However, these were only minor nightmares, as gruesome as they were, to Haymitch. The memory that disturbed him most, the one clearest even amongst the misty haze of the liquor, was the death of his District partner. Maysilee Donner.
The spiteful call of the lurid pink birds, manipulated by the Capitol, their use only to kill. The flock surrounding her, leaving her defenceless. The long, pointed beak of the bird that pierced her neck as she gave out one final cry of his name.
He always kept to himself though, did Haymitch. Never spoke to anyone, drowned his emotions with crate after crate of alcohol, spending the days locked alone in the darkness of his home in the Victor's Village. Lazily looking over to the calendar (if it was up to him he wouldn't own one, but the Capitol declared it mandatory), he noticed the huge red marker that could only mean one thing.
Tomorrow was Reaping Day. Every child between the ages of 12 to 18, in each of the twelve Districts would have their names entered at least once into the Reaping Bowl. They would be forced to dress in their best clothes by their parents, then they would wait for an overly peppy, overdressed escort to arrive, select two names, and take them off to the Capitol. In Haymitch's District, District 12, he was the only victor, and therefore had to mentor the tributes to prepare them as well he could for the arena, and then watch them get slaughtered. for twenty four years, this had been Haymitch's job. As the Capitol put it, his input to the Games.
"Well," he muttered grouchily to himself, "better get ready for the big event tomorrow, then."
Filling up his liquor glass, he lay back in his grubby armchair, closed his eyes and exhaled. Sipping at his drink, he stayed, motionless, trying hard to think of nothing as he waited for tomorrow to arrive.