglected. The wildflowers from Maysilee’s grave spill over, sharing their colors with the others.

“I don’t even know if I hate you,” she admits. “Like, really hate you. I do resent you, a lot. But I don’t think I hate you. You didn’t ask to die. You didn’t ask to haunt my life. I don’t think anyone would want that for their niece. You wouldn’t want Mama to suffer like this either, right?”

Again, no answer. Madge tries to imagine a sharp, sarcastic comeback, something like— Of course I wouldn’t. What kinda question is that? I’ve got a mean streak, sure, but I’m not wicked.

“I don’t really know why you hated your pin. I wonder what it meant to you. I never asked Mama. We don’t really talk about you anymore. At least, I don’t.” She kicks a small pebble.

“For me, it meant I wasn’t you. That I wouldn’t be you. I gave it to Katniss so it’d keep her from ending up like you. Maybe that helped her in there because it meant something else for her, I don't know. Or maybe some part of you helped her stay alive. Maybe…” She pauses, “Maybe that part of you kept me safe all these years too. Her little sister was originally reaped, you know, and she had only one slip in the entire bowl. I had five. You did too, at my age. They still picked you. That's why I couldn’t sleep the whole night before.”

In these few minutes, Madge has vented more to her dead aunt than she ever has to her mother. Even if she feels ridiculous standing here, talking to a grave, she feels relieved. She crouches, sitting next to the headstone.

“I’m sorry I ever hated you,” she says. “And I’m sorry I wanted you gone. I think I just wanted to make some space for myself in Mama’s life. In my own life. I wanted her to look at me and see me, not you. It’s not your fault that people around me won’t let you go. So how can I expect you to let me go?”

And for the reason she's here.

“I’ve given up on that, though. Trying my hardest when it comes to competing against you,” Madge confesses.

It feels strange to say it out loud. Like slipping off a coat she didn’t realize she’d been wearing all her life. Heavy and baggy, not hers to begin with. She wishes she had listened to Papa earlier. He was right, she can’t fill that hole. No one can. Trying only leaves bruises on both sides.

And now, she wonders—had he tried too? Had he once tried to patch up that empty space in Mama’s heart, hoping love might be enough? And maybe he’d learned the hard way, just like she did.

“I don’t need to beat a ghost,” she says. “And I don’t need to be you either. Or to be your opposite. Life's too short for that. I just want to figure out who I am when no one’s looking at me like I’ve crawled right out of your grave.” She pulls at a blade of grass, snapping it in half. “I have dreams other than that, y'know. Maybe you did, too. Maybe you just wanted to be more than what they wanted you to be. I hope you got that. I hope you were you in there, right until the end. Prim and proper. Like we are."

"Thank you for helping Katniss come back home," Madge says, taking a deep breath. "I hope you'll help me next year too. It's going to be another Quarter Quell."

How ironic, how tragic, how funny it would be if both aunt and niece died in a Quarter Quell, right? 

Madge, sixteen, feels lighter than she ever has.

She’s shed Maysilee’s skin. Not only that, her best friend is home.

Their friendship hasn’t been effortless. Katniss has changed—some ways better, some ways scarred. Madge can see it.

The first few conversations are awkward as hell. Katniss seems to expect her to talk about boys or gossip, but Madge doesn’t care. Not about boys, hasn't been much for gossip too, anyway. Okay, maybe fashion—she likes dresses and accessories—but that’s not all she’s interested in. And when she does mention clothes, the light in Katniss’ eyes dims so dramatically that Madge drops the subject entirely.

“So... what’s been happening in school?” Katniss asks once.

“Oh, you know. The usual…”

Quiet.

“Prim said Susie Roane—” Katniss begins.

“—made Delly Cartwright cry,” Madge finishes.

They say at the same time, then laugh.

They both do. Katniss actually lets out a laugh. There’s something lighter about her now. The burden of keeping her family fed, alive, has been lifted, and it shows in small moments like this.

“But then Rassie Buchanan told her off. And then she cried.”

Katniss tilts her head. “Does he like her?”

Madge shrugs. “Maybe." She hasn't really thought about that.

"Hm."

Quiet again.

“Do you…” Madge begins, just as Katniss looks like she’s about to make an excuse and slip away. “Do you still go out to the woods?”

Katniss lifts an eyebrow. “Gonna tell on me?"

“Oh, ha ha…” Madge deadpans, rolling her eyes. Like it'd do anything if she did. Everyone in District 12 buys from Katniss. One way or another, they all need her. “Just wanted to ask, I guess…”

With Katniss, it’s always a bit of push and pull. Pull too hard, and she’ll drop the rope entirely. So Madge has to tug gently. Again, she's had practise dealing with Mama all those years. It's good to see it work with Katniss now, and can actually see the fruit of her efforts.

“I do,” Katniss says finally, just before Madge can retreat further into her own thoughts. She's smiling. “Wanna come with?”

Madge’s eyes go wide. “Really?”

And just like that, Katniss begins taking her into the woods. She teaches her to shoot, and hands her own bow to let her try. Madge, who’s always been prim and proper, has never felt less like either.

Strangely, she doesn’t hate it.

After that, friendship goes easy between them. Katniss drops by sometimes, just to sit with her. Sometimes they play the piano together, and Madge teaches her a few melodies. Katniss doesn’t realize just how rebellious this is for Madge. Piano had always been strictly scheduled, anything outside the routine might've triggered Mama.

But now, Madge plays whenever she wants.

Still, exceptions apply. One day, Katniss comes over when Mama's having a bad day. She's had an episode early in the morning. So, today, they have to be quiet.

“Maybe you should take her to the Capitol,” Katniss says, watching Madge scribble something on the music sheet. “They can fix her up, I bet.”

“Yes. But you don't go to the Capitol unless they invite you,” Madge says, trying not to sound bitter. She doesn’t hold out hope, both for the invite and the cure. Mama’s illness is rooted in the heart, and takes over her body. Unless one can turn back time, or raise the dead, there's no way for Mama to get better.

They take turns having supper at each other's homes. Mama always pulls herself up to sit at the table, but sometimes her eyes linger on Katniss a little too long—like she sees something she wants. Papa tries his best to keep the conversation light, and while her parents make an effort to be polite, Madge's house is heavy with years of grief and unspoken resentment. The Undersees don't have much shared between them.

Madge prefers visiting the Everdeens.

Her father is getting more and more stressed.

He's already lost most his hair, and the ones he has now, patches of strawberry blonde hair, are actually wilting away.

It hits its worst points in Katniss and Peeta's Victory Tour.

He doesn't tell her much about it. But there's always a beeping coming from his study, it unnerves Madge very much.

Katniss comes to see her while Madge is sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair. The light from the window hits just right, catching the silver of her dress—the kind of beautiful that feels unreal, like the ones worn by Capitol women when they're stopped on the street for interviews during the Games. Though that elegant style belongs to only a few, excessive fashion seems to be the dominant way of life over there. Katniss pulls the former off very well.

“Look at you. Like you came right off the streets of the Capitol.” Madge tells the reflection of her friend, and picks up a ribbon from the drawer.

“Even my pin now. Mockingjays are all the rage in the Capitol, thanks to you." Katniss answers, "Are you sure you don't want it back?”

It's fine, I think I've made a bit of peace with Maysilee. Besides, Mama doesn't even look at me now. 

“Don't be silly, it was a gift,” she says, tying her hair in a gold ribbon. 

“Where did you get it, anyway?” 

“It was my aunt's. But I think it's been in the family a long time.”

Passed down from her great-grandmother, who probably loved it, to her aunt, who hated it, to Madge, who wore it in defiance against a ghost. Madge's just happy to see the pin on someone as good as Katniss. She believes it would make her great-grandmother happy, too.

“It's a funny choice, a mockingjay. I mean, because of what happened in the rebellion. With the jabberjays backfiring on the Capitol and all.”

“But mockingjays were never a weapon. They're just songbirds. Right?"

“Yeah, I guess so...”

What Katniss said turns over and over in Madge’s mind that night.

A mockingjay, a bird born from defiance, a mistake the Capitol has made and couldn't get rid of. And well, Madge knows a bit too much about mistakes. She feels a strange kinship with the bird, now.

Maybe Aunt Maysilee would've liked the pin, if she'd thought about it that way.

It’s a snowstorm, and Madge practically throws herself out of the house, boots sinking into the slush with every step.

She’s grabbed half a dozen of Mama’s morphling vials—Capitol-issued after tons of letters Papa sends just to get them every month—tucked them into a cardboard box, and slipped out as soon as she heard the news from Miss Celia.

The new Head Peacekeepers went nuts, got Gale whipped, hit Katniss, and then some.

Madge waited until Mama retreated to bed, muttering nonsense through clenched teeth, her fingers trembling as they pressed hard against her temples. She’s getting worse, unraveling by the day as the Third Quarter Quell looms. It’s no wonder, she has lost her twin in the second one. 

It’s been building for a long time, the resentment.

For years, Madge channeled all her hurt into hating Maysilee, the ever so present ghost of her life. But lately, the more her mother sinks into her grief, the more Madge finds her anger turning toward the one who’s still here and choosing to leave her anyway, rather than the one long gone.

A sharp pang rises in her chest, remorse, but she forces it down. 

Besides, Katniss needs this. Or, more like, someone Katniss loves does. And knowing Katniss, she’s probably tearing herself apart trying to help him.

She walks carefully against the wind, not wanting to drop and break the vials. When she finally makes it to the Victor's Village, Madge rings the doorbell. Then again. And again.

The door opens, and there stands Katniss—panic in her eyes, bruised and blinking against the cold. Her eye is swollen, the welt across her cheek a violent red. Madge’s heart twists. It must’ve hurt.

“Use these,” Madge says, holding out the box. “For your friend. They're my mother's. She said I could take them.” The lie slips out easily. She doesn’t want Katniss to worry about that too. Not when she has enough of those things. Katniss opens the box, startled and speechless.

“Please. Just use them,” Madge adds, before turning and disappearing into the snow.

By the time she returns home, it’s too late.

Mama is already in the parlor when Madge slips in through the door. Sideboard drawers and doors of the tall cabinet are all pulled open, contents scattered across the floor like debris after a storm. She’s still in her wool nightgown and long cardigan, hair unbrushed, bare feet. She must've just gotten out of bed.

She freezes when she sees Madge. They come face-to-face right there.

“Madge?” Mama asks, frowning, but doesn't meet her eyes. She’s staring somewhere near her shoulder, like always. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” Madge says, shaking the snow from her coat. If you didn’t even notice I was gone, then maybe I don’t owe you an answer.

“Nowhere.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t lie.” Mama straightens. “Where were you? In this snowstorm? Are you mad? What if you fell and froze over out there?”

Madge almost laughs. Has anyone in Twelve ever actually frozen to death from tripping on ice? “I went to see Katniss,” she says instead. “Her friend got whipped. The new Head Peacekeeper’s a monster.”

Mama stiffens. Her eyes flick toward the open drawers. “And you wouldn’t happen to know where my spare medicine is, I suppose?”

Madge’s lips press into a line. She looks away.

Mama squints at her, then blinks like she’s been slapped. “Madge. Don’t actually tell me—”

“I took it,” Madge admits, flatly. “Katniss needed help. For Gale. His back is all torn—”

“You stole from me?” Mama’s voice cracks with disbelief. “From your own mother?”

“I borrowed it. You just had a dose, besides, there's a spare one left in your room.” I checked, because I felt bad.

“It wasn’t yours to give away!”

“It’s medicine,” Madge snaps, louder now. “Isn’t it? Isn’t that what you always say, when you actually decide you’ve had enough of this world and want to disappear into your dreams? Maybe the boy with the slashed back needs it more than you! Have you thought of that?”

“I need those,” she says, voice trembling. “You know what I’m like when I don’t have them. I need them.”

“Do you?” Madge’s voice is low and sharp. “Or do you need the excuse?”

Mama opens her mouth, closes it again, she's speechless.

“Right now, Katniss and Gale need it more than you do.”

Mama exhales, shaky, almost gasping. “Of course. Katniss needs it. Of course she does. What more can she possibly need?” she mutters, almost to herself.

Madge’s jaw tightens. “Are you jealous of her, Mama?”

Mama meets her eyes. She looks at Madge like she’s seeing her for the first time. Well, guess what? She is.

“What?”

“Which one are you really jealous of?” Madge presses. “Katniss? Or Primrose? Is it Prim, because her sister came back from the Games? Or is it Katniss, because she volunteered to die for her sister, and came back instead? Which one makes you feel like you failed Maysilee all over again?”

“I can’t—” Mama chokes on her words, and her eyes drift to the side again. “Stop talking.” She buries her face in her hands, her whole body trembling.

She looks so small, so close to breaking into a thousand pieces, but Madge can't help but bring the hammer down.

“You can’t even look at me,” Madge says, her voice breaking, tears blurring her vision. “I’ve done nothing but stay quiet. I’ve tiptoed around you my whole life. I stopped wearing purple, I wore that pin just for you. I always held myself back so you wouldn’t have to see her in me. But nothing was enough. Nothing I did was ever enough. Because you can’t even look at me right now! Because you never once tried!” The words tear out of her. “All I ever wanted was for you to try! And guess what, Mama—” her voice cracks, “—not only did you fail at being a sister, you failed at being a mother, too!”

She doesn't wait to see her mother break.

Madge, age seventeen, turns and runs, slamming her bedroom door behind her.