A Mayor's Last Words

What's it like being the mayor of the least prestigious, ridiculed and poorest district?

Hard, I tell you. Plain, cruel, difficult.

It's tough when the district hardly gets enough to eat on average, when the winters are cold and the population halves due to starvation, when I report what little progress there is at annual mayor meetings. When my fellow mayors nod and agree to whatever I say, when I know they'll be mocking me and my district behind my back.

My wife, she's dead.

Or nearly dead anyway, you wouldn't be able to tell by the way she sleeps slumped back, eyes closed. The only reminder that she's still alive is her constant whining existence. "Is the medicine ready? Are these blankets cotton? Is my tea made?"

And the question I hate most of all. "So, how's Madge, my daughter, going?"

Madge, the bouncing baby girl she was when she was two.

The cheerful curious child she used to be.

The sloppy spoilt teenager she is now.

You would think I'd be happy to be father of such an amazing girl, looks and all. But in reality, she's got nothing up there – she's empty.

Who did this to her, I do not know.

She needed a mother, she needed a women in her life, she needed some guidance and role model of how to act and behave, perhaps I didn't give her enough. Always attending meetings to get the district up to scratch (which it never is), perhaps I'm the one to blame.

But she's empty, she doesn't speak a word, she doesn't contemplate much thoughts, her actions don't involve much aside from daily involuntary things like eating, and sleeping, and playing the occasional piano piece. She's useless. She's oblivious. No – I'm oblivious. I don't know what goes on in her mind half the time. It's as if I don't know her at all. I don't know my own daughter.


The Reapings – they're a joke.

Everyone knows District twelve is hardly up to scratch, and would never sport anyone worthy of such a game. Yet they persist in tormenting us anyway, showing what weaklings we produce. Every year, when I see the tributes heading off to the train carriage, I see all their thoughts fly to the food they would be able to consume; I see long-practiced calmness and oblivion at the prospect of death. They know what they're in for, they've seen it been played all their lives, the games are just another topping to their bleak miserable lives. Who did this to them? Who made the people of District twelve mindless, hapless zombies with nothing on their minds apart from their next meal? I did, I'm responsible for all of District twelve's failures.

Which hurts you know.

That's why this year, when Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were chosen, I pretend not to care. I show no emotion, because if I do, I'll be hurting again when they die.

It's roughly an hour past the reaping, I'm shaking their hands, individually. But this time, I see something apart from the usual scared and thin tributes. I don't know what I see. I've lost faith in my vision long time ago. But then I see something. I see something so worthwhile in the female tribute that I can't help but say, "I wish I had a daughter like you."

Perhaps I should learn to eat my words.

I do worry. I do think.

I care.

Xxx xxx xxx

Author's Note: I wrote this fanfiction because when I was reading the books, I didn't think much of the mayor of District twelve. He was just there to be there, but when I delved further into the series I started to really think about him, and his character and life, and I started to feel sorry for him. Imagine being the mayor of one of the most poorest, uneducated districts and not being able to do anything about it?

So I wrote this fanfiction to show how I felt.

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


P.S. I know he doesn't say those words in the books but oh well…