"Katniss," Haymitch called out to me. His voice was calm, posed as a request instead of a demand for my attention. He was lumbering across my yard, leaving deep tracks in the snow. He entertained the children's affections for a few moments when they ran to him, but gently sent them off, obviously a man on a mission. I allowed him a few silent deep breaths when he reached me, though I knew he was in no way winded. He clearly struggled internally with his visit to me. Haymitch is always stronger than he looks. His eyes flashed to mine and away a few times before he thrust a notebook and small stack of loose papers into my hands.
"Here. For the book," he spoke short words, laced with deep conflict, and turned to leave, announcing the conversation over before it really began. I didn't know what to say. Haymitch wasn't one for thanks. He did things because they were right, not for anyone's acknowledgement or approval. I remained silent, knowing I'd thank him properly by using whatever he gave me for the book. I hadn't read a word of what was in my hands, but I already knew I held a handful of Haymitch's secrets.
I opened the notebook first and saw my name scrawled on the inside cover:
Katniss,
I'm not the best at telling stories, especially my own, but I've got a lot to tell about what I experienced before the Mockingjay was even a thought. I made trouble and I got caught. Here is what happened to me.
-Haymitch
I kept reading and this is what I found:
Reaping Day 50th Hunger Games
My name was called today. The odds were worse for everyone today. I'm not on the train with one other tribute. I'm with three. I'm trying to keep my distance from them; after all, only one of us can leave that arena, and going in recognizing three others without making friends with them first. It's actually easy to stay distant, now. This train is so absolutely different from District 12, so it's easy to forget that I know people here, easy to stay by myself because it really does feel like I'm traveling alone to a different planet. Everything is soft and warm and meant to be safe and comfortable. It's supposed to cater to our every need, to give us temporarily lavish lives. I used to think this treatment was a gift to the tributes, out of guilt and shame for the evil they make us partake in. I know it's something else, now that I'm here. The disgusting truth is these creatures from the Capitol can't bear to live, even for a single moment, away from the luxuries they know, and for convenience, we tributes are along for the ride. I don't recognize the people I've met as human. They seem like toys and like children, too brainless to know better and I hate them for it. My stylist has at least tried. She has compassion and seems to really understand my pain instead of just pity it. She's given me this paper, to record my story and protect my sanity. She's given me an avenue for the truth, if I don't make it back to say the words myself. She's been through the districts and sent children to die. She's heard pieces of their stories, wiped away their tears and felt their fears through nimble fingers seeming only to fix hair. She's taken it all in and she's allowed herself to feel the impact of the Games on the tributes. The fact that some Capitol citizens can understand makes it a lot easier to judge those who don't. Everything about this is wrong. I can't be the only one to see it.
Katniss,
My ears heard and my eyes saw a lot of things they weren't supposed to while I trained for the Games in the Capitol. For whatever reason, maybe because there were more of us in the 50th, the tributes of my Game were cocky. We were able to see four people of each district interacting with one another and we could see real similarities and differences among and between the districts. We all quickly became nosy and curious, and since we were a group so large, we felt strong. We talked. Personally, I learned about hotheaded loudmouths in Eight, making trouble with Peacekeepers. I learned about the massive size and population of Eleven, and even a little about how Peacekeeper patrols worked like clockwork. Back then, I even heard whispers of Thirteen. I shared stories, too. I bragged about how uncommitted Peacekeeprs were at home. I told stories of how we were a district left alone. I particularly loved the wide eyes staring at me, fascinated with the lighthearted game I would make of sneaking out past the fence.
I'm sure, for some of the tributes, these stories were only an interesting way to pass the time, but, for me, they were so much more. For the first time in my life, I was learning about Panem without a Capitol-approved curriculum and I began to ask more questions. I began to see the danger of Districts united. I saw the fear in the Gamemaker's eyes when he'd spot us clustered together whispering during training. I noticed how quickly we were dispersed. I also noticed how eager the tributes were to sneak around and break rules. Learning how unhappy our meetings made the Capitol only increased their frequency and our discreetness. We talked about more dangerous topics every day. Hesitation became fierceness and the word "change" became common. More than once, we even whispered of "revolution." It was exciting, and though we were children, this was no game.
I stupidly wrote about all of it, to naive to realize the idiocy of leaving a paper trail in the Capitol. When I went into the arena (because no amount of talk would stop the Games from happening), Snow found everything. Word got back to him that I was a troublemaker, a threat. First, they tore apart my home in Twelve, but obviously found nothing. They didn't think to check my confidants since the reaping until their search of my home proved fruitless. After all, what Capitol citizen would make waves? My stylist was tortured when my notebook was found in her possession. My prep team told me, in detail, about the horrible "illness" she contracted while I was in the Game, about the pain, all the blood and how, by the time she died, she didn't even know who she was.
Outside of the tributes, hers was the first death I was responsible for. To make sure I knew Snow read what I wrote, and knew what I knew, I was left a bloodstained envelope with the surviving pages and the ashes that formerly held my words of rebellion on an otherwise empty hovercraft out of the arena. They let me suffer with my injuries until I got back to the Capitol. What snow didn't expect was my renewed fire. I was not broken by his actions. I was furious with need for revenge: revenge for my stylist, the tributes and the blood staining my hands that I blamed him for.
-Haymitch
This "illness crap is b-s-. Snow killed her; I know he did. He's nothing more than a bully who lashes out when he gets scared. If he was so angry, that must mean what I did was dangerous. What I know is dangerous. I am dangerous. I write for more, now. My stylist died a martyr and I've made sure I'm not the only one who knows it. People at the hob listen to me. They're not cowards. They know the information I gathered in precious. I can make a difference
More Peacekeepers have arrived in Twelve. They're not like our regulars. Their faces are cold and mean and they won't talk to us unless it's to shout an order at us. They're cruel and violent. Their presence has changed things. People are less likely to listen to me. I'm silenced more than I'm encouraged. I think some of the citizens here blame me for the extra Peacekeepers. When they arrived, the Peacekeepers told the mayor they always come to a winning district to help hand out the gifts from the Capitol and to keep the victor safe. Nobody can remember new Peacekeepers last time we had a victor. Maybe I am responsible for bringing the Peacekeepers but everyone knows it has nothing to do with my victory. I'll keep my nose clean, for now. It will be easier to unite Twelve when the place isn't crawling with armed guards, determined to keep their eyes and ears trained on me.
It's time for the victory tour and the Peacekeepers are still here. They're as pestering as ever and I feel like I'm losing time. I'll leave them behind in Twelve when I tour, though. This might be my only chance to speak to every district. I have the rare ability to get my words to a huge audience and if I make impromptu additions to my thank-yous, they won't have a chance to censor me before the live broadcast makes sure everybody hears. I've got words to say. I'm in a position to make people listen and now I've finally got access to an audience to hear what I've got to say.
The tour was a huge success! At least once, in every district, I was able to either thank the families for their children's bravery in sharing stories about home or thank the entire district for teaching their children the importance of district cohesion and unity. I was afraid that after I made a comment like that in Eleven, the Capitol would find a way to stop me in future districts, but nobody even tried. I'm a victor, a celebrity, so what would they do anyway? I'm untouchable. I just need to get off this train, get home, and figure out what to do with those Peacekeepers.
The Peacekeepers weren't at the station when I got home. Actually, nobody was at the station when I got home. A boy from my former class at school ran up to me after I was dropped off and left alone. He frantically told me there was a mine explosion; everybody was there. In town, chaos filled the streets. The fire from the explosion was still blazing so rescuers couldn't get down the mine shaft. Survivors were coming out alone or in pairs, but nobody was uninjured. Hope was slim.
Nobody in my family worked in the mine but they always came to help after something like this happened and I couldn't find them anywhere. What was stranger was that nobody had seen my girl either. Her father and brother, her only family, both worked in that mine. Nothing would keep her away. Not now. I decided to check elsewhere for my family and girlfriend. I checked her home in town, but found it empty. With no idea how to help or what to do, I headed to my house in victor's village to try and find my parents. Everything was eerily quiet over there, so far from the mine and the panic that surrounded it. I doubt anybody heard the shout of horror I let out in my home, when I found them. My entire family and my girl were dead. They were all sitting around the kitchen table, dressed up to come meet me, gently slumped over on the table looking like they could be sleeping. That is, if not for the dead, vacant look in their still-open eyes.
My family was included in the mass funeral service for the miners. While their death was ruled to have been caused by a gas leak in the house, the damage to the gas line was caused by aftershocks of the explosion. Apparently that's enough tie to the mines to consider them victims of the explosion. Twelve doesn't have the resources for multiple funerals, nor do we have the time to hold individual services when so many die at once. This way is deemed more efficient. We mourn together. We get back to work together. Flowers and cards lie everywhere with "May there be no more" written on them. It's a phrase Twelve has latched on to after each mining accident as we pray nobody else will be taken from us.
Toward the end of the service, one of the few remaining extra Peacekeepers (the rest cleared out while I was on tour) approached me. He handed me a single white rose, it's scent so potent, with a card daintily tied to it with a piece of ribbon. On the card, in block handwriting were the words "Haymitch, may there be no more." In so few words, Snow had said so much. This was a demand, a threat, a promise that more would die if I didn't behave.
My words were heard only by the district to which I spoke them. I should have known "live" TV wasn't live. The generic thank-you words were broadcast with sentences in my voice thanking the Capitol. I'm not sure how they managed to create those, but I'm not surprised. I wish I'd never said what I did. I wish I could take it back. I hope nobody in the districts listened. I hope nobody got hurt because of my stupidity.
Snow has been true to his sick words. There have been more "accidents" and "unfortunate illnesses" in Twelve than anyone can remember ever before. Most of the attacks have targeted children, to make it hurt more, I guess. It's worked. I barely ever speak at all anymore. I've started buying white alcohol from a woman named Ripper. She lost an arm the day I got home from the tour. She's barely older than I am. Maybe this can burn what I know right out of my brain.
I keep quiet, I do. I don't talk to anybody. I do everything I can to forget what I know. Sometimes, it works. I can forget who I was, what I did and what I caused. It always comes back, though. I keep trying. It's ok to completely lose myself now. Nobody will miss me. Nobody will come looking for me, at least, not who I was.
It's been quiet for so long now. I won't let my guard down. I know Snow isn't going to let me go. I'm not dumb enough to think I'll be forgotten. Never does the Capitol let us forget anything they take so much effort to inflict upon us.
I've proven to Snow that I'm done with trouble. I've played my part. I've kept my head down and we're being left alone. Our district isn't interesting. I brought unwanted eyes upon our people.
My phone rang today. I lifted the receiver but I didn't speak, because I hoped nobody would be on the other end of the line.
"I've stopped killing them, but they won't stop dying"
The line went dead. The voice was his, but it sounded alien. No human could possibly be so evil as this man. I ripped the phone from the wall. It'd never ring again. It was too easy of a way to let him into my home. Seconds later, Peacekeepers came to collect me for my first year as mentor. The reaping was cruel this year. Both were twelve, so young and frail. Indeed, they would keep dying.