Hey, guys. If you have me on alert and are here because this showed up in your email inbox, yay! You're still reading my stuff! (or at least clicking on it) Review or send me a PM or just contact me in some way so I can fully thank you.

Anyway, this is really short and kind of drabble-y. My beta thinks Haymitch is OoC, but a drunken, sarcastic man can be sensitive and emotional on the inside, right? Right?

Anyhow (says my science teacher), I hope you enjoy.


He drinks himself into oblivion.

Everyone in District 12 knows that the sole Victor and Mentor of their district is a drunkard. And they know that he does nothing, can do nothing, for the Tributes every year, and that is why they are usually bloodbath victims. And forty-six families loathe him for this. But there's nothing that could be done.

Every day he stumbles into the dark, dusty Hob. It was the only place where people didn't shoot icy glares and dirty looks at him. They would glance up if they heard the creaking of the door and continue doing whatever they had been doing. They never judged him.

That's why he goes there, of course.

He'd trip his way through the black market – past Greasy Sae's stall, past Jack Burnham's fur stall, past the two teenagers dragging freshly killed animals and baskets of vegetables to sell – until, miraculously, he had found his way over to Ripper's stall. There he'd reach into his pocket, bring out a handful of coins, and slap however many he could find onto the table. Ripper would just sigh slightly in exasperation and pity, bring out the dusty bottles, and hastily scoop his coins into her pocket. Then, still at the stall, he'd pull off the cap of one bottle, tilt his head back, and let half of it splash into his mouth, as if he were a Tribute who had gone days without water, and feel the liquor burn its way down to his stomach, where it would settle.

He always emerged from the Hob more inebriated than before. And then that thought, that clear, penetrating thought, coupled with stomach-clenching guilt and a rush of emotions and images, would start to shimmer in the depths of the murkiness that was his mind. And he would relish it, and fight to keep it there, steadily, in his mind, even as his stomach turned over and over again. The image would become clearer. A mass of blonde ringlets that rushed over slim shoulders and danced with every step she took. Pink cheeks that flushed tomato-red whenever she became flustered. Sky blue eyes that glistened and shone with happiness, or clouded over in sadness. Pale pink lips that turned up at the corners kindly. An airy voice that tinkled merrily whenever she spoke.

A neck gushing blood that stained the grass and dirt red.

There. The image would be complete, and in his mind, muddled with alcohol, he would gaze upon it, his head swimming with fury at himself and at the Capitol and at President Snow and at the bloody Hunger Games, and his heart clenching and then plunging down, down, down, and then disappear.

He knows that it was – is – his fault. He didn't save her.

He doesn't allow himself to remember this in sobriety. He knows he'll try to join her, and succeed, because when does he ever fail?

He can answer that question.

But as much as his entire being hopes, yearns, to reunite with her, he cannot, will not let himself, because how will that help prevent deaths like that girl's?

He doesn't allow himself to remember her name, either.

So he drinks. But he doesn't drink to forget. He drinks to remember.


Review? Pweeaase. It doesn't have to be positive. Come on, you know you want to. :)