Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games; it belongs to Suzanne Collins and respectively to Scholastic. I do not own the quotes used later on. They are placed there for accuracy only. After all, this is only a fanfiction.
Author's Note: It's written for the Countdown to Mockingjay contest. It's about Haymitch and Maysilee, about drinking and District Thirteen. I hope you all like it. (P.S. There're a couple "bad" words. Probably nothing a person who reads a book about a massacre can't handle.)
-Allie
. . .
His Escape
. . .
The bottle of white wine shines. People tell him not to drink. They make deals with him, as the two victors of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games have. Some drink with him, as the tribute for the third annual Quarter Quell has. But drinking is his escape from reality. It is his release.
Haymitch stares out through the window of his temporary bedroom. He sees absolutely nothing. Who thought of putting a window in an underground hole, anyhow? He curses under his breath as one of his hands reaches up to touch the scratches on his face, caused by Katniss in a state of horrible anger.
To himself, Haymitch mutters, "Damn the mockingjay." What could he have done? Fought back? Impossible. He had to take her claws and bear them. Had he deserved it?
Reaching for the liquor on the table, Haymitch closes his eyes. Yes. He deserved it.
The liquor burns on its way down to his stomach. He relishes the feeling. He knows he'll be drunk soon. He's vowed to not do it. He can't—he's long arrived in the legendary District Thirteen. But who really cares? Not him. Not right now.
Hasn't he done everything? Peeta and Johanna had been captured, yes, and others had been killed and injured. But Katniss was still alive. And although sometimes Haymitch has to wonder why Katniss of all people had to be the mockingjay, at least she is alive and fighting. She will be needed soon. More than ever. Her image alone fuels countless people—men, women, and children alike—to defy the Capitol as she had herself in the summer last year.
Closing his eyes, Haymitch sips the wine. Wouldn't life be less complicated if he had never stepped out of his own arena fifty years ago? He struggles now, trying to fight off the gory pictures in his mind from decades before, but they come in a terrible rush that he can't control.
"Maysilee Donner!" is called by the annoying Capitol woman, District Twelve's escort. Haymitch watches in horror. Maysilee? Of course, he hardly knows her. She's from the better part of District Twelve. She's being crowded by two other girls—her twin sister and Dallyce, a good friend of hers. Haymitch finds himself swallowing down slight fear. But, he finds with surprise, it's not for himself. It's for Maysilee.
Another girl is called up, Odetta. She's from the Seam. Haymitch sighs. He can't say he knew her well, but they've spoken. And then he and a boy older than he is, Saber, are dubbed tributes for the fiftieth annual Hunger Games. Haymitch feels a cold determination creep through his body. He cannot lose.
Putting the bottle back down, Haymitch attempts to push away the horror that is the memory of what has taken place. Quickly, his is interrupted from his reveries. He listens to Plutarch knock at his door, then calls, "I'm indecent." It's a poor lie, and he's sure that Plutarch Heavensbee knows that he's drinking, but who's to stop him?
"I only needed to tell you that they'll need you soon." Plutarch says through the wood that separates them from each other. "For an interview." Haymitch doesn't reply, doesn't move until he's positive that the ex-head Gamemaker is gone.
"Damn District Thirteen," he mutters, gulping down what seems to be a quart of wine.
Four young adults are forced into hideous coal miner outfits, dusted with bits of charred material. The dirt makes Maysilee cough, Haymitch notices. He knows they all look horrible. The chariot ride is terrible. Even the horses seem to not want to carry the tributes from District Twelve. Haymitch can tell easily that not a single person in the audience is looking at them.
But the training is all right. Haymitch finds himself excelling at most of the weaponry skills. From afar, he notices Maysilee cleverly learning what plants are poisonous, how to tie knots, which way to hold a sword. She looks weak on the outside, but he can tell she may survive for a long time in these Games. For his private session with the Gamemakers, Haymitch throws knives, attacks dummies. Though the act isn't too huge, he does it all very well and comes up with a nine for his training score.
The interviews fly by. Haymitch imagined that they would take forever with all of the extra tributes. But it seems that with him speaking in low tones to Maysilee at every interval, he can bear it. She smiles at him, whispers, "I think that maybe she shouldn't have said that," after a girl from District Eight murmurs something very awkward on stage. The crowd doesn't know how to respond, and even Caesar Flickerman has no idea what to reply with for a complicated few seconds.
Haymitch snickers, "I agree," and then they're silent for a few more minutes. Before he knows it, Maysilee has to take her turn, and he tells her, "Good luck." She nods her head quickly, nervously.
And then Haymitch walks confidently onto the stage, sits next to Caesar Flickerman, and he easily pulls off the look he's been going for. The crowd loves him. He's completely uncaring. Arrogant, even.
Although nobody knows it—not his stylist, not his mentor, not Maysilee—Haymitch grows nervous with each passing day. Soon will be the real Games. And with forty-eight players, how much easier will it be? More Careers, more kids to die.
Dropping the bottle to the ground, Haymitch stumbles to his feet. He grabs at his wardrobe. It's a large oak structure, filled with clothing. Mostly, it's gray military-like stuff, but he manages to locate a pair of normal pants, a dark red shirt. The color reminds him of blood, and he pushes it back into the piece of furniture in disgust. After a minute, he selects a long-sleeved shirt of navy blue instead.
A meeting with the heads of District Thirteen. Haymitch takes a deep breath. He knows what they want. Information that they couldn't as easily retrieve from here in their underground burrow. Small things, probably, he thinks, are going to be the priority. Maybe they'll want to know about Greasy Sae, or Rooba, or Ripper. Maybe they'd like to hear about Katniss's family, though surely they already know tons.
He knows he has time until he's called down. For a fact, right now, Katniss is being spoken to. They'll be informing her of what's happening. She'll be complaining, confused, as she always does. Haymitch collapses into a large armchair after grabbing the liquor again.
Taking a large gulp, he spirals downward back into the fiftieth Hunger Games.
Keep your head, he tells himself. Keep your head and you'll do fine. You can win.
Haymitch strains to keep confident. Is it easy? Of course not. But with time, with practice, he'll figure out how to master the art of staying calm. However, he has no time. The Games have begun.
It's been days, he knows. He's counted. Six and a half days of pure hell. Of course, the arena itself is beautiful. On the outside. But once it's known that even the blooming flowers are deathly, that the golden squirrels that attacked him earlier enjoy the taste of human flesh, that the stunningly colorful butterflies' sting is a gift agonizing pain, Haymitch doesn't feel that the arena is gorgeous. He feels that it is deadly beyond measure, and he is right.
His heart nearly stops when he runs into three Careers, but he keeps his head clear. Haymitch yanks his knife from his belt and slashes almost blindly at the opponents, and though it's not long before two are dead, he's being held down in a strong arm, his knife suddenly gone. He sees the blade inching toward his throat, hears a cruel chuckle. Then an awful gagging sound.
Haymitch falls to the ground, gropes around for his knife, and looks up to Maysilee Donner, who strides out of the cover of a thick patch of trees. She says, "We'd live longer with two of us."
With a gratified, almost strained smile, Haymitch nods. "Guess you just proved that," he replies. "Allies?" He feels slightly awkward. He tries to hide the blush creeping onto his face. Maysilee helps him up, and they are suddenly together, impossible to break apart.
It's easier together, Haymitch reflects a day or so later. They're able to survive well enough—more food, more water, more tributes killed than if the two of them had been completely alone.
And now Maysilee is gone, Haymitch thinks bitterly. In frustration, pain, and anger, Haymitch hurls the bottle at the wall, where it explodes in a crash of glass and a bit of leftover wine. The remains of his liquor streak down the darkly painted wall.
Haymitch stands up and leaves the room, hoping it's about time for his interviewing. He's had enough time to himself for now.
Surprisingly, all the head of District Thirteen wants to know is about Haymitch. He's slightly taken aback but recovers quickly. The questions in his mind form. Don't they already know everything about me? Why do they need to know more?
"What do you recall of the day District Twelve went up in flames?" is one question. Haymitch gritted his teeth. Did they mean to offend him? Surely they didn't, but if they had, they'd succeeded.
"I wasn't there," Haymitch intones. "I was at the Capitol. Because I'm the mentor to Katniss and Peeta." He doesn't say "I was" in some sort of hope that Peeta is still alive. He says "I'm" because he doesn't want to lose the shred of hope he has left for the seventeen-year-old boy.
"We know," Alan Drayer replies quietly in a clipped tone. "But what do you remember?"
I remember too much, Haymitch wants to say. But instead he drifts into memories from a different date.
"Maysilee, we have to keep going," he urges. She always asks why, but he can't possibly tell her. For days they walk towards where he hopes the end of the arena is. Finally, he cracks and tells her.
After a while, the two take a break. They sit in the shade beneath a perfect-looking tree and chew on strips of dried beef, stolen from a long-dead tribute's pack. "Haymitch," Maysilee begins. "I…I don't know what's going to happen." He can tell she doesn't want to think about it. Neither does he.
"Let's not think about the future," Haymitch hears himself saying softly. "Let's just get through now." Maysilee leans in closer to Haymitch. He stares into her large blue eyes. Although surrounded by magnificence all day, every day, since the Games began, he believes at this moment that her eyes are solely the most brilliant things he has ever seen.
Mesmerised, Haymitch tilts toward Maysilee, kisses her. It's something he's never done, never really thought of doing. He pulls back and smiles.
Haymitch lumbers back to his room. The interview made him feel raw and disgusting. He knows that he's safe now, more so than others, but he'll be fighting soon. The impending threat of something bad that will surely happen looms over his head as he searches his quarters for a new bottle of liquor.
Once found without difficulty—he knows he brought more than one container, against advisory from others—Haymitch falls to the floor. He pops the top off the wine, takes a swig. What harm can it do to him? He's already in somewhat of a stupor, anyhow. There will be no good to come out of this, he knows, but nothing too bad, either. Nothing he can't bear.
Maysilee leaves. It's all he can think of. To distract himself from thoughts of her, he walks along the cliff, gazing downwards. He kicks a pebble and it skitters off the edge into nothing. Tired out, emotionally and physically, Haymitch sits down to rest.
And the small rock shoots back up into the air, landing in the spot next to him. Confused, then suddenly erratic and excited, Haymitch grabs for a bigger rock and throws it over the side of cliff. He waits a moment, and suddenly it's in his fist. Haymitch begins to laugh.
Then Maysilee starts to scream, and Haymitch drops the rock, drops everything, and runs toward her voice.
Haymitch sees a pack of bright pink birds with long, sharp beaks herd themselves away from the scene, but only after he's forced to watch her have her neck stuck through with one of the thin bills. What could he have done? He wonders this as he hurries forward, grabs her hand tightly.
He'd left her for dead, anyhow. There were five tributes left, and he hadn't wanted to be the one to kill her. He's sure that if it had, in fact, come down to the two of them, he wouldn't have killed her then, either. Just walked away and let the Gamemakers deal with two tributes who didn't want to fight.
Maysilee's lovely eyes spill over with tears, and Haymitch blinks rapidly. "Maysilee?" he whispers. Her lips move in an attempt to speak, but she can barely move. "I…" Haymitch lets his sentence trail off. How can he finish it? But he continues to choke out, after a moment, "Maysilee, I love you."
But her eyes have fluttered closed forever, and she hasn't heard.
Haymitch continues to clasp her hand for a few minutes longer, gulping down the lump in his throat. "Maysilee?" he asks one last time.
Drink away the pain, Haymitch tells himself every day. Drink and it'll disappear.
And usually, it does. Usually, he feels the horror receding into the darkest corners of his mind. Usually, he'll be able to laugh it off after a while, imagine he's somewhere else. But today, he can't seem to shake his ache.
Whenever Haymitch thinks of Maysilee, he wants to curl up in a ball and die. Even now, years later. Even who he is, a tougher type of person. He wants to cry, though he'd never admit it.
Haymitch wishes that neither he nor Maysilee had been chosen in the reaping all those years ago. But wishing doesn't help. Drinking does.
Lost loves and horrid lifestyles are all Haymitch knows right now. He feels the pain of Maysilee's death take over his body. Sorrow and anger wash through him. These two emotions are often all he can feel. All he lets himself feel.
He fights the last remaining tribute, Glamour of District One, with all he has left. She hacks away with an axe at whatever part of his body she can. Haymitch stabs quickly with his knife, desperately dodging her blows whenever he can. But it's fatal, and her eye is suddenly gone, and he feels a sharp pain and his insides are pushing themselves out of his stomach. Then Glamour disarms him and he's left with only one alternative.
After what feels like decades, Haymitch has lurched through the trees and the scenic landscape, right through the hold in the bushes that he and Maysilee created just, impossibly, hours before.
Ducking as Glamour throws the axe, Haymitch realizes he can't get back up.
But in his murky state of consciousness, he knows what will happen when the axe flies up out of the abyss. And his opponent does not.
He feels weaker and sicker than ever as his body begins to convulse. He has to outlast her, just for a minute more...
The cannon signaling Glamour's death rings in Haymitch's ears.
He cannot escape it.
No matter how many years it has been, or ever will be, there will be three moments he'll never forget: Maysilee's inevitable death, with her terrible scream and big blue eyes that closed forever; Glamour and her last moments, the axe, all the blood; and more recently, when he let Katniss and Peeta step into his life, the day he actually wanted to help a pair of tributes with a hope that possibly they could pull through.
Before that, he was unable to help them. How could they possibly win? Most often, before Peeta and Katniss, for almost fifty years, all Haymitch could bear to do was drink and watch. Because helping the tributes and knowing that they would fail was too much. False hope never did a person any good.
Haymitch leans back against the cold wall, feebly sipping the white wine. He doesn't particularly like Katniss, but Peeta was all right. Helpless, a little thick, but likeable in the least. Why were kids subjected to all of this terror?
"Damn the Capitol," murmurs Haymitch. "Damn all that it's done."
Drowning in the liquor, his memories continue to seep through him. But he no longer feels the pain. All Haymitch registers now is the numbness accompanied with the wine.
His eyes close. Haymitch tilts his bottle upward, catching the last few gulps. Alcohol is good, he thinks vaguely. Masilee was good, too. I loved her. It's too late for that, another voice in his head says informatively, but he ignores it. He lets himself because he no longer cares. The liquor is working, after all—alcohol is his escape from reality.
Haymitch Abernathy feels better than he has in fifty years. At least, he does for the moment. But all moments pass.