A/N: WOOT WOOT! Make way for her royal highness, the Queen of Morbidity! And Depression! And Angst! And also General Sadness!
Okay, sorry. I had to do that. It's just that all of these stories are so dang upsetting and I wanted to let you guys know that I'm well aware of the fact. My mom tells me frequently.
This is another Haymitch-centric fic, and the inspiration is from Koalakoala, another author on this sight. If you haven't read her work, you should start, because she's sooooo awesome.
Without further ado, let me show you the story:
Oops! Almost forgot...
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.
Okay, here we go: (this is about as long as the story)
8. Memory
I need to get away from here. I need to get away from here. I need to get away from here. I NEED TO GET AWAY FROM HERE.
I turn and run, my heart pounding, my face and palms slick with sweat, struggling not to vomit. The remembering is happening too fast, too much, too hard. Like a wall of thoughts and unforgotten images striking me all over so that I can't move, yet the world spins around me, and I don't want to remember.
Eventually I slow to a stop, panting like my lungs are going to burst, realizing that I have indeed kept from hurling. It doesn't bring me as much satisfaction as I'd thought it would.
I sit down on one of the oh-so-convenient benches marking the path. As much as I hate all things from the Capitol, right now I really need to rest. I don't like to admit it, but I'm getting old, and I probably shouldn't be running so much.
It doesn't take long for the ghosts to find me. She swirls and dances inside my brain, haunting laughter and shrieking cries and the phantom slip of warm blood staining my hands, long since washed away. Candy pink birds screech and a golden pin glitters, sky-blue eyes dripping with sweet despair.
Nothing left of her but a tombstone back home. This memory doesn't count.