Contains spoilers for Mockingjay!
I'm sorry for any hearts broken in the process of reading this.
Haymitch's Point of View
She was too young. She was much, much too young. Worst part is that all I'm thinking is that it's my fault. It's my entire fault.
If only she could see what the world is supposed to be like. If only she could see how far we've come since the war. If only...
As I stared down at her grave, I realized that this is what we had been fighting. The people back home, mourning the loss of someone who was too young to have a chance. She didn't have a chance.
Primrose Everdeen. She was much too young. I'll admit I've only talked to her a few times, but that'd been enough to decipher that she was much too wise to be called a child. Too wise. Too young.
Too empty.
She looked much, much too empty as she lied in the coffin during her funeral. She wore a lovely dress, a fine outfit to greet God in. Her hair was carefully done, and primrose petals were laid around her body in a way that hid the worst of the burns. She was the picture of innocence. Too young to die.
I stared at her gravestone, placing a bundle of primroses before her, almost as an "I'm sorry". I was too careless. She begged to go, threatening and pleading until I caved. I remember her smiling as she hugged me and thanked me after I'd finally agreed to her coming along. I wish I would've said no. God, I wish I could've just left her where she was safe.
A tear silently falls down my cheek, followed by another and another. Tears I'd been keeping inside since the war could be held in no longer. I was done ignoring the deeds that I'd done. I was done. I was the reason Prim wasn't with us anymore. It's my fault. It's all my fault.
The night before Katniss was going to be sent into the Capitol, Prim came into my room. Of course I was awake, but it surprised me that she was. It had to be past midnight; curfew was hours ago, so it surprised me when she knocked on my door.
I had been writing, my own little hobby that I picked up over the years of solitude, and to be honest if I hadn't been so surprised at her knocking, I would've hidden it from her like I do from everyone else in the world. But instead I answered the door and let her in; she had wandered over and began scanning some of the odd scraps of writing littering my desk.
"So you do have something other than your booze." she had said, smiling as she picked up one of the writings. Still confused and a bit flustered from her sudden appearance, it'd taken me a moment to realize she was looking at my various written pieces.
"Ah, yea. It's not much, but hey, I deal." I'd responded awkwardly.
"Does it help?" Prim had asked, not meeting my eyes as I walked over to the desk to stand next to her. "To cope, I mean. Does it help to cope with what you're going through?"
For a long moment I had just stared at her, trying to find the hidden meaning behind the words. During the past few encounters I'd had with her I'd realized she always had some other, deeper conversation going on underneath the one you were aware of.
"Yeah. It gets ideas out of your head, kind of helps to plan things. It's actually very therapeutic once you figure out the right thing to write about." I responded. She looked up at me, a certain gleam in her eyes that reminded me she was barely older than a child. "Care to join me?" I couldn't help but ask, holding out a pen to her. She smiled, nodding and taking the pen.
I had grabbed another chair from across the room and set it in front of the desk along with the one already there, and we both sat. I gave her a blank piece of lined paper and grabbed another for myself. I picked up a pen and looked over at her. She stared at the page, deep in thought.
"Know what you're going to write about then?" I asked. Prim nodded, looking determined. I'd chuckled, and then looked at my own paper.
We sat there the whole night, writing pages of our own little projects. I was writing a fictional story, a little tale where things would get better only to get worse, where people would fall in love only to die in each other's arms. I didn't ask what Prim was writing, and she didn't ask me. We were silent the entire night.
In the morning, she went to school and left the story she'd written on my desk. I couldn't help but read it, curious as of what goes on in a mind like that. After reading the first page, I was close to tears. This isn't the writings of a child, this isn't what a young girl should be thinking about. The line that caught my mind was "She wore the mask of a child, played the part of a victim, and had armor of a China doll, yet she had the heart of the bravest hero."
A couple days later she had somehow heard about nurses and doctors being needed for the saving of Capitol children. She had found me, hearing I was in charge of the rescue mission.
"Please, Haymitch! I have to go! I was born to be a healer, so let me help!" she was begging me. "I promise I'll be careful, and I won't let anyone die."
She stood there, debating with me for an hour. She went from begging, to threatening, to bribery, then back to begging. She was desperate to help.
"If you go, and I'm not saying I'm letting you," I was just a puppy dog look away from caving. "You have to stay by me, not leave my sight, follow my every order, and only do what I tell you to."
"I promise! I swear!" Prim held up her hands in surrender, a look of excitement on her face.
I sighed. "Fine."
I should've said no. God, why couldn't I have said no?
When the medics began to swarm in, the next day, I told Prim to hang back with me. She obeyed, remembering my rules. After the first round of parachutes went off, I knew there was going to be a second. We stand a couple yards away from the chaos, close enough to go in at any moment but far enough to be safe. When a toddler's scared wail came from the crowd, I see Prim's resolve break. I attempt to grab her as she rushes into the crowd, heart bent on saving the toddler.
"Prim! Come back! Prim! PRIM!" I shout, for a moment chasing after her. She doesn't know about the second round. She... She doesn't know... about...
The rest of the parachutes go off. I fall to my knees, realizing what has just happened. Fires spring up, people were being burnt alive. I hear the screams of too many children, all of whom are too young to die. The scream of a thirteen year old girl, a wise, amazing, young girl, reaches my ears. I quickly make it to my feet and stumble backwards, trying to get away from her screams that beg me to help. I can't help. I can't help her. I wish I could've but I just couldn't.
And now, a year after her death, I finally owned up to what I'd done. I was the reason she was allowed on that battlefield, I was the one who let her go, I'm the reason she's dead.
So I sat and cried. I apologized, I begged for forgiveness, not only from Prim but from myself. I sobbed; I let out everything I'd been holding in.
For the bright young girl I knew, she was now too dull. Too quiet, too empty, too wise, and much, much too young. Thirteen years old.
My younger brother, he was thirteen when he died too. He was also much too young.
It was my fault.