A/N: This is my first Hunger Games fanfic, and also the the first fanfic I've posted, er, ever. So please, please, please, reviews and constructive criticism!
I've always thought that Haymitch is so intriguing. There will be no pairing (as of now, and especially because I have no idea how people get Haymitch/Effie, but I don't mean to argue) because I can't imagine Haymitch getting into that at all, or at least for a while.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games or any of its characters. But I do own all OCs (in later chapters).
My head pounds. Somehow, my hangover is worse than usual. Why had I been drinking so much? Ah, that is no question to ask. I drink every day. No, but there is something special about tomorrow; I am sure of it. Something that is not to look forward to. I pick up an already uncorked bottle, half spilling its contents on my filthy white shirt. Fiery liquor splashes down my throat and on my clothes, staining the front of my shirt. Whatever. Who cared. I was going to figure out soon enough anyways.
Belching loudly, I fall back onto my bed. Someone is probably going to come to nag me about the event. A Peacekeeper, no doubt. Nobody else would come over to my place. Victor's Village, whatever. It isn't as if you'd even be able to tell, from the filth that covered the walls. Still, it's not like it matters. It's probably better if people dislike me anyways.
The rest of the white liquor slides down my throat. Oh. Running low. Should get to Hob sometime to get some more. I wonder how much Ripper has in stock. Tipping my head back, I catch the last few droplets with my tongue. They slide, burning, down my throat. I try to stagger to my feet but fail. That is a good thing anyways. Best to be drunk by…tomorrow. What was that something again? Oh, of course.
The Reaping.
Two more kids for me to send to their deaths. Kids from District Twelve never had much chance. I realized long ago that the tributes from the other district, or plain just the children from the other districts, started their trades young, unlike here, where people couldn't start working in the coal mines until they were 18. So, they didn't have a lot of experience, specialties. My own Hunger Games were—
No. I can't think about that. Ugh, need another drink. Wait a moment. Where did I leave my bottle opener? I scrabble around, half-blind and groggy. Can't find it. Grunting, I pry the bottle open with my fingers. It scratches my hand bloody raw. I had lost my corkscrew several times before, so it was nothing new. I know I can buy another one from Ripper tomorrow. I have to go see her tomorrow. Buy some more liquor as well. Glancing over, I rattle my remaining bottles. Not enough to last through the night; most of them clash hollowly.
This year's Hunger Games will probably be the same as always anyways. Kids with no worked upon talent, no evolved skill. It's hard not to care, but if I drink enough, I can almost be drunk enough to not notice. I wonder if the Capital will sell me me usual liquors. Effie Trinket had obviously expressed her disapproval. Not that she actually cares. She just wants the "fame" and "glory" of escorting an an actual potential victor, which was highly unlikely in District 12.
My head really is going to split open. A few more bottles, and I will hopefully be out. I down the next one with a couple gulps. My mind aches for the soothing darkness of unconsciousness. It would be nice not to have to worry about these things. The next bottle causes a torrent of vomit. Mouth sour and throat aching, I black out.
I wake when the moon is just disappearing. I figure it is around four or five in the morning. What was I planning to do again? Something important…something I planned to do, and then there was also something bad. Well, the bad thing ought to be the Reaping today at noon, but before that I was going to…My hangover strikes and I just groan and fall back asleep.
An hour later, I get up. Oh. The Hob. I had to get there to buy more white liquor.
I don't even bother making myself presentable. Ripper counts on me to buy her liquor, and she doesn't care how I look so why should I? Clawing open another bottle, I gulp it down. I don't think my throat can hurt any more than what I'm feeling now, so I manage to choke down the alcohol. Popping open my last bottle, I stagger out the door, taking quick gulps of it as I walk. My hands search my coat pockets. Plenty of money. Ever since I became a victor, that's the one thing I've never been short on. Except for maybe the sight of death.
Walking to the Hob seemed to take ages. I probably tripped and fell a few times. Couldn't tell though. My senses were still too drunk.
Nobody says a word to me as I walked past. Not that I care. It's not like I act all buddy-buddy with them. But they did not really hate me either. They should. I walk their children to their deaths. I suppose I did try to help, but after a certain point it wasn't like it mattered anymore. I could never understand why they didn't loathe me. My solution is to just ignore everything. I suppose people don't blame me because I'm a victor. Not because they want to suck up to me or anything, but just because victors hold this certain amount of respect. We're survivors, in District 12 especially.
I push the doors to the Hob aside and walk -stagger- in. "Hey Ripper," I slur.
The tough, burly woman looks up. She doesn't even say a word, just leans behind her and pulls out a few bottles of liquor.
I toss some coins onto the table. They rattle against the wood, clinking loudly. Everyone was nervous. The amount on the table was way more than a few bottles of white liquor were worth, but Ripper has never been your shining white knight. If extra was given to her, especially from someone like me, she would take it. Anybody in this place would. It wasn't so much greedy as necessary. She carefully collects them and returns to her own business while I slump and drink.
I knock off a few hours there, with nothing else to do. But even alcohol (sadly) can't make me totally oblivious. The atmosphere in the Hob was visibly subdued. Some of the regulars weren't there; rather, they were preparing for the Reaping.
The door swings open again, and in walks a young girl, accompanied by a young man. Both look similar enough to be related. Their Seam eyes have the same look in them. It was hard to explain. They are carrying their pickings from the woods: Fish, greens, and strawberries. So they're our society's two little hunters. They were often at the Hob, trading and bargaining with the other regulars, even if both of them were much younger than the others. The girl looked young enough to be in the Reaping. The young man could be. Both were calm enough, trading with Greasy Sae. Were they nervous? Did they have to sign up for a lot of tessera? How many times were their names entered? I don't know a lot about them, even though I spent a lot of time in the Hob. Thinking on it, I was usually passed out drunk in the Hob. Or in my house.
"I figure that half of our greens should be fair enough for a few chunks of paraffin." The girl's voice floats over to me. Her voice is lyrical, clear and songlike. Oh. I know another voice like that. Or rather, knew. She was that Everdeen's daughter. He was a good man, Everdeen, before the he...what happened to him? Oh yes, he died in a mine explosion. Greasy Sae grumbles, but relents. They swap the goods. I think that the Everdeen girl could have gotten a better deal, but whatever. They're kids. Maybe they trade with Greasy Sae on purpose, even though they can get better deals elsewhere. Or maybe they just aren't as smart as they look.
Packing their things, they whisk away, as quickly as they came. They hadn't been paying attention to me. I usually wouldn't be paying attention to them either, but the Reaping was making me sentimental.
I let out a belch. My job was to be absolutely drunk by then.
I begin to notice when one by one, the people around me leave, filing out to attend some business. I am left all alone, in what used to be my home.
"Hey, Abernathy, get up," a voice says roughly.
I stare blearily at the speaker. How pathetic I am, I think. But it isn't as if I can get any worse. I knock back another drink. Even with my high tolerance to alcohol, I am beginning to become incoherent. I blubber wordlessly.
"Victor Abernathy, you must be present for the Reaping.."
"No, I don't," I snarl in reply, but I trudge to my feet, knowing that isn't true. I have never had a choice.
I push past the Peacekeeper and bring my bottle, drinking as I go. The world gets fuzzier, and darker as I approach the town square, with odd glares and shines in places, like fractured glass. I catch a glimpse of Effie Trinket's pink hair. I hear a buzz of confusion. I catch a shine of gold from somewhere in the crowd, which reminds me sorely of a golden pin I would have rather forgotten.
Then maybe I was hallucinating, but I catch a glimpse of fire in someone's eyes. Even drunk, I have enough in me to be startled. I stagger to the front of the stage, alcoholic fire stirring in the pit of my stomach. I yell something, but it isn't clear. Somewhere between then and now, I drop off the stage.
