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ghostieviolet · 4 months

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Taste of Strawberries, chap. 40 (part one)

Author’s note: As always, dearest readers, thanks for supporting ToS through likes, reblogs, kudos, bookmarks, follows, favs, comments and messages! You fill my hayffie beating heart to the brim and I’m so happy you enjoy reading. Happy New Year to you all and I wish you the best 2024!

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING for chapter 40, both part 1 and 2. Mentions of sexual assault, physical and mental abuse, eating disorder, suicide and animal cruelty.

Chapter 40

The writing on the wall (part one)

God, he needed coffee! Something strong at any rate.

Arms loaded with laundry Haymitch pushed inside his guestroom, a towel wrapped around the waist. The dirty clothes landed at the foot of the bed and he parked himself next to it. Cautiously so as not make his head explode.

Effie wouldn’t let him help with the twins. He offered but all she did was tell him to stay put while she carried them upstairs. One at a time.

Her excited murmurs fluttered in through the wall. A groan, more like a whine, slipped between Haymitch’s lips and he rubbed his face, still dripping from the shower. Big mistake. The room tilted. Like a bloody ship. Aspirin. I need aspirin.

Breathing through his nostrils, he sifted through the pile of yesterday’s clothes. Not a minute in, the silver hip flask dropped to the carpet with a sloshing sound. He peered at, like finding a patch of strawberries. Or a rattlesnake. He hesitated, then plucked it. Cleared his throat. Swallowed what felt like a bucket of phlegm and gave the flask a little shake.

More left than he expected. But then again, Mr. Neighbor Whose-name-He’d-Forgotten had been more than generous last night. All those stowaways in cupboards and cabinets. Apple whiskey. Passion fruit vodka.

He unscrewed the lid. Inhaled. Relished in the sting of those fumes. Inviting. Familiar. Full of promises.

But he could almost hear Effie’s voice, low and dangerous like a Buttercup growl,

“Go ahead. Do it. You’ll be on the next available train before you can say ‘Happy birthday!’”

The words were enough to cork the flask up. He headed for the garment bag instead. The one Effie laid out for him. Draped over an armchair.

The towel dropped to his feet but Haymitch paid it no mind. Curtains were all pulled and no one had any business going in here in the first place. Well, Effie possibly. But she‘d seen him naked so many times she wouldn’t bat an eye.

Z-i-i-i-p!

He peeked inside. Suspiciously.

Hm. At least I won’t be punished with a tuxedo in August.

He draped the outfit across the bed, having a proper look. Yeah, it could’ve been way worse. This was “casual” or pretty close. Something you might wear on the beach. A white floral shirt, patterned with soft green leaves and baby blue … forget-me-nots? Dress pants with room to breathe. Even a pair of underwear.

In short: a worthy male counterpart to Effie’s strawberry dress that she would have worn had he not ballooned her up via a twin pregnancy.

He pulled the shirt on. Worked the buttons, save the last two. Unlike her own self, post-birth, Effie knew his size down to the T. Still! Pants on he ran a hand through his damp hair. Combed it with his fingers.

Really, he’d got off easily.

Don’t fuck this up.

The quest for coffee brought him downstairs. Gray skies. Sun gone. Fingers crossed, they’d make it through today without a downpour.

He had but a second to relish in the empty kitchen before he realized it wasn’t.

Annabel stood by the counter, bent over a glorious chocolate cake the size of a small district. With deft, dexterous motions she piped out buttercream swirls through a star-tip, all along the edges. One more elegant than the last. He recognized the frosting technique from the bakery. And in the middle of the creation: a lone, unlit candle shaped like a teddy bear.

“Hey,” he said to say something. “That is some cake.”

“Thanks,” Annabel replied, eyes on her work. “It’s Eden’s old recipe.”

“That your sister or …?”

“Our nanny. We had many coming through but she was always my favorite. And she baked a chocolate cake every time one of us had a birthday.”

“Must’ve been a lot o’ cake.”

“I guess.”

They lapsed into silence. Annabel wasn’t the kind of woman who cared for pointless chatter and Effie’s spirit loomed over him, nudging him forward.

“I’m really sorry ‘bout last night. Don’t know what the fuck happened. That’s no excuse but …”

“I don’t need your sorrys, Haymitch.”

The words were spoken without anger. Without distance. No more heat behind it had she asked “Can you pass the marmalade?”

Haymitch gave a slight nod. Point taken. His eyes wandered across the room. The stack of plates. The pretty glasses. The napkins yet to be folded. “Something else I can do?”

Annabel’s hands stilled. He just had time to ponder if he said something stupid when she put the star-tip down and looked him straight in the eye. The sight pinched his insides. Chocolate brown eyes, holding within them the ghost of her father. Caesar Flickerman. Whom at the least expected moment would spring forward and send his 16 year old ass flying back into that plush interview chair of long ago.

But this wasn’t Caesar. This was Annabel. Just Annabel.

He waited for the berating, the chew-out, the more than fair scolding. Wondered if she’d serve him a dish he hadn’t already gotten over the years from Effie, Peeta, Katniss, Hazelle … The list was endless really.

Annabel brushed a lock from her forehead. Using her wrist, what with her fingers stained with chocolate. And the words finally uttered were the last he ever expected to spill from her mouth.

“Do you know we had a fall-out? Effie and I.” His surprise must have shown for she nodded. “Oh, yes. This was years ago. Before Kane and Alexander. Even before I became a spy for Plutarch.”

Leaned back, she rested her palms against the edge of the kitchen counter top.

“In the Capitol that Snow molded like a lump of porcelain clay … well, him and Volumnia Gaul, the Trinkets and the Flickermans weren’t even supposed to be friends. We’re all the top 1 % to the rest of Panem but there’s a strict hierarchy also within the city. But I guess Effie’s already told you all about that.

The higher up you go the less important the Trinkets get. There’s a reason you won’t find their name on any tape in any archive. Hunger Games related or otherwise. They’re wealthy enough but new money and trifle in comparison. In the eyes of the big dogs the Trinkets are what their name suggests: Knick-knack. Fool’s gold. Of little value.

We became roommates at the Academy through a simple error, nothing more. One I could have easily corrected had I reported it to professor Sickle. But why on Earth would I? She was so much fun. So fun and full of life. Extremely ambitious. Hungry to prove her worth, up to the point she sometimes didn’t see the forest for all the trees.

And a fashionista, of course. Oh yes. She loved her dresses! I barely knew her family existed but one hour with her and it was like I’d known her all my life. I wish I’d met her sooner.”

The woman fell silent.

“The Flickermans were part of Snow’s circle. The inner circle. One of five grand families moving in his orbit. The Heavensbees were another. The Cranes a third. So while Effie had play dates with people like Flavius Dolittle, I ‘networked’ over at the president’s mansion. From the moment I was born I belonged to Cordelia Snow.”

Haymitch’s eyebrows creased together.

“Cordelia?”

“Yes. His oldest daughter.”

“I thought he only had one.”

“Mm-hm.” Annabel’s voice was dry. “That’s what he wanted people to think at any rate. But he fathered four children, whether he liked it or not. Two boys first, back to back. I reckon a woman in Livia Cardew’s position wouldn’t dare otherwise. Two strong, blonde, sturdy little gentlemen with dimples to carry on his legacy. 18 months apart as is the ideal between your first and secondborn in the Capitol.

Oh, the citizens all but devoured them and it wasn’t until a few years later that they came sniffing back for a baby girl Snow. They adored the idea of a little briar rose. Adored and expected it. And before long, their first lady was pregnant again.

It almost killed her to have her. And the moment the girl was born it got clear something was wrong. Wrong in the eyes of the Capitol, at any rate. The light skin. The snowy hair. The red eyes.”

“Albinism?” Haymitch asked. He’d read about it somewhere. Annabel nodded.

“And there was something wrong with her foot as well. Some kind of birth defect. Even after multiple operations done by the finest surgeons the Capitol had to offer, she still walked with a limp. She was a slip-up in Snow’s eyes. A blunder. A chapter you didn’t particularly like and so you leafed through it as quickly as you could. When the baby was first presented to him, did he entertain thoughts of eliminating her? Seneca once told me that the president, and I quote: ‘takes pride in not being wasteful. He takes life for very specific reasons.’ So, at the end of the day, I guess he saw no reason to kill his infant daughter. Maybe that’s how unimportant she really was to him.

He still needed a girl, of course. A proper girl, worthy the name of Snow. And he got one, years later, despite the doctors’ verdict that his wife would never bear children again. His miracle daughter. A rainbow baby, at least in his book.

After that, Snow wouldn’t give Cordelia the time of day. Not the way he did the two boys and his youngest: ‘A once-in-a-lifetime beauty that people will write poems about.’

His oldest was brushed to the very corner of the Capitol’s eye. ‘Too sickly’ to preside over the Hunger Games or any other televised event alongside her family. The Capitol wasn’t that interested in the gangly, odd-looking, never-smiling girl anyway. Not when they had the little sister with her long eyelashes, lush curls and cute little hand-wave.

You’d think being confined to the mansion like an embarrassment, would turn miss Cordelia into a rebel but no. The little girl worshiped her father. Idolized him. I spent most of my childhood in her company. Apart from Tigris, Cordelia was the lowest of the Snows but she was still a Snow. A piece that would strengthen her father’s empire one day once she came of age. So, she never lacked company. Her rooms were always filled with girls, carefully handpicked. Saplings of prominent family trees going back generations. Not friends. More like ladies-in-waiting. All eager to win her favor, and yet I was the one she gravitated toward. Right from the start. I used to come home covered in bruises from where she pinched me. ‘Love taps’ as the grownups called them.

I think, of all the people in my life – even before my father and my sisters – Cordelia was the first to figure out I like girls. I remember when we were eight or nine, playing with her doll house, just the two of us that day. How those peculiar red eyes bore into mine with a fire that made me cower in fear.

‘Have you ever kissed someone?’ she asked. I didn’t know what to say and she never gave me the chance. Her little hand took mine with the grip of a child getting what she wanted. Then her lips pressed to mine and I was so chocked I couldn’t move. I just sat there – frozen-still, eyes open – until she bit my bottom lip so hard I shrieked and tasted blood.

I was scared to death of her. But I soon realized how dangerous that was. To be anything but delighted in the presence of a Snow. Just as it was dangerous to be anything but delighted when watching the Games.

The Capitol was a prison. A fancy prison but a prison nonetheless. We never suffered the way the districts suffered. Not even close. We didn’t starve. Our names were safe from the reaping bowl. But life under Snow’s reign wasn’t a bed of roses either. Not in the way you may think. For every petal there was a thorn and if you weren’t careful they ripped you to shreds.

Do you know the suicide rate used to be sky-high in the Capitol? Especially among young people. Up to the point Snow created a new law, charging the family a penalty fee if your child jumped in front of a train.

Like most people, I learned to keep my feelings on the inside. Made myself a master of self-control. But back then I was still a child. And I dreaded the Games season every year. Since they wanted Cordelia out of the spotlight, Mrs. Snow arranged slumber parties during those weeks. At the mansion. Just for her daughter and her closest friends.

Big television screens. Loud girls dressed in their finest, packed tightly on sofas and recliners and pillows on the floor.

And food. Tables loaded with delicacies. All of Cordelia’s favorites. Way more than any of us could finish. Plates just carried in and carried out. Hours and days and weeks of leftovers just scraped into the trash while kids, kids like us, starved and died on the screen.

How many of us understood what was really happening? That the scenes played out wasn’t just some pretend reality witnessed through a camera lens? Watching, I wondered if I was going crazy. Wondered why no one seemed bothered by the nightmares unfolding before our eyes. The cold hard reality of those boys and girls pitted against each other. Children whom had done nothing wrong.

Every single one of us spectators were born into families whose wealth and privilege were built upon piles and piles of dead children and we could all stomach it?

I think that’s when my struggle with food first started. During those annual slumber parties. Even years after they released me from the psych ward there were still moments when I gagged on my food because images from the Games flashed in my brain.

Not Cordelia. She soaked up the Games, like a sponge. Each year getting just a little fuller.

They kept animals at the mansion. Snow may not spare her a minute of his time but he never questioned the expenditures when the girl wanted a new puppy. A new goldfish. A batch of kittens. Without hesitation, without remorse she’d stab a tortoise shell with a corn holder. Clip a bunny’s paw with a stapler. Break her songbird’s wing and give it to the cat, watching the warbler fight for its life. I tried to stop her. Truly I did. I begged her to leave her pets alone.”

She held her arms out, palms up. Haymitch’s eyebrows came together getting a clear look on what he’d only glimpsed before. Cuts. Marks. Scratches. Pink reminders, not of Annabel’s unhappy mind like he thought, but a child with sharp objects. Scars not so different from his own.

Her arms dropped to the sides.

“Her own family didn’t care whether she lived or died. She hardly ever got to see the world outside those walls. Maybe torturing creatures smaller and weaker that herself gave her a sense of control. Made her feel big and powerful.

Maybe she hoped it would draw the attention of her father. Show him she was capable of doing what he already did to those children in the arena. In many ways she was his most loyal ally. Maybe he would have noticed, seen the potential in her, had she lived longer.”

To be continued …

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