|| don't think || I || could forgive you || [lethe/patricia]

Lethe Turner

For the first time since Lethe had come home from her own Games, being home in District Five was not at all like being home. The cameras followed, closely preceding the stylists and escorts and scripts that Patricia had to follow and flowers Lethe had to hold in the background as she smiled and waved with her fellow Victor.

It was exhausting.

At nights, Lethe collapsed into bed with her family, her ankles swollen, hands rubbing her protruding belly. She took to asking Eden to sleep in bed with her and Jasper just so she could run her fingers through her daughter’s blonde curls and ask about her day. It was a tight fit with Lethe’s belly, Eden’s long legs, Jasper’s broad shoulders and Camalia’s skittering frame, but they made it work. It was the only time all of them could be together after all.

During the day, Lethe was made beautiful again, the circles under her eyes covered with make-up, her enlarged feet forced into tiny heels before being promptly made to serve as a prop to Patricia’s events. Luckily, for now, this was all within District Five. Once Patricia left for the Victory Tour Lethe would find peace.

It was yet another dinner night with Patricia in the Justice Building. The past ones had been spent with the more important people dominating the conversation—the mayor to Patricia, Capitol officials to Patricia—completely ignoring Lethe, which suited her just fine. Since she had been told it would be a smaller dinner with no cameras, Lethe was free to dress herself. Jasper helped her pile her blonde hair atop her head in a bun and she tiredly put on minimal make-up. Jasper walked her to the Justice Building while Camalia rode on Lethe’s shoulder; Eden was over at her grandmother’s, being pampered no doubt, and Jasper was clearly already dreading having to go over there and make conversation with Mrs. Turner, so they walked slowly. They were too exhausted to make any sort of exchanges, but Jasper held her hand protectively over his wife’s belly until they reached the building where he kissed her good-bye and slumped off into the darkness.

Once inside, Lethe was met by the mayor of District Five. Giving her a small smile, she asked, “Will you be joining the dinner tonight?”

There came an awkward silence. Then, a forced grin and a, “Well, Mrs. Turner, we thought it might be best if you and Miss. Valfierno got to know one another…”

And, just like that, Lethe found herself sitting across from the new Victor herself. Her stomach fluttered. She’d never faced the girl head-on before and it took all of two seconds for Lethe to immediately bow her head and focus solely on her food. The girl’s eyes burned deeper than her hair.

Had Lethe taken the time to get to know Patricia beforehand, perhaps had visited her on the train or maybe even had lunch with her, things might be different. But, Lethe, still clinging to her brother’s ghost, had no time to face skeletons.

Forks clanged on dishes and beverages were sipped in stifling silence.

Where had her insight been? Patricia’s hands were on the table, pale skin, painted fingernails, blue veins where within blood flowed. There was a bitter taste in Lethe’s mouth as she hastily chewed her food.

There was something terribly cold in the air between them, a cloud of frost hanging across the terribly short table that separated them. Lethe crossed and uncrossed her legs uncomfortably under her stomach, trying to mask the sound of her rumbling stomach with the sound of rustling taffeta. Servants darted in and out of the room, exchanging nervous looks, replacing dishes and filling glasses. One dropped a fork and the sound echoed. All the while, Lethe shoveled food in her mouth to avoid being the first one to start on the conversation. Her insides twisted and her heart was racing. An eighteen year old had the power to make her quiver.

When dessert finally rolled around, Lethe reached for glass of red wine—a little bit wouldn’t hurt, her doctor said so. It would help her sleep. However, just as she was lifting the glass, her stomach gave a lurch she hadn’t yet felt at all during her pregnant—a kick. In her surprise, a little gasp escaped her mouth and the glass, teetering precariously between her fingertips, was released and fell with a crash to the table. Red wine flowed across the table, over Camalia who skittered atop a cake, and over the edge. Lethe’s little gasp of joy turned into a full-on cry as she stood, table jolting and clanging as it bumped her belly, napkin brandished.

“I’m so sorry!” she shrieked, face burning, holding her napkin out to Patricia whose lap was turning red. “I didn’t mean to…it was an accident.”

And yet, spoken aloud, her apology sounded feeble.