a/n- Err.. I wrote this in a hurry because, well, I was bored so this probably isn't my best stuff. I think there a few errors here and there but yeah. I don't own THG or the characters. This is written for the Starvation Forum One shot challenge with this month (June) prompt as to write a famous scene from a book from another Point of View (I dunno why I caps locked that) so I chose the reaping and Haymitch. Glub. (I had one and half hours of math today so I feel just as great as crud) Anyway I'm not gonna waste your time. You know what do. R & R!
On Haymitch lunged forward towards the table, his hands outstretched. His fingers found the rim of the glass and his fingers curled around it. He brought it up to his lips and tipped the bottle, its dull brown contents splashed into his mouth. The fiery liquid burned his throat, its bitterness spread throughout his mouth. He hated it. He hated its taste, the strange sense of incompetence that came with it but it helped. The screams in his head died away till they were nothing more than small voices.
He was tempted to close his eyes, just for a moment. His eyelids fluttered. They closed for a moment, a fraction of a second, but he sprang awake, his heart racing and bounding. There was blood. So much blood when he closed those bloodshot eyes. He struggled to get up, the floor swirled and tilted and he crashed about the room. His elbow knocked into a lamp and it fell to the floor with a crash, spraying glass everywhere. He reached out and he grabbed a fist full of the curtains and steadied himself. The red rivers still flowed, the silent tearing of hearts still resounded in his ears. He needed more. More poison to drive the crazy out of his head. He gulped it down, his vision still reducing to nothing more than a mixed up sea of colors. It burned him from inside, eating away the little sanity he had.
Someone came into the room, a woman perhaps. Her face looked strange but familiar, he couldn't place it though. He could only see bits of her pale white face that hid behind her bright pink hair. The annoyance in her eyes however, was unmistakable. He lunged at the door, pushing her against the wall in the process but he hardly cared. She let out a cry and watched him storm onto the stage, dead drunk and still drinking.
He turned around and saw it. He'd been here before. It was the same. The same stage, the same bowl, the same podium. The same faces, all swimming in his vision, swirling and twirling. He fell into the chair and stared at the sky. The blue sky looked so clear, so definite, so reassuring. He let out a half strangled laugh. He could feel all the eyes on him, looking away in disgust. He was going to be the future of two of the miserable lambs chosen for slaughter. And all that lay ahead for them was anything but a blue sky. He cried out, lost between a sob and laughter. People came and went, they spoke words he didn't really understand, words he didn't care about. He tipped the bottle and let it flow into his mouth like a river. He watched the pink lady dip her hand into the bowl of fortune. Her hands grazed the papers, her fingers swam around, searching for a one in particular. One that would send yet another picture of a young girl onto the family wall of photo frames. And she did. He didn't hear the name, he didn't want to hear the name. She was going to become something like a rainy cloud. Something that would come and go. The usual commotion happened, sobs screams and weeps. He stuffed the bottle's neck into his mouth, emptying whatever was left. He didn't know what burned more, the guilt or liquid; he was to numb to feel anything. And then he saw her.
She walked up, straight and steady. Not sobbing like they usually did, not weeping or crying. Her face was almost emotionless. But he could see her eyes, wild with fear. He wasn't new to this. He saw it each morning he woke up. Her eyes shone with a strange defiance, she showed promise. Something clicked in him. Something changed in him that day. Suddenly he was tired. Tired of having their blood on his hands. He dumped the alcohol onto his face and let it flow down. It stung his eyes but he forced them open. He couldn't hold on anymore; he was just tired. It was time to count his sins; those photos hanging on the walls. He found the courage to face them, to stare at them in the eye this time. He watched them walk onto the stage, the boy and the girl. He got up and left the stage, bottle still in his hand. He walked and then just paused and hesitated. He placed it down and found another. He opened it and tipped it in. Still trying to chase the crazy out of his head. But this time it would change. He won't have more blood on his hands. Their blood on his hands.