Trigger Warning: Contains self-harm and references to suicide.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money from writing this.
It wasn't bad at first. Nothing too serious. A scratch here or there, mostly at the spot on her arm where the tracker had been implanted for the Games. Supposedly, it had been taken out after leaving the Arena, but she could still feel it under her skin, a ghost of a sensation tagging her as Capitol property. Most of the time, she could ignore the occasional twinge, but after waking from a nightmare it would burn and itch, a screaming reminder that she would always – no matter where she ran – be theirs.
For awhile, the marks were easy to hide. Fingernail wide paths of bright red hid well enough beneath long sleeves. They didn't bleed, so the fabric didn't stick, and they faded in a matter of days. But Katniss was caught off guard, and the first person who saw them was Prim. With her sleeves rolled up to wash before dinner, there was nothing Katniss could say to explain the angry scratches. Prim's eyes filled with sadness and quickly scanned the length of her sister's pale arm, searching for signs of infection. Finding nothing too alarming, Prim kept silent. She hoped all Katniss needed to recover from the Games was time, but with time things only got worse.
A few months passed, and the nightmares never faded. Neither did the sensation of the tracking device. Scratching ceased to soothe her, and Katniss moved on to a more calculated method of attempted coping. When the skin crawled above where the device had been, she would reach for her hunting knife, roll up her sleeve, and slide the blade against the arm, crimson lines welling up across smooth ivory. Destroying something Capitol – it was their arm now, not hers – stopped the creeping, crawling feeling, and a content sigh escaped her lips as her eyes slid shut. Silence rushed in, closing out the world and blanketing her in a cocoon of nothingness.
If Katniss didn't treat the wounds afterwards, she pretended it was forgetfulness. She couldn't admit, not even to herself, that a small part of her hoped they would infect and fester. Maybe if a fever, a "natural" cause, took her from this world, she could find the release she craved without the associated guilt of leaving behind Prim and her mother. Or so she tried to convince herself.
Gale was the next to notice her dance with destruction. An involuntary wince while aiming her bow easily caught his attention, which was trained to notice details while on a hunt. He grabbed her arm, causing the arrow to loose in the wrong direction, and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of the neat row of lines crossing from elbow to wrist – the nightmares were frequent, and the cutting helped less each time.
"Katniss…" The whisper was a question and an admonition all at once. Gale's brow crinkled in confusion over worried eyes, and Katniss hated herself even more. She was weak, incapable of protecting those she loved from her own chaos. Brusquely, she yanked her arm from Gale's grip, avoiding the unspoken questions. They spent the rest of their outing in silence. Katniss ignored Gale's imploring gaze, and he tried to be patient, knowing full well how stubborn the "girl on fire" could be.
The days were fading one into another, and Katniss was finding it difficult to separate dream from reality. Images of the Arena plagued her night and day, flashbacks coming without warning throughout her waking hours. It wasn't long before the disorientation became too much to handle. Locked in her room, Katniss lost herself in a stash of white liquor she had been stockpiling under her bed for weeks. If Haymitch could drink himself into a stupor every day, why couldn't she?
With the curtains tightly drawn, she didn't know how much times passed – hours, days, weeks – but the empty bottles piled near the door. After getting sick a time or two, she realized drinking on an empty stomach was an idiotic thing to do, but with each swig of alcohol she cared less and less. The burning of the liquid stopped the phantom tracker from crawling in her arm, stopped the memories of gore and death from owning her mind, and that was all that mattered.
Somewhere in her drunken haze, Katniss found herself pressing the hunting knife to her arm, the intent to kill burning in her veins. It, her arm, was a vile thing, polluting the rest of her body with its Capitol smell – which seemed stronger than ever, despite the overwhelming stench of liquor and vomit that clung to the air. One quick slice would rid her of it. She could do it. She would…
The door to the room burst open with an ear shattering crack. Light flooded into the dark cave, blinding Katniss with its dazzling brightness. Someone was standing in the doorway, barging into the room. Peacekeepers? Mutts? Snow? Blind and drunk, she couldn't tell.
Whoever it was came to her side, wrestled the knife away from her, and sent it clattering across the floor. Strong arms wrapped around her body, and alarms sounded in her head. They wouldn't take her back to the Capitol, back to the Games. She wouldn't let them. A wild screech reverberated off of the walls, and she clawed at her captor. Desperately, she flailed about, but the arms caging her were lined with taught muscles and didn't loosen. The liquor made her movements sloppy and weak, and she cursed herself for ever letting a bottle touch her lips.
Behind her, someone was saying something, but through the roar in her ears and the animalistic wails filling the air all she could hear was a low, angry, garble.
Eventually, exhaustion overcame her. Katniss fought against her drooping eyelids, but it was a losing battle. She woke on her bed, head pounding, muscles aching, and stomach churning. Aware of another presence in the room, she bolted upright, immediately regretting the hasty movement. When the world stopped tilting, Katniss opened her eyes and was met by the angry glare of Haymitch Abernathy.
Her former mentor sat in a chair across the room, arms tightly crossed against his chest and a frown line creasing his forehead. Inflamed scratches marred his arms, some crusted with dried blood. Looking down at her hands, Katniss found reddish brown dirt caked under her nails. A cold shiver of shame slid down her spine.
"That was some stunt you pulled, Katniss." He'd used her name, not "sweetheart," and she knew she'd stepped in it deep. "What the hell were you thinking? Thought you'd just check out on us? What about your mother? She's in a frenzy! What about Prim?"
Prim. It was like a bucket of ice water had dumped on her head, and the guilt in her stomach twisted. She'd been so selfish, so stupid. Because of what? A phantom sensation? No, that was just the issue's surface, but her actions had been hasty nevertheless. Ashamed of her careless behavior, Katniss's gaze roamed the disheveled room, anywhere to avoid Haymitch.
A warm hand settled on her shoulder, and Haymitch crouched in front of her, forcing her to look at him. The fury in his Seam gray eyes faded, replaced by something akin to sympathy. "You want to have a drink sometime? Fine. My door's open. Just don't have it alone.
"And this?" Tightly, he grabbed her arm, pointing at the track of cuts fresh and scarred. "Stops now. No more, Katniss."
She had expected a lecture and was prepared to protest, but the solidarity etched across his features stunned her into submission. Haymitch wasn't judging her. He understood what she was going through in a way that Gale, Prim, and her mother never could. Even Peeta couldn't fully relate, despite having been through the Games. He was too good natured, too balanced. But Haymitch was like her, all brashness and swirling energy. What scars did he keep hidden from those who couldn't comprehend?
"You're not in this alone, sweetheart. As long as we keep fighting, they haven't won." Katniss nodded dumbly, as Haymitch rose, knees creaking. The mentor mask slipped back into place, the brief moment of intimacy gone, and he motioned around the room. "Now, clean up this mess. It smells worse in here than my place."
After he left, Katniss gathered the energy to get up and started collecting the empty bottles scattered around her room. She hesitated before picking up the hunting knife. The glinting edge still whispered to her, and her arm cramped. Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed the weapon and carefully stored it where it belonged: with the rest of her hunting gear.
Katniss knew the battle against the darkness within was far from won, but having someone on her side made the resistance seem a little less daunting. No one could keep the nightmares away – not her, not Haymitch – but she didn't have to face them alone. For the time being, it was enough.