Author's Note: Please let me know how I'm doing on characterizations! Reviews = love. Also, please check out my Haymitch x Katniss Tumblr, aber-deen (dot) tumblr (dot) com. :)

My Unintended: Chapter 2

I am a mess, both emotionally and physically.

I am a mess.

That's really the only way to put it. It's as if little bits and pieces of millions of puzzles were thrown together and fashioned into a jumbled-up atrocity by a careless idiot who abandoned it shortly afterwards. I am a mess, and I am alone.

When my eyes open, I can see again. I don't know whether to be angry or thankful, but I'm curious. Everything is clearer. For the first time in a while, my stomach isn't begging me for food. I can think a little bit. I remember my seizure. I won't call it a suicide attempt because no attempt at anything was really made. I'm too lethargic to attempt anything.

I'm not in a hospital, thankfully. I don't want doctors. I can't stand people fussing over me, fixing me, drugging me. I don't trust them. The only doctor I've ever trusted is Prim, and she…

I hear a scream echo through the otherwise silent room I haven't yet cared to identify. A few seconds pass before I realize that it was my scream. There's a dull ache in my head, but otherwise, I feel surprisingly fine. A little bit numb, but better than before. Cozier.

I look around me. The room I'm in looks more like a home than my house does, but that still isn't saying much. I'm wrapped in a fluffy blanket that smells like something familiar, but I can't place names on anything right now. I'm lying down in a bed. The room is dimly lit and smells faintly of alcohol.

I hear footsteps dashing frantically towards me, and Haymitch Abernathy is in the room yelling, "What happened? Why were you screaming?"

It takes a second for all of the stimuli to register in my mind. I am Katniss Everdeen. I am eighteen years old... Tired of the exercise, I fast-forward. My sister is dead. District 12 is being rebuilt. I was dying. Haymitch Abernathy found me.

For once, it's Haymitch who saved me instead of Peeta. It's odd. Why would he save me? How did he know I was dying?

"Why?" I whisper, my voice gravelly. It's all I can say. It's all I need to say.

There's a look on his face I can't quite recognize. It's a new expression for him. When he speaks, his voice sounds oddly sincere. Tired, but kind. Fluctuating in deepness, hoarser the longer he speaks. "Don't throw your life away, sweetheart."

"How can you of all people say that?" I retort in an accusatory tone. I can't help it.

"If you really care, I'm not drunk right now. Haven't had anything in over two days," he says bitterly, rubbing his bony face with unusually steady hands. His wavy hair is a tousled mess and he appears to have lost a solid amount of weight.

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion. "What happened?"

"I ran out of the good stuff a couple days back. I was going out last night to wait for the train to come with the new shipments. That's when I heard you scream," he explains.

"Oh." It makes sense. Why would Haymitch stop drinking voluntarily?

"Why wasn't Peeta with you?" he inquires, but I'm sure he knows the answer.

"We don't talk," I respond curtly.

Haymitch doesn't ask any other questions. I'm glad there's one person in my life who doesn't try to force me to talk about my feelings.

"Well, I'm going to get some food. And you're going to eat it, or I'm taking you straight to the hospital," he says after a minute of silence. I can tell he's not bluffing. Haymitch doesn't bluff.

"What did you give me?" I ask suddenly. "To fix me."

"Huh? Oh. Some vitamin pills for those of us who are too lazy to eat. And the last few sips of whiskey from a bottle I pulled out of the trash," he answers with a shrug. "Don't question it. It worked."

As he turns to leave and I drift back into sleep, I manage a, "Thanks, Haymitch." Somewhere deep down, I'm glad I'm not gone, because I know that means that Snow wins. Coin wins. Everyone who has ever wanted me dead wins. And I can't stand that.

He gives me a thumbs-up and leaves me alone in the room.

When I wake up again, it's dark out. I feel strong enough to sit up and find a cloth with bread, meat, and cheese on it, along with a note in a hasty scrawl that reads, "Eat it or get ready for hospital food."

I eat it gratefully and smile at Haymitch's threat before I can help myself. The food is warm and delicious and heartening. When I'm about halfway through, I break off a piece to save for Prim.

Oh.

Tears fill my eyes before I can take another breath. I drop the food onto the cloth and curl up in the blankets, sobbing and shaking. I find my pillow and put it next to me so it's like a small body. I hold it and squeeze my eyes shut and it's Prim. But my imagination's not good enough. She's dead. And I'm alive. How is that fair?

Don't think like that, Katniss, I tell myself. Think happy thoughts.

But the permanent absence of Prim is too powerful, and I can't stop crying. I hope, wherever she is, she can't see me like this. I'm supposed to be the strong one.

And then I feel someone taking the pillow from me before I can protest. They're too strong. They put the pillow back behind my head and lie down next to me, their arm around me.

The arm around me feels familiar. It's Haymitch. This wouldn't be the first time I've broken down in front of him, so I scoot closer and weep without holding back. I wet his shirt - he doesn't seem to care at all - and shriek incoherently. Things like, "She didn't deserve to die," and, "It isn't fair."

Haymitch keeps saying, "I know, I know." Because he does know. He's the smartest person I know and he understands what it's like to have the people you love killed because of your actions.

And then I say, "It's all my fault," expecting Haymitch to respond with his usual, "I know," because he should know that it's my fault. But he doesn't answer for a while; he's just stroking my unkempt hair out of my tear-stained face and keeping me wrapped tightly in his arm.

And when he does answer, he speaks in that all-knowing voice I can't argue with, amplified by his uncharacteristic sobriety. "None of this is your fault, sweetheart."

I fall asleep with his arm wrapped around me, and he doesn't leave.

In my dream, I am floating in a lake of wine. It's deep, rich, and crimson, and I'm drowning. Haymitch is at the shore of the lake, frantically drinking the wine so that I don't drown. When I wake up, I can't remember how the dream ends.

Haymitch is sound asleep next to me. He looks gaunt and his face is unnaturally pale. Our heads are tilted together so that his dark, wavy hair reaches into mine. I'm feeling a thousand times better, so I decide to surprise him with some liquor as a thank you for being there for me.

I stand up and the world spins for a while, but eventually, everything is still and my headache has subsided, for the most part. I use my fingers to comb through my uneven hair, which now cascades past my shoulders, some pieces even reaching my chest. After quickly pulling it into an uneven plait, I scavenge through the drawers and pull on one of Haymitch's shirts. I'm still wearing the tight jean pants I've been wearing for weeks and make a mental note to buy more clothes. I don't know what it is, but I feel a spark of life kindled in me when I think of how someone out there doesn't blame me for everything. For some reason, it's especially meaningful because Haymitch is the one who said it. Because Haymitch doesn't lie or sugarcoat or try to please anyone. He can't act. What you see is what you get. In that way, he's just like me.

So maybe, just maybe, I do deserve to live.

I ponder this as I walk to the warehouse where supplies from the trains are dumped off in. The workers give me a look when I buy two bottles of white liquor, but I have money, so they don't question it.

I walk silently in the pitch-black night, unsure of the exact time, carefully avoiding Mellark Bakery. I enter Haymitch's home from the back and find myself pinned against the wall, a cold, metal knife to my throat.

"Haymitch?" I sputter, staring at the half-asleep man with a dangerous gleam in his grey eyes.

The knife drops immediately and his facial expression relaxes. "Habit," he mutters, then says more angrily, "Where were you? I was wor-"

He stops abruptly as he sees the bottles of liquor in my arms and releases me from his grip.

"I thought I'd get something to thank you," I say, unsure as to why I'm supporting his alcohol addiction. "I... I owe you."

"I was about to call the hospital and tell them to round you up," Haymitch sneers, but I can tell he's happy. "Come on. Let's not put this stuff to waste."

He leads me to the kitchen and grabs a bottle from me, pouring its contents into two glasses. This is the first time I've been in the kitchen of his home, and it's only a bit cleaner than his old one, before Hazelle was hired to clean up his messes. There are snowflakes of shattered glass and rotting wood from spilled alcohol and the stench of spoiled food.

"You're wearing my shirt," he observes. He's not offering an opinion on the matter as much as he's just noticing.

"You're letting me drink," I say just as neutrally.

"It saved your life last time," he shoots back, and I can't argue.

Haymitch is clever. There's a reason he drinks. It has to be helpful to him somehow. Maybe it'll benefit me in the same way. It's just one drink, after all. I'm too preoccupied - with thoughts of Prim, Peeta, Haymitch, Finnick, and a long list of names that all get muddled into one and stab me in the heart - to really care or remember what happened the last time I drank.

I sample the white liquor, its concentrated stench burning my eyes. Tears fill them, but I don't mind. It's nice to get my eyes wet about something other than Prim. After one sip, I decide it would be best to just chug down the rest, so I do. Haymitch is already on his second glass and looks at me, impressed, as I finish off the glass and set it back down coolly. But I can sense him watching me warily as I pour my next glass. And my next. By my third glass, I'm trying to keep my hand steady so that I don't carelessly spill the precious liquor, but I'm shaking and the world has become slanted. Haymitch holds his hands over mine, obviously having a greater tolerance to the drink, and suggests, "Maybe that's enough, sweetheart."

But I shake my head. Everything is a blur, and that's the way I like it. I'm not thinking of anything except the bitter, ruthless liquid in front of me. I can tell by the look on Haymitch's face that his thoughts are identical to mine. All he wants right now is to bury himself in his drink, and it's taking everything in him to pry himself away from it in order to prevent me from having too much alcohol. I feel guilty for all the times I've patronized him for his addiction, because I understand why he drinks. I saw him in the Second Quarter Quell. As if that wasn't enough to forge torturous memories, Snow killed his family and girlfriend afterwards. Haymitch and I are drinking for the same reason. To drown out the pain of our losses. In the dark kitchen I can just barely make out the grimace on his face as he downs his fifth glass.

"It wasn't your fault," I blurt out without thinking.

He looks up at me and croaks, "What are you talking about?"

I'm sure he knows exactly what I'm talking about, but I tell him anyway. "Snow killed your family and your girlfriend because you outwitted them in the Arena. And you blame yourself. But you shouldn't." I exhale deeply. It took effort to string together understandable thoughts. It's a miracle that Haymitch pulls this off on an almost daily basis.

Haymitch gives me a look I can't read and gets up so abruptly his chair is knocked over.

"Go to bed. I'll take the couch," he says gruffly. He doesn't sound angry, but there's underlying emotion in his voice I can't pinpoint.

I fall asleep as soon as my throbbing head hits the pillow.