your fame // my infamy [Valfierno Sisters] {tw}

The wilting summer is ageing, straining under a swelling sun who's faint rays struggle to break through the ever-more-frequent and expansive cloud sheets that drift in from the east. The ancient oaks and royal maples that encase the District, magnificent in the peak of the just-gone solstice, now seem tired, their vibrant green leaves alight in a blaze of volatile orange. This time of year always takes me back to when I was a kid; I was allowed to stay out for as long as the sun hadn't sunk below the hills in the west. When the Aspens that line the same cliff-faces blossomed yellow, they were like torches signalling the end of the Hunger Games. Autumn was here, that meant shorter days, and a subdued peacetime that was both celebrated and resented.

Now, this limbo between Hunger Games means something completely different. It's returning home, it's no more extravagant dresses or formal dinners, it's no more forced smiles, withheld opinions, or having to be someone I'm not to protect the people I care about. My life is split in half, and this half is all I've been thinking about for the past four months.

Home is comfort, it's being myself. I can do what I want, go where I want. I have no schedule, no commitments. I can live the life that I won in that Arena, a life of comfort and isolation.

In Victor's Village, at the very centre of my world, I find that everything is still; mostly the same as I left it. The gardens are professionally maintained, no doubt several crews of gardeners worked on it whilst we were gone. The spring tulips have been replaced by crocuses and hyacinths, whilst the shaped hedges are browning, becoming more brambly as they shed their leaves. The statue of Lethe has weathered somewhat, like it too went through the same hardships that my sister-in-blood did this year.

And then it hits me like a cold wind, running through the hole in my chest and wrenching at my gut. Eden isn't coming home this year. I turn on the spot, gazing at the empty courtyard of our fenced-off, ghost-town village, my eyes moving to the only other occupied residence, the next door to mine. Lethe isn't back yet. Something tells me she never will be. Not in the same way.

I return home, a brown paper back of groceries tucked under my arm. Visits to the marketplace aren't as awkward as they used to be. People used to give me strange looks and avoid me, at least initially, there was an uncertainty. These days, it's much liked it used to be. This is a small town, an honest town. Everyone knows who I am, but out of respect they treat me normally. It makes me proud to be from Five, I feel part of a community, despite what I've done and what I've gone through.

I close the front door behind me and set the supplies down on the kitchen table, taking out the meats and placing them in the freezer so that they'll last the month. The cheeses, milk, and smaller meats go lazily in the fridge, my lack of organisation meaning that the space isn't used as efficiently as it could be; cartons and cans are piled on top of each other, some out of date, some not. When I'm away, Rose has to shop for herself, when she's here.

I stand still, listening to the wood of the house breathe. I can't hear movement, and I exhale involuntarily.

Rose has been a ghost for the past four years. She's drifted in and out of my life as suits her, sometimes cheerful, but in that glee also suggestive, pressuring me for money or something else that she selfishly needed at the time. In other cases she was not in such a good state, either aggressively high or on in a life-threatening comedown.

She's an addict, and that's something that I've had to live with. Fuck knows I've tried to ignore it, wipe it from my mind, not because I'm cruel or selfish, but because it was what was best for her. She may spite me now, but isolation was what she needed. Cut-off, reflection, rock-bottom.

And fuck, we've been to rock-bottom before.

I even used, more than I'd care to admit to Rose. There's me being protective again, just like I always have been. Too proud to show I'm weak, but a fucking hypocrite to the very core.

By some divine fate, the door swings open, and she's there, standing gaunt in the frame of the house that I killed to get us. The house she never occupies, instead choosing drug dens and alleyways. Just like old times. Maybe there's a comfort in that.

She is wearing a dress, one that's very unlike her. I fold my arms and lean against the wall of the open-plan kitchen, trying to assess the state that Rose is in. She seems... well. I swallow, and step forwards. She looks clean. My stomach flutters at the thought of that, and I want to run and hug her, tell her how well she looks, and ask how she's doing, if she's still using, and if she isn't how proud I am, but I don't. I don't, because I am done getting my hopes up. I'm done getting hurt.

"Trish I-" She stops, clearing her throat, as if she has forgotten herself, "Patricia, can I speak with you?"

She never calls me Patricia.

"Please?" She pushes, nervously.

What did I do to make my little sister so afraid of me. The girl who I fought tooth-and-nail to keep alive on those streets, on those cold nights, with dangerous men lurking. Rose, who alone kept me going in the Arena. She was the light at the end of the tunnel. I did everything for her, I killed for her.

And I don't think she can stand me anymore.

We're not the same, we don't feel like sisters, it's like we're strangers now.

"You can always speak to me, Rose." I try to smile, but I'm pretty sure it's sad and empty, a smile of regret and guilt.