sometimes,
haymitch thinks, a bottle in his hand,
the world is just glorified hell;
that's all it is really
and sometimes,
he'll say, a bottle broken on the floor,
all he needs to cope in this life
is alcohol
one day he's home alone
watching the victory tour
and he passes out
he can't take it anymore
they want medical assistance
to assist him with what?
he's got a drinking problem,
not a broken knee-cap
he isn't sober
he's never sober
he needs to be,
but haymitch won't be sober anytime soon
don't get too close, it's dark inside~ imagine dragons, demons
in which haymitch throws away all his secrets
it's dark outside. that's all haymitch knows. there's a bottle of booze loosely clutched in his hand and he's sprawled across the couch. alcohol poisoning, he remembers, is lethal. oh, but it doesn't matter a damn thing to him. he's lived all his worthwhile days already. he doesn't know the difference between now and then, between memory and dream. haymitch doesn't know whether it's snowing or panem's been set under its much-deserved firey revolution, doesn't know whether the last girl he mentored died or won (every girl from district twelve is dead the first day).
he wakes up vomiting. he's parched. he can't breathe. everything he's ever feared has come to life and he thinks he's drowning in an inferno, but he's not sure of anything at this point. he doesn't have to be.
after all, haymitch's life has been lived and he doesn't need to live any more. so he doesn't.
haymitch laurenth abernathy always sleeps with a knife in hand. some say it was an accident that it ended up in his throat, but everyone in twelve knew the morbid truth. his terror is over and he likes it, even though he can't feel.
in the aftermath, there's no mourning. haymitch's journal of the games lies on a podium during the memorial and they read it out loud. all his thoughts, all his memories, all the secret's he's ever had. at the end, the line i threw my secrets out here for a reason is written in red, and the last two pages are empty, doused with wine.
but before him there was her.
she's won and her life is
hell, no less than that
and there she lies
5crying like she's young again
she wants to go home
she has a large white house
but she will never ever
have a real home
she would rather die
than win, because now she's trapped
in her own personal hellhole
and she can't get out
the forty-eighth victor,
she was left stranded by herself
all alone in the world.
an unbearable lifestyle. she wants to go home.
aeris doesn't like this world anymore. it's a hellhouse, no more than that. sometimes she'll pound at the door screaming and crying, but the door isn't locked. she can leave. she doesn't, just slams on the door, tears streaming down her face.
she was already dead when she won. "but she died last," the gamemakers protested. and so into the operating room she went, scalpels working like mad, aligning valves. four hours later they were done and she was living again; the girl with two hearts, aeris ailleck. the girl who lives in hell, aeris ailleck.
she was with her friend ruth loreth one day. the day she became fed up with all this. "just kill me. no one will blame you. i promise."
"aeris, everyone will blame me." then ruth took all fourteen bread knives from that house on victor lane and she left. aeris never saw her again.
out to buy liquor one day, aeris stood in front of the hob, a coin in her leather purse. only one. haymitch stood beside her, a pocketful of coins being rooted through by grubby hands. "hey, love, aren't you that victor? wait, you were my mentor! ha, what a coincidence!" haymitch yelled, his voice stuttered and barely intelligible.
hours later they emerged, haymitch sober and aeris staring at the sun. "i see you've gone mad like i have, then?" she asked. haymitch laughed loudly.
"we both like liquor, don't we?" he responded, raising a wine bottle.
"yeah, we do." aeris nodded and showed her tequila. "we're both victors- mentors, i mean. the games are a thing of the past." haymitch stayed quiet, probably not knowing what to say. did he ever know the right words? "but i bet you don't have two hearts!"
"no, i've only got one. . .shame, isn't it?"
"yeah, shame a nice guy like you doesn't have two hearts to show for it." then, meekly, she added, "catch you for dinner across the road?"
"sure, darling. three hearts joined we'll be, hmm?"
exactly. three hearts joined. one. how is she falling in love with a drunkard?
she just is.
for franceschis. note that the no-capitalization is for style, not laziness or ignorance.