Silhouettes

He takes another long sip from the bottle of white liquor he's holding tightly in his hand, he doesn't even flinch from the burning he knows he is supposed to feel at the back of his throat. He's used to it by now. The liquor is as smooth as water to him, but it still does the job. It still makes him forget. It's hard for him to let go of the memories, the nightmares that have made him suffer for the last two years. He knows that he should be at peace now, because it's over, but it's hard, hard when he has to relive it every time he closes his eyes. Hard when he has to live knowing the suffering he has caused. Hard when all he sees are pink feathers, blood stained lips and blue eyes.

He finishes the bottle.

He slowly tries to get up. He needs another one. He needs to forget. He knows that there's no use, he knows that she will still haunt him, drunk or sober she is always there. He falls down to the ground, his hands and feet aren't as strong as they used to be, the nightmares, the loneliness making him weaker by each day that passes by. He doesn't feel like a victor. He never did. Not when he's stuck in this big house. Not when he's on his own. Without them nothing feels right, without her by his side. He sees the pink feathers again behind his closed lids. He screams knowing well that no one would hear him.

He finally manages to get his hands on a new bottle; he stumbles as he tries to get the lid off and drowns his sorrows in big long gulps. There are times when he tries to imagine her here with him. Imagine them both arriving home as victors, safe and sound from the hungry eyes of the Capitol, safe in each other's arms. He imagines his family in the house with them both. They are all happy. In the back of his mind he sees himself waking up beside her every morning, leaving a trail of kisses on her lips. Maybe they could have gotten married, maybe he could have had a family in the future, but the thought of that ever happening now makes him feel sick. Thinking of a family, of a child that isn't theirs, a child that's from someone that isn't her seems impossible. Spending his life with anyone but a girl with golden hair and bright blue eyes, a girl that died two years ago in his arms, would be a nightmare to him, simply because it wouldn't be her lips that he would get to caress with his own, wouldn't be her hands that would wrap themselves around him. He drinks more. He wants to hurt them. He wants to hurt them the way they hurt him. He gets up again, feeling stronger this time, the anger consuming his body as he lifts his arm and throws the half empty bottle at the white walls. He screams again, he falls to the floor and screams, more and more, until he feels tears roll down his cheek. He feels numb.

Memories flash before his eyes yet again, as he remembers the night before they were sent to the arena. She had snuck into his room and crawled beside him on the bed as he opened his arms and held her for what seemed like hours. He had never seen her so weak before. She kissed him that night, until they both fell asleep in his arms. It was the last time he had slept peacefully. He wouldn't take any of it back; those memories were precious to him, precious to both of them. It was the night when they finally gave into the yearning they both felt for each other since they first laid eyes. He didn't regret it. He didn't regret the feelings he felt for her.

He still feels the softness of them against his rough ones. The warmth of her body, the way it fit perfectly against his own. Those thoughts alone make more tears spill from his eyes. He feels pathetic.

She's screaming. He knows it's her. It can't be anyone but her. Her voice even when frightened still sounds beautiful. He runs faster. Runs as fast as he can, as the screams get louder, his heart breaks more. He can see her now; see the birds, with long feathers, pink like the sweets she used to sneak out of the jars in her parents shop. Their beaks were curled and sharp as they stabbed her. He trips over just as she falls to her knees. He can't seem to get up, so he musters the little strength he has and crawls towards her, they both do, or at least try. He reaches for her hand, a bit more and he will feel her fingers against his, but that doesn't happen because a bird pierces through her thin neck and she falls. Her cheek is on the ground, her eyes staring straight into his. He knows he's too late when he finally reaches her. He sits up and gathers her like a broken doll into his arms. He holds her hand as they both cry. He tries his best to piece her back together, to close the wounds, his hands shaking as he tries to wipe the blood off of her. Hot tears spill from her eyes as she weakly tries to stop him. He can clearly hear her voice in his head from the way she looks at him, ''Stop, it's too late.'' He knows she's right. He knows he shouldn't have let her go. He should have told her to stay when he had the chance, before she walked away. Now it's too late. There's blood everywhere. It's all over her pretty skin; her clothes are wet from it. More blood pours from her gasping mouth. It's not long before he sees her eyes go dull, and as they do he screams at her. He tells her to stay, he tells her to not leave him on his own, but it's too late. He sits there for what seems like hours, holding her, kissing her lifeless lips, her blood stained face. He's shaking. Her body is limp in his arms as he rocks them both back and forth. He doesn't remember anything after that. It's all a blur.

Those are the nightmares that haunt him every day. She left him to cope on his own. She left him with nothing but nightmares of pink birds and blood stained cheeks. It's not just her; it's all of them, a thousand silhouettes dancing before him. The dead, people that he killed, his own tributes that he couldn't save, his family that died because of him, her. They are all there.

No matter where he sleeps, she is haunting him.

A/N: I'm not too sure how this turned out, I haven't written anything in a long time but this was something I couldn't ignore. It's an idea that played in my mind every time I listened to the song Silhouettes by Of Monsters & Men. Please review and let me know if there are any mistakes I made in this, because personally I feel like I have repeated myself way too many times, and maybe made Haymitch a little too OC. ^^;

Thanks for reading :)

– BrokenThings&TwistedDreams.

P.s. I don't own any of the characters in this story. They are all owned by Suzanne Collins.