I hiccup and let out one last, strangled sob, only vaguely aware of the fact that I came here to offer comfort to Haymitch, not end up breaking down myself.
I finally lift my eyes from the half-empty glass in my shaking hands to his unmoved face.
"Aren't you terrified of me picking your name?"I ask, my voice hoarse from crying."Of going back into the arena?"
He laughs at this, a barking, mirthless laugh."You pull my name, princess, and I won't be going back. The boy'll volunteer."
"Volunteer?"I repeat, sure I must have misheard."He'll go back in? Voluntarily? With Katniss? That's foolish!"
Haymitch shrugs."He's determined to keep her alive. Thinks she'll stand a better chance with him there. Boy may be a fool, but he's going to do it."
I have about an hour left until the reaping and I have never been more horrified in my life.
Not when I saw my first tributes slaughtered, not when we had two twelve year olds one year, not when I watched Katniss go to the feast to save Peeta's life.
Yes, I was frightend, shocked and disgusted then, but I always had Haymitch there. Drunk, obnoxious, foul-mouthed, useless, ill-mannered, snarky Haymitch – but I didn't have to face those things alone.
And now I might send him back, send him to his certain death. Because, let's face it, he'll do all he can to protect Katniss and even if she weren't there – well, he's not exactly as agile as he used to be. Easy prey for young, unspent tributes and volunteers.
My hands shake as I reapply my make-up; the first attempt smudged by tears.
I silently curse fate for what it has brought upon us.
No, not fate.
The Capitol.
Snow.
Those men who think they are gods, allowed to toy with us feeble humans, allowed to make us into play pieces in their sick games.
I can't help but to think of the Weird sisters, the Fates, the Moirai.
That's what the Capitol made those of us unfortunate enough to be dragged into the games – may it have been out of greed, naivety or simply because the odds weren't in our favour.
The Gamemakers – Clotho – spinner of threads, of plans, of life.
The Tributes – Atropos – the inevitable, chosing the manner of each person's death, forced to kill, to cut the life thread.
And then there's me – Lachesis – the drawer of lots. I call their names and ultimately, it's my calling that ends their lives.
I shudder at the thought and force myself to smile as a peacekeeper knocks on my door to take me to the reaping.
If I don't draw the names, someone else will, so what's the use?
My heart threatens to jump out of my chest as I near the boys' reaping ball.
While I had to force Katniss's name over my lips, it was slightly easier because I already knew it would be her. Now it's up to me who joins her, even if it only is by chance and not choice.
I grab the first piece of paper my trembling fingers touch and make my way back to the microphone.
I unfold the paper and time seems to stop.
Peeta Mellark.
I stare at the two word for what feels like an hour but can't have been more than a few seconds.
Well, if the Capitol wants me to play one of their Fates, shouldn't I have atleast a bit of a say?
I don't have time to think about how despicable I am when my lips already move.
"Haymitch Abernathy!"
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On a totally unrelated note, lovely reader, could you be a dear and answer the poll on my profile to help me with a HG fic I'm working on? :)
