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murphypendletonThe thing is, nobody ever talks about what it’s like after you win the Hunger Games. You know about the big house and the money, the never really having to worry about material possessions (barring tremendous fuckup), the wealth given to your district and even the dubious prestige of being given the title of Victor. Nobody tells you what you’re supposed to do with yourself or your life. They don’t tell you how to cope, how to adjust, how to live with what you’ve been through.
Murphy doesn’t adjust well. He does about the exact opposite of adjusting He comes back to his district a quiet wreck, disoriented and suddenly unable to recognize himself in mirrors anymore. All he can think of is the arena, the blood and the death and the pain. There’s an electrical burn across his face that isn’t there anymore. There’s cuts, bruises, scars that should be there that aren’t; the Capitol scrubbed him clean of every bit of evidence that the Games ever happened. He stares at his face in the window of the train ride home and he’s sure it’s not really him he’s looking at. It’s a feeling he can’t quite shake.
He never says it, but it’s why he ends up ruining all the Capitol’s hard work on his face with a hunting knife. He has a particularly bad morning; he opens his eyes to the tribute from 4’s face looking at him from the ground beside him, her head split open. He doesn’t really remember how he got the hunting knife or how he got started, but he comes to covered in blood with the side of his face sliced open and torn, a very upset Travis prying the knife away from him. Travis never asks why. He just helps Murphy clean himself up and stitches that wound as best as he can until they can get him actual medical treatment.
Murphy refuses it, he wants it to scar. Travis knows well enough to not argue with this kid, so he leaves him be. Murphy goes back to spend the rest of his days like a zombie while he waits for the Victory Tour to begin. It doesn’t bother him that he’s even less inclined to look people in the district in the eyes now; the giant, angry wound kind of draws their gazes to his face, though, and he wishes he’d thought of that.
The first dog is a half-dead mutt on the side of the road, covered in filth and visibly wounded, huddled under the dubious protection provided by the rusting remains of logging equipment. He stumbles across it on his way back home one evening, and at first he’s fairly certain it’s dead already. The only thing that gives it away as still alive is the little wag its tail makes when he approaches. It’s so little, some kind of herding dog, floppy-eared and small. It looks like a shaggy mottled grey but honestly, he can’t tell much of what’s under the grime and he’s not sure it even matters. He’s certain it won’t last the night, though, if it even makes it through the hour. There’s nothing he can do about it. It’s futile. He has to swallow his feelings on it and walk away. Maybe putting it out of its misery would have been the humane thing but he’s never been able to kill a dog.
He tries to forget about it.
A few hours later, he’s wandering back down the road with a blanket to fetch the dog. It’s stupid, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t have anything else better to do.
He cleans her up and tends to her wounds as best as he can. She’s in rough shape, half-starved and wounded, missing a sizeable chunk of her left ear, but she’s also a cute little thing. Under that thick layer of filth she’s a pretty mix of oranges and white, not much older than a puppy. And even though she has to be in pain she spends the whole time trying to crawl in his lap and lick his face.
He falls asleep on the bathroom floor with this stray dog curled up against his chest. He still has the nightmares, he still wakes up sweat-drenched and shaking, to horrific images of dead tributes. But it’s easier with the dog’s presence there to reassure him it’s not real, after all. When it rains and he inevitably breaks down, she’s there to remind him he’s not in the Arena anymore.
He names her Daisy, and she never really strays far from him, not even while she’s still too injured to really walk around much. It doesn’t matter because he totes her right along with him, even with him during the Victory Tour. Having her with him gets him to actually talk to people – to socialize, even if he still refuses to look anyone in the eye, because everyone wants to meet the puppy. Well, except his Capitol Escort. It’s hard to say if the dog or the big scar on Murph’s face bothers his Escort and Stylist more but they only attempt to fix one of those problems, and it’s not the dog.
Murphy doesn’t adjust well. He does about the exact opposite of adjusting He comes back to his district a quiet wreck, disoriented and suddenly unable to recognize himself in mirrors anymore. All he can think of is the arena, the blood and the death and the pain. There’s an electrical burn across his face that isn’t there anymore. There’s cuts, bruises, scars that should be there that aren’t; the Capitol scrubbed him clean of every bit of evidence that the Games ever happened. He stares at his face in the window of the train ride home and he’s sure it’s not really him he’s looking at. It’s a feeling he can’t quite shake.
He never says it, but it’s why he ends up ruining all the Capitol’s hard work on his face with a hunting knife. He has a particularly bad morning; he opens his eyes to the tribute from 4’s face looking at him from the ground beside him, her head split open. He doesn’t really remember how he got the hunting knife or how he got started, but he comes to covered in blood with the side of his face sliced open and torn, a very upset Travis prying the knife away from him. Travis never asks why. He just helps Murphy clean himself up and stitches that wound as best as he can until they can get him actual medical treatment.
Murphy refuses it, he wants it to scar. Travis knows well enough to not argue with this kid, so he leaves him be. Murphy goes back to spend the rest of his days like a zombie while he waits for the Victory Tour to begin. It doesn’t bother him that he’s even less inclined to look people in the district in the eyes now; the giant, angry wound kind of draws their gazes to his face, though, and he wishes he’d thought of that.
The first dog is a half-dead mutt on the side of the road, covered in filth and visibly wounded, huddled under the dubious protection provided by the rusting remains of logging equipment. He stumbles across it on his way back home one evening, and at first he’s fairly certain it’s dead already. The only thing that gives it away as still alive is the little wag its tail makes when he approaches. It’s so little, some kind of herding dog, floppy-eared and small. It looks like a shaggy mottled grey but honestly, he can’t tell much of what’s under the grime and he’s not sure it even matters. He’s certain it won’t last the night, though, if it even makes it through the hour. There’s nothing he can do about it. It’s futile. He has to swallow his feelings on it and walk away. Maybe putting it out of its misery would have been the humane thing but he’s never been able to kill a dog.
He tries to forget about it.
A few hours later, he’s wandering back down the road with a blanket to fetch the dog. It’s stupid, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t have anything else better to do.
He cleans her up and tends to her wounds as best as he can. She’s in rough shape, half-starved and wounded, missing a sizeable chunk of her left ear, but she’s also a cute little thing. Under that thick layer of filth she’s a pretty mix of oranges and white, not much older than a puppy. And even though she has to be in pain she spends the whole time trying to crawl in his lap and lick his face.
He falls asleep on the bathroom floor with this stray dog curled up against his chest. He still has the nightmares, he still wakes up sweat-drenched and shaking, to horrific images of dead tributes. But it’s easier with the dog’s presence there to reassure him it’s not real, after all. When it rains and he inevitably breaks down, she’s there to remind him he’s not in the Arena anymore.
He names her Daisy, and she never really strays far from him, not even while she’s still too injured to really walk around much. It doesn’t matter because he totes her right along with him, even with him during the Victory Tour. Having her with him gets him to actually talk to people – to socialize, even if he still refuses to look anyone in the eye, because everyone wants to meet the puppy. Well, except his Capitol Escort. It’s hard to say if the dog or the big scar on Murph’s face bothers his Escort and Stylist more but they only attempt to fix one of those problems, and it’s not the dog.
