A/N: No idea where this is going…it's pretty short, I won't deny, but no worries. Being the introduction, it's required by some imagination law to be the shortest chapter. Like, ever.
Just need to say two things before we start this thing—
Reviews help me write better and faster. Call it motivation, call it the horse's apple, call it Haymitch's alcohol or Peeta's inspiration. Just review.
Secondly…if you recognize anything, I don't own it. That's right; it's the dreaded disclaimer…M.O.L….
To quote the Joker: …and here…we…go!
There's no room for alcohol in District 13.
Oh, oh, they thought, that'll take care of Haymitch. No alcohol—he'll have to help us now! Surely he's less surly when he's sober.
Ha!
That's right, political fools, take away the one thing that helps drive away the nightmares. Take away the one thing that keeps me sane. Sort of.
Well, you're wrong. I don't know how it is in District 13 but….
Ah, this is hopeless. Let's begin again.
Some healer you are, Cypress Everdeen. Can't even cure a withdrawal, huh?
No. That's a lie. She can't cure anyone who's been in the Games. Not me, not Maysilee—she was dead, after all—not ever her own daughter.
Of course, the drinking doesn't help. Not my body, just…
This is hopeless, too.
Okay. Let me give it to you straight: as a substitute for alcohol, I'm supposed to write in a diary. I know. I can't believe it either. I'm supposed to write down all my touchy-girly-feelings. How the hell am I supposed to do that?! I'm not like…like….what's her name? Prim? Whatever; I don't do that kind of stuff!
Then the woman—I'm not even calling her by name anymore, ha—told me that if I didn't do this ("As a healthy stress reliever, Haymitch, that's all, I won't even read it!" Honestly, she's turning into Effie Trinket, what with her freakishly sudden enthusiasm) then she wouldn't allow me to go the meetings.
I mean, what the hell?! Does this woman think she's my mother?! I'm older than she is, for God's sake! And you know what's even worse?
Everyone agreed.
I thought these people were my…well, not friends, but at least thought more highly of me than that! I bet they're laughing their stupid little heads off right now at the thought of Haymitch being told what to do by the mockingjay's mommy, and having to write in a diary. If Chaff and Drae and Maysilee were still…
…I need a drink.
I still can't believe that woman--know something? That's not a good enough nickname. She-devil, yeah, that's better. And her daughter, Katniss, can be She-demon. Primrose...Prim can be...Rose! Oh God, I think I've completely lost my mind. I miss my liquor (this is, I believe, according to an ancient text District 13 had brought to light, what our ancestors would call an emoticon moment) D: --is making me do this, but as long as she is...
I will write poems to my true love.
...
Ha, bet you thought I was serious. What true love, Haymitch? What dirty little secrets are you going to tell me? No. My poems are about as good as Katniss's acting.
In case you haven't read her perceptions of the Hunger Games yet, then I may need to clarify: she had none.
Also, still assuming you know nothing about...well, anything (how would you? You're a book! A diary! You don't think! Or feel! * Did you feel the pen just jab you? No!), then I guess some explanations are due.
Katniss, who I believe I have insulted on multiple occasions in this entry, is what we call 'the Mockingjay', aka, the symbol of revolution here in Panem. She's...what, seventeen? I think? A former Hunger Games champion. Oh yeah, you don't know anything about the Hunger Games either. You don't know anything, and guess what?
I have better ways to waste time than explain everything to a book. A book! Books are supposed to teach people things, not the other way around! (another emoticon moment) D: So if you want to have any idea what's going on, then go look it up yourself.
I'll tell you one thing, though.
I am Haymitch Abernathy, and I will someday tear this diary to pieces, burn it, dance on the ashes, then give the whole mess to the She-devil.
-H.A.