Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.

Indulge

There are moments in the woods when I have to remind myself that my dad and sister are dead. Sometimes I feel the sharp pain of hunger, but then I remember what I ate for breakfast: eggs, toast with grape jelly, smoked sausage and orange juice to wash it all down. I occasionally forget that I need to set up my own snares...because Gale hasn't set one in these woods for over a year. I haven't seen him in just as long. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen. I live in District 12. Gale lives in District 2. Because he killed my sister. Everything about that feels wrong so I let the thought slip my mind.

The woods are quiet today-not nearly as much game as yesterday-so I end up leaving the outskirts with just a sad, scrawny turkey. As I'm walking back to civilization, grey clouds begin to roll in and mask the sky, a flash of lightening shocks the air and a clash of thunder rumbles in the distance. I get back to Victor's Village just as the rain starts. I pass my house in a hurry. The lights are off: have been for awhile. It looks genuinely miserable. Maybe it remembers Prim and mom, Gale, the closeness we once shared. Maybe it misses its family. Perhaps it knows that I'm all that's left of it.

I make my way to Haymitch's and don't bother knocking when I get there. Upon walking in I'm immediately greeted by the familiar aroma of vomit, mold and burnt wood. In the parlor, face-down on a hideous brown shagged carpet, Haymitch lays with a bottle of dark liquor held loosely in one hand. I shake my head in silent frustration and make sure to kick him hard in the side as I move around him.

He groans. "What was that for?"

"What wasn't it for?" I say. "Get up."

"You're a real pain in the ass. You know that?" he mumbles. With a heavy grunt, he makes it to one knee; he grabs the nearby couch cushion to support himself as he rises to his wobbling feet.

"Yeah, and you're a useless drunk, did you know that?" I ask him.

"A hungry, useless drunk," he corrects, all while eyeing my hunting sack.

"You really are useless," I say and we chuckle. "Come on."

He follows me into the kitchen where I begin to prepare dinner. This is a ritual for us. I hunt. He drinks. I cook. He drinks. We insult each other and share a few laughs until the alcohol gets the best of him and he retreats to the living room floor once more. Most nights I shake him from his nightmares. After his violent thrashing and sometimes vomiting, or both, he gets up for another swig of whatever's left in his bottle. We sit in silence until he falls asleep again and I finally go home to Peeta. I hate to admit it, but, my life is tethered to the drunk man who was so wasted the day I took Prim's place at the Reaping he feel on his face in front of an entire nation.

Today, Haymitch makes small talk while I peel potatoes. "So, how's that Peeta doing? Haven't seen him around lately."

"You wouldn't, would you?" I take a stab at his constant drunkenness. "He's been really busy at the bakery."

You'd think it'd be painful, going back to a hobby that reminds you of your late family, but for Peeta, baking is like a form of therapy. I admire it, maybe even jealous of it.

When the turkey finishes roasting, I make our plates. We eat in silence and Haymitch has a second helping before cutting into desert: a delicious pound cake Peeta baked himself. Later, in the Parlor, Haymitch pops the top off a bottle of white wine. I cuddle up with myself on the couch. He takes his first swig-the first of many. The storm outside continues and I wonder if Peeta has closed up shop. Probably not. He always stays late at the bakery.

"I guess this is a good time as any to tell you," Haymitch says.

"Tell me what?" I ask, curiosity peeked.

"I'm sure you already know that tomorrow marks the year of Coin's assassination."

It's kind of strange to hear about someone's assassination when you're the assassin. "I guess I knew."

"There's going to be a celebration of sorts," he continues.

"A celebration of Coin's death?"

"Not necessarily," he says, "more like a celebration of liberation. They are calling it Bobdoc, or, the celebration of freedom."

"Sounds like a step up from the Hunger Games," I add.

"It's going to be a week-long festival. President Paylor called me herself. She wants you there. Guest of honor."

"At the Capitol?"

"No," Haymitch hesitates. "District 2."