Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, as you probably know.
My name is Haymitch Abernathy.
I am forty-five years old.
I won the fiftieth Hunger Games and beat out forty-one tributes.
The only reason that I won was because I had a mentor.
He died, along with everybody else I ever knew.
And I took his place, but not his determination.
And every year, I kill two people.
One boy, and one girl.
Often, they have black hair and grey eyes, and that is when it hurts the most.
I kill them because I refuse to try.
My shaky handwriting fills the paper, scrawling lines and letters in every direction. The work is satisfactory, but not good enough to convince me of anything. I start again.
Today is the reaping for the seventy-forth Hunger Games.
I will kill another two children.
One boy and one girl.
And their families will cry.
Their friends will cry.
But I will not, because it was my choice to kill them.
I aggrivation, I rip the paper and throw it over my shoulder. I take another sip of wine, despite the ridiculously early hour.
I don't want to try again, I don't want to blame myself and see the angry words lashed across the page. But this happens every year, and every year I drink more. I drink to get away from the arena that I never left, and I drink to get away from the screams of the tributes that I killed, and the screams of the dying tributes from District Twelve, year after year.
Because you let them die, I think, and them slam my head off the wooden desk. I take yet another sip of the strong wine.
You could have saved one. I slam my feet on the ground in frustration, letting out an aggrivated scream. "Shut up!" I yell, taking another sip of wine.
You could save one this year, the voices in my head remind me, and I gulp down the wine, the burning in my throat not comparable to my frustration.
Or do you want them both to die? Another gulp.
You could give them advice, you know? Save one of them, this year. I drink what's left of the wine, gasping for breath afterwards. The voices in my head come, every year, on this day. Usually, I deal with them well, but this year, I've back, back to the way I was after my Games. Shaking, scared, and weak. Miserable. Helpless.
Do you want them both to die, the voices ask, again and again. Do you?