granny mathilda hope! D8 fin

"Why don't you get Horace to help you."

"He's dead, dear."

"Oh, right." her sister says over the phone. 

They sit in silence for a second, "I miss that stupid man," a stupid, stupid man. Never married, those two, she never could remarry after Godifrey. Cheat on him, sure, what's a girl got to lose, but there is a twang of loyalty that comes with the last name. 

Hope, something so tangible. When she had first married Godifrey, she thought he would be mayor one day. With a jawline like that, she'd dig her hands in his beard back in their adolescence. He was always such a confident man, going to school for public union and she had always wanted to be a model. To elevate her work at the factories, to be the manniquinn. 

The mold. 

"Why don't you call up one of Pierre's kids-"

"Because they're dead too, Jennifer, they're all fucking dead!" 

Except for Preston, "don't you ever check the damn news, Jen, good grief," the gall of some women. Mathilda crossed her good leg, her left still sat on the ground with the cane leaning against the chair. Few things stayed until old age -- memories, men (#1, #2 and #3), but she'd be damned if she died ugly. Mathilda wafts her hair and pushes her glasses back atop her sharp nose. "You know I don't, Hilda, I haven't been able to read since the cataracts!"

"Oh, hell-A HAHA," she slapped her bad knee, grimacing just a little in the pain. Jennifer laughed over the phone as well, being old in panem was like being rich or being fat: it ain't for everyone. She wasn't thankful- she had practically only stayed alive to spite her first husband, Godifrey. And Birdie, as well. 

Teach that girl that a bad bitch don't die easy. 

Mathilda's never been one to sympathize, but to push. If a Bird - or Birdie - refuses to fly, there isn't much a mother can do. Only thing is, she couldn't say she had really tried to much with her last daughter; the first eight were torture enough, and the only one worth a damn was Pierre. She called him over from the mayor's office, sitting in that leather seat in a position he must have gotten from his father. 

Godifrey would be so proud. 

"Pierre, you big old mama's boy, hurry up and get your mother a drink-"

"I'm working, mum."

"And I am on the phone with your Aunt Jennifer," she holds her hands over the wrong end of the phone, "and unless you want to entertain the blind bitch for the next thirty minutes until her caretaker comes, I recommend you get me a drink!" He groans, taking a second look at his stack of papers. Being a mayor must be so exhausting; even more exhausting to be the mother of one.

Jennifer's complaining over the phone, saying something along the lines of "I'm not deaf, you stupid fuckin nut" as Mathilda is pulling her glasses below her eyes, watching her son like a hawk. Preston would have done it; hell, Blackston would have been saying words she didn't even understand, while pouring him a glass too. It was so damn easy to be her favorite relative, especially when he was the only one not moping around, acting useless.

They may not be living in paradise, but hell, if there's a glass of wine any day can be a good one. 

"A - fucking - hem, Pierre."

"Do I need to get a phone installed-" he looks up from his paper, "at the nursery's?"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Distracting the mayor, dangerous business, don't doubt it, mum."

She groaned in the way she had to unfold her legs and fend for herself. Disrespectfully, even. Mathilda pursed her lips as her son clenched his jaw until eventually she'd give in and get up on her own. "I will be back in a second, Jen,"

"Hild, did you hear a word I just said."

Mathilda puts the phone down and struggles to pick herself up, pressing her body weight into the cane. She looks at Pierre once more before continuing to pull herself together. Perhaps it was the first glass of wine, her limp knee, or her pulling this entire stunt in the first place, but she found it pitiful how little Pierre budged. She wobbles from the back side of the mayor's office to the shelf six feet away, draping her fur coat back over her chest and grabbing the bottle by the neck.

Next time she needed a drink, she'd just suck from the damn tit.

It's held to her chest, a pursed lip as she continued to glare at Pierre. "Yes, mum?" Pleased with himself, the right dickhead, she can only sigh as she makes her way back over the treacherous six feet. A part of her loved being hard on that boy, of all her children, Pierre always made sure she was at least entertained. 

"Pierre, honey," she fell into the chair harder than intended, "ugh- you, you would never put me in a home, would you?"

He hadn't looked up from his paper, but he definitely hesitated. Or focused, but Mathilda wouldn't credit him that much, "no, mum, you're more of a danger there than at home."

"Aww, that's my little Pierre," she felt a twang of love in the sarcasm. 

Mathilda picks up the phone, taking a swig from the white wine, enjoying how bitter and slick it was. 

"Mathilda, did you hear me?"

Glug, "what now, Jen."

"Birdie may be pregnant- again."

She spits her wine onto the wall. 

"Fuckin' HELL!"