I spend most of the morning in the Hob, trading my crocheted afghans and knitted wears for soups and bits of game or bread. I try to occupy my mind away from the Reaping, which is only a couple hours away. I see Haymitch across the road as I trot out of the Hob, a sack full of food and items dangling over my shoulder. He looks no more disheveled than usual, his dirty blonde hair swept to one side, wearing his favorite shirt, filthy with holes. He smiles as I wrap my arms around him, but I can tell from his stiff embrace that he isn't fully with me, his mind is on the Reaping as well. He grabs my hand and we walk away from the square back toward the Seam, where we live only a few houses down from each other.
"I found something you might like," he says. I can tell he is trying to sound as cheerful and carefree as he can possibly muster, but his words are stony and far away. I crack a smile as we stop in the middle of the road, where the cobblestones stop and rough, loose gravel begin to shift under my boots. "Close your eyes," he says softly, the gentleness returning somewhat to his voice. A peck on the lips, and a cold, heavy object is placed in my hand. I open my eyes and see a bracelet, curled up in my palm, tarnished from wear, but still shiny under the barely showing rays of sun. It looks like it has been worn, and loved dearly, in its days before it made its way to me. Delicate flowers, each petal crafted differently from the next, cling to each other, making a circle that fits perfectly around my thin wrist. I do not realize how long I have been gazing at it, trying to memorize its every intricate detail.
"How much did this cost you?" I ask, half scolding and half admirable. Haymitch just shakes his head and kisses me again, this time longer, as if the Seam and all of District Twelve has disappeared, and we are suspended in the moment. I feel his lips curve up into a smile. Then a voice comes from the window beside us, jerking us back into the sooty, smoky reality we live in.
"Eden, the bath water is getting cold!" My mother shouts from the house. It is time to get ready for the Reaping. Whatever color that had returned to Haymitch's face has receded, and that worried, disconcerted look has replaced the small smile I had felt against my own. I smile at him sweetly, and brush the back of my hand across his cheek. He seems to melt at my touch, his body relaxing slightly.
"Make sure you shave this," I say playfully, scratching his scruffy whiskers, as if I were scratching the chin of a shabby cat. I believe I hear him purr softly before my mother shouts from the window again, beckoning me inside the house. I give him another quick peck and go inside the house, shutting the door behind me. I step to the window, pull back the old, lace curtain, and watch Haymitch walk to his own house, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets, his head down, peering at the ground as his dusty-covered boots slide across the gravel. The Reaping always made him uneasy, not sure of what would become of his family, his mother and younger brothers, if his name were to be plucked out of that large glass orb. I guess I am under the same circumstance, it only being my mother and my little sister, Poppy, left fatherless after the mine collapsed nearly a mile underneath us, but I shove it to the back of my mind. This will be Poppy's first Reaping. It will be my fifth.
I sit in the tub until the water turns cold, the hairs on my legs beginning to stand up from the chill, dirt starting to settle from my body. I pick at my fingernails, trying to rid them of the dirt and grime that build up so quickly from living in such a grimy place. My mother is brushing Poppy's hair, so bright and blonde, almost white when the sunlight hits it just right. She is the spitting image of my mother, fair and slender, nearly as tall as I am, with high cheekbones and a perfect pointed nose. I look more like my father, broad shoulders, black hair, icy blue eyes. My mother has laid out a dress for me on the bed, a muted blue, almost grey frock that ties in the back. Not very flattering or special in anyway, but perfect for a day that was notorious for breaking so many families, so may hearts. In the forty-nine years that the Games have been held, District Twelve remains victorless. The Reapings hold no hope for us like in some other districts. It is always a funeral, and we all have to attend.
My hair is wrapped tightly around itself in a bun on the back of my head, Poppy's is braided intricately, twisting and intertwining into a coil. She is very brave as she grabs my hand and leads me out the door, to possibly meet our own fates. This year's Reaping will be special. On an ordinary Reaping, one boy and one girl would be chosen as tributes, but during the Second Quarter Quell, there are to be four chosen, two boys and two girls. If the odds are not in our favor, Poppy and I could both be chosen, and only one of us might have the chance to return home to our mother.
We stand in a crowd surrounded by girls, some of them older than me, but most of them younger, Poppy holding on tightly to my arm as we wait for the buzz of the microphone to come alive. I crane my head to the other side of the crowd, looking desperately for Haymitch. I find him, standing near the front on the opposite side of the sea of people, his hands still in his pockets and his gaze still aimed toward the ground. Click click click click. A woman from the Capitol strolls out onto the front steps of the Justice Building, wearing seven-inch bright orange heels, and a tall, curly wig that matches perfectly. The wrinkles under her eyes and around her thin mouth say she is in her fifties, but her choice of outfit, a tight pencil skirt that barely covers her rump and a flamboyant, cotton-candy colored blouse that buttons just above her nipple line, says she would rather be much younger. Although the situation of possibly being called as tribute is frightening, I stifle a giggle as she opens her mouth and drones in her perky, Capitol accent.
"Happy Hunger Games!" She says in a squeakish voice, positively delighted. "And may the odds be ever in your favor." The look on her face says that no matter how many times that phrase has passed her lips, it would never be enough to pacify her love for it. "As usual," she says, clicking over to the large glass bowl on the left of the stage, "Ladies first." She reaches her hand deep into the bowl, and pulls out a small piece of paper. I hold my breath. "Maysilee Donner." Nobody makes a sound. People shuffle around to the side of me as a girl, around my own age, passes in front of me to make her way up to the stage, to her funeral. I recognize her, but she is as good as dead now. The Capitol woman grabs her hand and helps her up the steps. It seems that her legs barely work, moving in sluggish, jerky motions, as shock strikes her face as she stares into the crowd from the stage. "And for the second female tribute," the woman says, reaching her hand into the bowl a second time. "Astrid Kingsbury." I exhale slowly as a girl near the front steps out of the crowd. I hear Poppy gasp and she squeezes my hands, cutting off circulation to my fingers. She whimpers slightly as the small girl climbs the stairs to stand with the other female tribute. The girl is no more than twelve years old, wearing her hair in two braids that fall down her back, her face gone white in horror. I hear a small sob escape from my sister's mouth. I recall Poppy talking about her friend Astrid, and how they play together and make necklaces out of flowers. They are, or were, best friends.
The two girls stand at the edge of the stage, side by side, staring blankly into the void, coming to terms with their own imminent deaths. The woman from the Capitol looks absolutely pleased. "Such beauties in the Games this year!" She says, brushing the little one's cheek before making her way to the other glass orb on the other side of the stage, the one that holds Haymitch's name somewhere inside it. "Now, for the boys," she says, very matter-of-factly. She reaches her hand in and grasps a piece of paper between her fingers. "Juniper Everstone." I realize I was holding my breath again, but I do not exhale as the first boy takes the stage and she dips her hand into the bowl a second time. "Haymitch Abernathy." My heart stops. My mouth hangs open. I see Haymitch lift his head slowly, the boys around him making a path for him up to the stage. I feel Poppy's hand squeeze again, but not for her own comfort, but for mine. As if her tight grip would keep me from completely falling apart. I watch him, in slow motion, step by step, making his way up to stand beside the other tributes. His face is devoid of emotion, his eyes drained of any living color. He catches my eye for a split second before tears rise up and cloud my vision. As I wipe them away, the Peacekeepers are already herding them away into the Justice Building.
I stand outside the door, my hands shaking as I fidget with the silver bracelet around my wrist, constantly twisting it across my skin, until my wrist is red from the irritation. The door opens and Haymitch's mother and little brothers are shoved from the room. I straighten up, and before I can even blink the tears away, her arms are around me, pulling me close to her. She is very thin and frail looking, but her grip around me is tight. I do not mind it though. It is comforting, since the scent of her hair matches Haymitch's perfectly. I breathe her in when a Peacekeeper grabs my arms and shoves me towards the door, into the small room.
"You get three minutes," he says coldly. I see Haymitch sitting on a worn old arm chair as the door slams behind me. He stands up immediately and pulls me into him. His giant arms envelope me and his shirt smells like mothballs, having never been worn except for previous Reapings. I stifle a sob as I bury my face into his chest. He runs his hands through my hair and down my back. It seems like just a few days ago we sat in a deserted corner of the district, tracing our fingertips over each other's skin, dreaming of someday escaping, making a life for ourselves, getting married. Now I imagine that my fourth finger will forever be bare, because I will never be able to love again. Not in the way that I love this boy, standing in front of me, awaiting his death. He breaks away from me and gently presses his lips against mine. It tastes salted, and I can't decide whose tears are saturating our kiss with the wet saltiness. I have been kissing him for as long as I can remember. When we were kids, playfully, and now as we've grown older, passionately. In all those years of my embraces with Haymitch, I never dreamed I would be doing it for the last time, in a dusty, old room in the Justice Building, before the Second Quarter Quell. I long for my past self to have held him closely more often, to have become lost in his gaze longer, to have kissed him every second of every day. But even then, I doubt I would feel satisfied in leaving him now, probably forever. He brushes the tears off my cheek as he looks me in the eye, peering straight into my soul.
"Don't worry about me, Eden," he says gently, a small smile making its way across his lips. I wonder how difficult it is for him to manage a smile right now. I try to return it, but all that comes out is a tiny, wet cough. He enfolds me in his arms again and kisses my head. "You should know by now that I will never leave you. Not even forty-seven murderous people with knives and swords and arrows could keep me from coming home to my sweetheart."
I watch the screen in absolute agony. Every time I see Haymitch on the screen, he looks alive, but in the back of my mind, I know he is already dead. He was dead when he boarded the train along with the other three tributes from Twelve. My eyelids are so puffy from crying, I have to make an honest effort to keep them open. Haymitch walks out onto the stage, lights of all colors illuminating his black suit and make Caesar Flickerman's hair an even deeper hue of red. I can't help but be reminded of the rosy shade of blood. The crowd bursts into applause they shake hands and sit down on the fluffy, yellow arm chairs.
"So, Haymitch," Caesar begins as the audience quietens, "what do you think of the Games, having one hundred percent more tributes than usual?" Haymitch crosses his leg over the other and folds his hands behind his head, giving an air of complete nonchalance.
"I don't see that will make much difference," he answers. "They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual." The audience explodes into laughter and applause. Caesar can't help himself from bursting as he slaps Haymitch on the leg. He looks very pleased with himself, but I can tell that behind that carefree façade he is portraying to the audience and the cameras, his eyes are pleading for back home, for his family, for me. He chuckles slightly as Caesar continues.
"Alright, so you're obviously very confident," He says as Haymitch nods, a cocky smile plastered on his face, "and you're fairly lethal as reflected by your training score, but tell me Haymitch, is there a girl back home? Surely a lady-killer like you has got somebody who is missing him all the way back in District Twelve." Haymitch's smile softens as his eyes travel to the floor, becoming distant. He nods again. "Oh?" Caesar says, begging for him to elaborate.
"There is a girl back home," Haymitch says, confidence beginning to well back up in his voice. "And let me tell you, Caesar, she is absolutely beautiful." I feel my face turn red, and then my stomach plummets. I long for him so badly. The crowd begins to make 'ooo' sounds and hoots and whistles. I can see him beginning to blush. Caesar gives a light laugh.
"And I'll bet she is missing you pretty badly right now." You have no idea.
"I promised her I would never leave her," he says, the muscles in his face starting to tense, "and not even the Hunger Games can stop me from keeping that promise." He looks very serious now, and Caesar picks up on the emotion that is stirring inside of him. He pauses for a moment as he takes him in, admiring his dedication and his sudden brusqueness. Then he stands up and grabs Haymitch's hand, squeezing it tightly and giving him a firm handshake.
"Haymitch Abernathy, everybody!" He says jovially. The audience roars with applause as he waves and exits the stage, the last of the tributes to have completed their interview. Now, as the night grows later and the moon rises higher in the sky, we all will lie awake in our beds, fearful of sleep as the Second Quarter Quell will begin in the morning.
The clock counts down. The forty-eight tributes are circling a large, golden cornucopia, an abundance of items, weapons, backpacks, food, spilling out of its mouth. The cameras get close-ups of all their faces. Many I see looking around wondrously, beholding the beauty of the arena. Then they catch Haymitch's face. Focused, unwavering, intense. He crouches on his podium, waiting for the clock to finish its counting. 3... 2… 1… Haymitch darts toward the Cornucopia as blood begins to fly everywhere, many tributes caught unaware as they stare around, still beholding the arena, then getting sliced by more attentive competitors. Haymitch grabs a backpack and a large hunting knife before sprinting away from the lake and into the cover of the trees. I exhale, not realizing I haven't taken a breath since the clock began its countdown. I am relieved that Haymitch survived the bloodbath. Maybe he will keep his promise after all. By the end of the day, as the arena started to turn dark with nightfall, over half of the tributes were dead, including two from District Twelve, the other boy who was called before Haymitch, and Astrid, Poppy's best friend. I wait for her to cry, but her expression is stony, unfeeling. I realize that Astrid died the day of the Reaping, not this first day of the Quarter Quell. Poppy was through mourning her best friend.
A few days pass with Haymitch still alive. He is surprisingly talented with his hunting knife, able to kill animals for sustenance, staying well-fed. Tonight he is roasting a rabbit over a fire. It does not seem like he is trying to stay hidden, but asking for company as his smoke reaches high above the tree line. He grins as a pack of Careers strolls into the firelight, swords and knives bared, ready to kill. I hold my breath again, and I want to close my eyes tightly, not wanting to witness what may happen to my beloved. He says something sarcastic to them and one of them pounces, but the boy's body hits the ground before the other two can attack. His knife finds a space in between ribs and another one crumples down, dead. Then he is jumped on and his legs slide out from beneath him. He is pinned to the forest floor with a foot-long dagger pressing up against his chin. I can see a gleam flash across the Career's eyes as she is about to drag the knife right through his throat, when a dart pierces her neck and she falls limp on top of him. A girl, Maysilee Donner, heaves the girl off of him and helps him up. I feel a pang in my chest as she grabs his hand and lifts him to his feet. Could it be jealousy? The feeling lasts as they walk stealthily through the woods together, side by side.
Tribute after tribute fall, some from genetically mutated crocodiles, some from acid rain, some at the hands of another. Now there are five of them left. It's almost over. He is almost home. Haymitch and Maysilee walk toward a cliff, hoping to find something useful at the edge of the arena. Maysilee, tired from the heat and beginning to parch, suggests going back to their stream and getting a drink. Haymitch declines, and a cranky Maysilee storms off, breaking the alliance and muttering coarse words in her wake. A pebble is struck by Haymitch's kicking foot, and falls off the cliff. But instead of making its way down, into nothingness, it bounces back up, nearly hitting him right in the face. He grins, almost crazily as he peers over the cliff, and kicks another pebble off. Then a scream meets his ears, and he sprints toward it, toward Maysilee. He finds her not too far away, being gruesomely attacked by large, awkard birds, which are tearing through her flesh with their razor sharp beaks, blood spattering their candy pink feathers as one impales her windpipe. Haymitch stabs on of the birds in the neck, and the others go running as it slumps to the ground. Gurgling sounds escape Maysilee as blood soaks the dirt around her. Haymitch scoops her up and holds her close. Tears squeeze out of his eyes as he shuts them tightly, trying to escape this grisly game. That pang of jealousy I felt for their alliance dissipates and I fall to my knees as I watch Haymitch unravel with her in his arms. That was all he had left of home, and now it's gone, drowned in a pool of scarlet. He is alone.
A tribute dies at the end of a sword; another is engulfed by a herd of man-eating rabid squirrels. Haymitch is left with one other. This is the end. There can only be one victor. The girl from District One pursues him with her axe, already bloody from having striked Haymitch in the torso. She covers her right eye as blood pours from its socket, Haymitch having sliced it out with his knife. He is hobbling, similar to a wounded animal, up a steep hill, toward the edge of the arena, toward the cliff. The girl, half-blind, stumbles as she tries to snatch at his quick feet. He makes it to the edge of the cliff holding his stomach, about to collapse, trying to hold in his eviscerated intestines. The girl is within a couple of yards of him. He falls to his knees. The axe is thrown straight at his head. Haymitch ducks and the axe flies off the edge of the cliff. A smile creeps across his face as she looks puzzled. Then the axe, acting like a boomerang, returns to its owner at full speed, coming to rest in her skull. Haymitch passes out and a voice comes on over the rushing wind of the arena.
"Ladies and Gentleman, I give you the winner of the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games." I feel light headed. Just a moment ago I was watching Haymitch holding his guts in his hands, trying to escape death. Now he will be on his way back home to me, finally.
A light is on in the first house lining the cobblestoned street of Victor's Village. Being the only victor living in District Twelve, Haymitch and his family have no neighbors, but I don't think it matters much at all to him. It has been two weeks since his homecoming, and I am having a very difficult time letting him out of my sight. It is too unbearable to think of him ever leaving my side again. I cannot seem to get enough of his smile or his kisses or his scent.
"I want to show you something," he says with a sly grin on his face. My face shows delight as he grabs my hand and pulls me down the street toward the square. He stops in the middle of the road and pulls something small out of his pocket. I gasp as I bring my hands up to my face. "Winning the Hunger Games comes with its advantages," he says. "For instance, I never would have been able to buy you this." He knelt down on one knee and opened a small box, revealing a ring that was encrusted with shining diamonds, glinting light in every direction as the rays from the sun hit it. "I know we are young, but after realizing how uncertain life is, I want one thing to be certain. I want you to marry me." I can't make my voice react to what he has just said, so I nod my head violently as he places the ring on my finger. I take his face in my hands and plant my lips firmly on his, never wanting to break away from him. His arms wrap themselves around my neck, pulling me even closer into his body. I can hear people in the square begin to cheer and whistle as we seal our love with this passionate kiss. The world spins, and then all goes quiet. A loud noise. A sharp pain in my back. Now I can't breathe. The once delighted noise from the people around becomes horrified shrieks and I can hear people running around us, frantic. I slump over, no longer able to stand. Haymitch is still holding me as he lowers me to the ground. The sun seems so bright as he cradles me in his arms. I touch his face.
"What's happening? Why did we stop kissing?" I say, confused, hurting, not able to comprehend what is going on. Three more gun shots a little farther away, coming from Victor's Village. Haymitch's family has just been shot. He looks behind him, wide-eyed and scared, toward the sound of the shots. More shrieks. People are slamming their doors, hiding away in their houses, trying to shut out this newly engaged couple crumpling in the middle of their square. Nothing to see. I see tears rising in Haymitch's eyes. Those eyes, a deep pool of blue. So loving, so forgiving. I want to stare into them forever, but I'm finding it hard to focus on them, like they are drifting father and farther from me. "Come back," I say, forbidding them to go from me. "Please don't leave me." A tear falls down my face. Is that from me or from Haymitch? I can't tell. I am trying desperately to remain in his gaze, to feel his hands gripping my shoulders, but I'm slipping. He holds me closer to him. I can feel his heart beating against my face as mine slows. I know that I am dying. "Please don't leave me," I say again, softer, shallower. He presses his face into my hair, sobbing.
"I won't leave you," he says wetly, rocking my body back and forth. Blood covers the grey stones of the road. He picks up my lifeless hand, the ring sliding down my finger, and rubs it on his stubbly cheek, my bracelet tinkling as it dangles on my arm, already beginning to turn cold.
"Promise me," I whisper, my chest no longer rising with breath. I go limp as my heart ceases to beat. We are completely deserted in the square. Me and Haymitch.
He kisses my head. "I promise, sweetheart."