Chapter Two: Enduring The 70th Hunger Games
"What do you think of the tributes this year?" I ask him while waiting for the tributes on the train to the Capitol. I still hate him with all my being for being a drunken bastard who slashes innocent people's arms, but this is a rare time in which he is sober. For now, at least. He already has a flask of whiskey in his hand.
"I think they're going to die in a week, just like the rest of them." he says flatly. My eyes widen a little, taken aback by his bluntness.
"Don't say that so soon, we haven't even gotten to know what they can do yet! Maybe they can be District 12's new shining victor." I say, full of optimism. Surely, with the right escort and mentor, the kids from this district couldn't be that bad. What a lie, I hear a voice say in my head, they suck and you know it. I clear my throat and give Haymitch my best smile, shaking the voice from my thoughts.
"Princess, they're going down and you know it. Hell, most of the time they're already half dead by the time they're on the train." he says, taking a swig from his flask. I simply frown and slump down in my seat. Soon, the two tributes join us at the table. The boy walks in somberly, head down. I could see his tiny muscles underneath his torn, raggedy clothes. He has uneven brown hair and gray eyes. If I remember correctly, he's 13 years old. The girl is scrawny with the same features as the boy even though they're not related. She's 17. She looks around curiously, her face still puffy from crying.
"Hello, hello, hello, Mila and Guron!" I say as they sit down. Haymitch takes one look at them and starts drinking furiously, and I try my best to ignore him and his foul odor. It's easier said than done, though. They look at Haymitch helplessly.
"So, shall we discuss what your strengths in the arena will be?" I ask. I watch as both of them just look down, refusing to speak. Annoyed, I try asking again.
"I can forge fruit." the girl says so quietly I can barely hear her.
"Good, great start." I say, trying not to show my disappointment and hopelessness. I start tapping my heels underneath the desk, but stop when Haymitch grunts and shoves my feet with his to make me stop. I glance at him to see he's half way gone already, and that's no surprise at the rate he was chugging his alcohol down. Haymitch is right, I think. How am I supposed to help them? This would make my life so much more simple if I had Career tributes.
"Yurs gun die," he slurs, slamming his flat hand on the table. The tributes stare at him wide eyed, completely scared. I stare at him wide eyed, too, not believing what he just said.
"Don't listen to him at all." I say, grabbing Haymitch's arm. I offer to walk him to his room and he pulls away from me, and I'm pretty sure he calls me a pink haired bitch. However, I grab him again, this time more forceful.
"You're going to your room, Haymitch." I say, and lucky for me, he actually gets up with my help. He wobbles when he walks and I call out a, "don't go anywhere, this dinner is not over!" over my shoulder to Mila and Guron has I help Haymitch get somewhat stable.
Getting to room, I open the door and walk him inside and to his bed, where he collapses face first. When I see he still has his nearly empty flask in his hand, I roll my eyes. I go to the nearest mirror I can find, which is of course cracked, and check my appearance. Straightening my outfit and wig, I make a note to put on perfume before joining the table again.
"Yur no goods as the restuvm." Haymitch says into his pillow, and I'm assuming that's to me. I roll my eyes. I turn to face him.
"Who are 'the rest of them', exactly? The Capitol? Yes, poor you, with all the fortune and booze you could dream of, they treat you so badly. Let's all hate the Capitol, for they have done so much wrong. Poor little Victor." I say with my hands on my hips, clearly mocking him. I think that even in his drunken state he catches my sarcasm because he starts punching the bed and goes on a rampage. I run out the door and lock it before he can hurt me, remembering the stitches on my arm. Composing myself down the hall, I hear him scream and then glass breaking.
"He'll be better in the morning." I say, trying to cheer myself up. But the truth is, I know he won't.
