A/N: written as a birthday gift for Ellana-San on an angst prompt. I'd say enjoy but ._.
The quote is from BBC's The Hour. I just find it very Haymitch-ish. Post Mockingjay.
I must have slipped from the couch because I startle awake feeling like I'm falling and I'm sitting on the floor, my back hurts, the lights are out and the room is silent.
There is a fifty percent chance I'm at home in Twelve and I squint in the dark to make out the outlines of my living room, but my mind if so foggy I can't decide if the carpet I'm petting is the spotless soft one in the penthouse or the soiled and worn out covering the bare wooden floor at home. The smell should give it away but I must be still drunk, I can't feel anything.
I don't even try to move, the room is spinning so I close my eyes.
I imagine myself in my house in Twelve. The woods are alive somewhere outside the window, the old staircase is cracking, the buzz of the fridge in the kitchen lulls me back to slumber. Until slender fingers tangle in my hair and brush it off my forehead.
If I were in Twelve then she'd be a ghost.
In the dark I find the bottle I've been drinking from and take a sip.
I try to imagine myself in the Capitol, sitting on the penthouse carpeted floor, the muffled nightlife noises outside the windows, the soft padding of Effie's bare feet and the shuffling of silk as she fetches a damp cloth to place on my forehead.
The cold fingertips pressed against my skin could still be the grip of a ghost or the soothing touch of a lover. The silent proof I'm not alone. She presses wet lips on my temple and hums to lull me back to sleep. I grip her hand tighter swearing to never let go.
When I open my eyes the sun is drawing stripes on the wooden floor through the heavy courtains of my living room and I'm drenched in sweat and alcohol spilled from the bottle I let roll a few steps away.
I try to swallow but my throat is dry and sore, I try to stand up and I find my hand in a puddle of my own vomit. The unforgiving smell of human waste makes my stomach turn and I retch again.
I shower, make coffee, throw it away, brush my teeth. I clean up the mess I made as best I can and take out the garbage. Empty bottles mostly.
At lunch I'm sitting on a lopsided stool at Greasy Sae's chewing on pretended rabbit stew. A visit at the Hob provides a week worth of liquor to bring home.
As night falls slowly outside I stretch on the couch and close my eyes, taking a tentative swing at the new bottle. In the dead of night I hope she'll be whispering in my ear. Sometimes she wraps her cold hands around my neck, sometimes she squeezes, strangling me. Most times I wish she did. For I can only meet her when I'm drunk now.
Whiskey's God's way of letting us know he loves us and he wants us to be happy.