We've developed some type of routine, Haymitch and I. He wakes up and cooks breakfast, and I wake up to pick at it. I wash the dishes as my form of thanks, and take up my seat in front of the fireplace. He'll take phone calls, write letters, or watch the new broadcasts Plutarch has set up on the TV. Greasy Sae comes over with her granddaughter to cook us lunch and dinner, which we both eat, and then we go to our separate beds, where I have nightmares. Some nights are worse than others. I wake up in a cold sweat, tears on my face, my heart hammering, and dying screams in my throat. Not once do I hear Haymitch stir.
He doesn't drink as much. Before, Haymitch would drink six, seven, eight bottles of liquor in a day, and now he limits his intake to two, maybe three bottles. To say it is an improvement is an understatement. He doesn't pass out anymore. He wakes up and goes to sleep at reasonable hours. But without his coping mechanism, I think his nightmares become more prominent because I sometimes hear strangled groans from his room.
But not once has he left me alone in this forsaken house.
I try to leave, though. At night when I wake up, terrified out of my mind, I try to escape. Filled with guilt and fear, I don't know where I plan on going, but I always try to go. I try to run away from the nightmares and the deaths I've caused, but Haymitch always stops me by the time I reach the front door. He hauls me over his shoulder, stoic through my tears, and puts me back into bed. He leaves and locks the door behind him so I can't escape again. He opens it in the morning, and I grow to resent his role as warden, keeping me locked in this prison. We never talk about it.
This resentment transfers over into our everyday life, and I don't talk to anyone for a long time. Haymitch takes on his usual sarcastic, seething demeanor, and I see his frustration boiling just under the surface.
At some point in one of our one-sided conversations, he realized that I was not going to respond to him. Quietly, he suggested that I start my weekly sessions with Dr. Aurelius. I raised my head, about to scream that I was fine, for him not to take of me anymore, to leave me here and live his own his life, that I am far too broken to ever be fixed. The words, again, die in my throat.
Instead of the drunken, brave, persuasive, cunning Haymitch that I am so used to, or the seething man I expected, I see a silent man, broken. His gray, bloodshot eyes hold pain, and I think that his question is not easy for him to ask. I nod my head in quick acceptance of his request, just to relieve some of that pain. I keep my eyes on his face. He takes a breath—was he holding it in?—and some color comes rushing back to his gaunt features.
Gaunt? Hasn't he been eating? I keep a critical eye trained on him to see if there are any other abnormalities. His eyes, usually so sharp like steel, are surprisingly dull. His cheeks appear hollow, obvious signs of malnourishment. His skin has resumed a slight yellow tinge, reminiscent if his withdrawal days in 13. His hair is flat and I think I see some strands of gray. How long has it been since my return? I shoot a quick glance past Haymitch's head to the window and the telltale signs of spring are in full force. Didn't I get here in the winter?
The shock of this is mild, but still surprising. I've been in this house alone with Haymitch for months. I wonder if May 8th has already come around. I might be 18 and I don't even know it. And I'm still alive. But who's been taking care of him?
"Haymitch, have you been eating?" is the first thing to leave my throat. Raspy from disuse, I clear it a couple of times.
"Sweetheart, you know that's the first time you've spoken to me in weeks?" He asks, surprised. He laughs without humor. "Good to have you back."
"I'm serious, have you been eating?" my voice slightly laced with worry. The first emotion besides pain I've felt in a while.
He sighs and stares at me. "You shouldn't be worrying about me, kid. I'll be fine."
"Why aren't you drinking as much?" I finally ask. He lets a brief, sarcastic smile adorn his features before he answers.
"Wouldn't be of too much use when I'm passed out on the floor, hm? I do have to keep you alive."
I don't say anything in response, instead intent on examining my hands. They're dry.
"Katniss," Haymitch starts, and I look up at him. "Katniss, you're going to be okay." And because I see the honest look in his eyes and the pain mixed in as well, I choose to believe him.
He takes my hands in his large ones and he keeps giving me that honest look. "I promise to protect you."
"I doubt it," I mumble as I take my hands away from his and make my way up the stairs. I don't know why I said that, if I was just bitter from being catatonic for so long, but I don't miss his hurt Seam eyes as I pass him.
I start my weekly sessions with Dr. Aurelius the next day. He asks me some routine questions of how I've been feeling, what my nightmares have been like, what's my daily routine, what I've done for the past few months. When I can't answer some of these questions, I hear his heavy sigh over the phone.
"Are you opposed to taking medication?" is his next question. Why does he bother to ask? He's the one in charge.
"No. I just don't want ones that don't let me move when I'm asleep."
Dr. Aurelius asks me about my nightmares again. This time, I decide to answer him.
"They're different every night. Sometimes I'm just walking through the forest and I can't find my way back. Sometimes I dream of all the people that I've seen die. Sometimes I'm the one that's dying." My voice fades into a whisper at the last part. I take notice of Haymitch sitting on the couch, his back stiff, eyes unflinching on the TV. Is it just me, or does a shiver run through him?
"And how do you fall back asleep?" Dr. Aurelius asks, drawing me back into our conversation.
"I don't," I say. "I stay up and cry until it's time to get up."
I'm sure I don't imagine the shiver this time, and I see Haymitch rub his face with both of his hands.
We conclude our session, with the promise of medication in the mail, and I take up a seat across from Haymitch. I watch him closely. He eventually abandons the news segment that's playing in favor of returning my stare. We don't say anything for a while.
After a few minutes, maybe hours, Haymitch gets up to sit next to me, and pulls me to his chest. I wonder why until I see a bunch of dots staining his shirt. Oh. They're my tears.
He murmurs things into my hair that sound like everything is going to be okay and that I'm okay. Doesn't he know? I'm not okay. I won't ever be okay again. I've lost too much to be okay. This only makes me cry harder.
His arms tighten around me. They keep me together when I don't have the strength to. I feel myself burrowing further into his chest, making more stains on his pale blue shirt. My sobs subside into racking hiccups. We sit in comfortable silence for a while.
Until he shatters it.
"What do you want me to do, Katniss?" he asks. I hear the hoarse sound of pain betray his usually strong voice. This question is loaded with more meaning than I am ready for. I turn in his arms that are still attempting to piece me together.
He wants to know if I want him to stay. He thinks he's not doing a good enough job as a mentor, guardian, friend. He thinks he's setting me up to die in this big, lonely house.
It's not empty anymore, though. There's me and Haymitch and Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. He's not setting me up to die, he's doing his job: he's keeping me alive, even though I want nothing more than to stay in bed all day. He's facing the ghosts of 12 and the wreck of a tribute that he thought he saved.
I don't tell him that he's doing more than anyone else could, that I enjoy his company, that he's the only one able to piece me together at this point. These things are all true.
Instead, I lay my head against his chest and I whisper, "Will you stay with me tonight? To keep away the nightmares?"
The tightening of his arms and a hum that resonates through his chest are my only answers.
My protector.
My sincere thanks to those that have reviewed! Please keep on letting me know what you think! Should I still continue with the story...?
