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“... are to be reaped from their existing pool of Victors.”
It’s like hearing my name called by Drusilla all those years ago.
It’s wrong. A punch to the gut that sickens me instantly, folding me over, making the scar across my stomach scream out. The realisation settles in — I’m a tribute. I’m going to compete in the Hunger Games. I’m going to die.
All over again.
The horror of the Games has never truly left me, not even after decades. But at least now, with nobody I love left to harm, with my image successfully tarnished, with me backed, shuddering, into the corner of my stinking pit never to raise a finger against Snow again, I am supposed to be safe. I am supposed to be free. I have no family, no girl, no children that they can harm. As a victor, I am untouchable.
It’s all undone in those few simple words.
A roar rips through my throat, rattling my shutters, and the bottle in my hand hurtles through the air towards the television where it shatters against President Snow’s face. But he is unscathed, unblinking. From over there, safe in the Capitol, he cannot bleed; meanwhile my ribs have caved in, crushing my heart into nothing more than crimson pulp.
I’ve risen from my seat — my plush, comfortable sofa upon which I am supposed to be safe — and stand, heaving breaths, in the centre of the room.
It's dark. The murky glow from the television is the only light in the room. I'm alone. This house hasn't seen another soul in probably twenty years. It's just what Snow wanted: for me to be crushingly, debilitatingly alone — to have nobody to turn to, no matter what I feel.
I swipe at the tears that have begun to roll down my cheeks. Fuck this. I need to get drunk. Drunker than I ever have before.
I’m on my knees, pawing through the piles of junk in the cupboard under the sink, where I know I stored my strongest liquor some years ago. It’s stuff I was too scared to drink for fear of going blind… or worse. It’s stuff that was never meant to be consumed.
There are four bottles of it, coated in a fuzzy blanket of dust, but as I yank them all out, I stop. I eye their thin, clear liquid. So unassuming. Like water. But if I drink them all, I’ll probably die.
Hell, maybe I should just do it. Finally. I've been threatening it for years. Maybe I should stop being such a damn coward and just do it already. It's been a long time coming. I am nothing. No one would care. No one needs me. No one would miss me—
There's a slight scuffing noise behind me. I turn at once and see through the darkness a shape; a body; a person. Tall. Broad. Enemy. Threat. Career—
My knife is out of my belt in a second; I surge upward with all my strength and slash it through the air before me, but two muscled arms shoot out and grab my wrists. Shit! They’ve got me, one large hand squeezing my wrist, making my fingers open and the knife fall to the floor.
“Haymitch!” I realise he's been calling my name all this time. But only now that I get a full look of his face does the ringing in my ears subside and his voice come through. “Haymitch!”
Peeta's shaking me, urgency burning in his clear blue eyes. I wrench myself free of his grasp, heaving breaths, and lean back against the kitchen counter. “What the hell do you want?” I pant at him.
But Peeta's back on my arm at once, hand gripping my shoulder like his life depends on it. “Haymitch, please. You gotta do this for me.”
His words shoot through the haze in my brain and my heart sinks in my chest — so deep down I fear a dark hole might suck it up. I know what’s coming. Even so, I have to ask. “What?”
Peeta looks just as crazed as I felt a mere moment ago: his golden curls are wild and windswept, and the sturdy hand on my shoulder is shaking. “The… the Quell.”
“Yeah?”
“You watched it?”
I grit my teeth. “Yeah.”
I watch Peeta’s jaw tremble, his eyes fill with tears. “They’re sending her back in.”
Her. Katniss. Of course that’s what he cares about. “And one of us, too, don’t you know?”
“Haymitch.” His voice turns suddenly stern, almost dark — his grip on my shoulder strengthens as though to pierce the skin, and his brow furrows until those oceanic eyes disappear into the depths. “You have to help me save her.”
I begin to open my mouth, but he cuts me off.
“We can’t control whose name Effie will pull out, but if it’s yours, I’ll volunteer.” And then, as if predicting my next words: “You can’t stop me.”
I huff out of my nose.
“And if my name is pulled, Haymitch, don’t volunteer for me. You can’t. You have to let me go back in, to protect her—”
“Value your own life, boy!” I spit out bitterly. “You still have something to live for!”
“Not without her,” he replies, and suddenly he looks so young, so small. He’s still just a boy, besotted with his one true love.
… He’s the same age I was when I lost Lenore Dove.
I wrench myself free of Peeta’s grip and shake him off. No, I can’t think of that name. Not here, not now.
“You have to promise me,” Peeta continues, coming to my side.
I crouch down by the sink once more, collecting the bottles that rolled away when he showed up. “I don’t have to promise you anything,” I reply.
Peeta’s voice hardens. “Hey, you owe me, remember?”
I scoff. “I don’t remember much, kid, and I sure as hell don’t remember owing you.”
His boot, still wet with melted snow, steps on the bottle I’m about to pick up, pinning it to the floor. “Last year, you chose her.”
It stops me. I stare down at the floor tiles, unable to meet his gaze.
“When you had a choice between me and Katniss, you chose Katniss. Remember that?”
I don’t answer. He knows.
“So you kinda owe me a favour now, don’t you think? Don’t you think you can do this one little thing for me, since last time you left me to die?”
With a ‘tsk’, I yank the bottle from beneath his shoe. “So I let you volunteer in my place if I’m reaped. And if you’re reaped, I keep quiet? Let you go back in?”
“That’s right,” says Peeta from above me.
“She won’t forgive me for that, you know.”
“I don’t care.”
I line all the bottles up on the shelf under the sink. My fingers close around the neck of one, and I eye it in my hand as I stand back up. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’ll make much difference.”
“I don’t care,” he says again.
“They rigged this reaping, made these entire Games, specifically to get rid of her. You know that, right?”
“You can’t let her die!” Peeta’s voice is rising. “You have to make sure she lives!”
“Wake up, boy!” I step towards him, and snap my fingers in front of his face. “Do you seriously think they’d let her win again!?”
But then… I remember the news. As I sat miserable on the Victory Tour train, Effie had turned on the television hanging from the wall. Capitol News, just after wrapping up the weather report, came out with a breaking headline. The next Head Gamemaker had been announced.
And it was Plutarch Heavensbee.
The name had made my neck snap up. His grand attempt in the 50th Hunger Games had failed, and while he’d escaped completely unsuspected, he’d kept his head down ever since. Whether he’d made any further moves in his little plan for rebellion, I never cared to find out, but… Head Gamemaker. A District 12 girl inciting a rebellion. Uprisings in multiple districts. And now, putting that rebel figurehead back in the arena, where the Head Gamemaker can pull at her like a lab rat on strings?
Something is happening. The president craves her death, but the president isn’t the Head Gamemaker. Plutarch will have a plan.
And with me outside of the arena this time, I might actually stand a chance of helping.
Peeta’s mouth is open, but he can’t find words. There are tears in his eyes again, and God, he’s just a little kid. He’s just me at sixteen: a boy faced with losing his Lenore Dove.
“Ugh, c’mere,” I grunt, and drag him into a hug. His arms tighten around me, head burying into my shoulder, and he starts to sob.
It’s now that I realise that before, I was wrong. This house has seen somebody else in this past year.
These kids.
I’m not as alone as I thought I was. While I thought I had nobody, there were actually these two little lives, and not only do they seem to care for me, but they rely upon me.
As Peeta finally releases me, I look down at my fist, still clutching a bottle of liquor strong enough to kill me. I sigh. I place the bottle back on the shelf, and close the door.