Note: All characters and settings, and the concept of the Hunger Games, belong to Suzanne Collins. This story is a retelling of Suzanne Collins' book The Hunger Games, from one of her characters' perspective, so obviously some dialogue and plot points will be the same. Credit for that goes to her. I'm just imagining Peeta's perspective of the events. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter 4
Haymitch does not seem aware of his own faculties — or lack thereof — at the moment. He attempts to stand and slips straight back into the vomit. I glance at Katniss and am surprised to see her looking at me, too. I suppose we've both reached the same conclusion: we have to help Haymitch so he can help us. We wordlessly rise and pull our mentor up by the arms. The stench of vomit hangs heavy, making my stomach churn. Haymitch, swaying dangerously, turns his head from me to Katniss.
"I tripped?" His nose wrinkles. "Smells bad."
Not really helping himself, he smears more vomit onto his face. Disgust bubbles inside me and I'm tempted to let go of him. He's caked in vomit and obviously hasn't bathed in a while. His ill-fitting clothes are grubby and marred with stains. But I notice he's trembling, which I suspect has nothing to do with the train's movement or even his drunken state. When is the last time he had a proper meal? A good night's sleep?
It's not hard to imagine that rest and peace of mind are rare companions after surviving the Hunger Games. Haymitch exists in perpetual drunkenness, has let himself decay over time. He alone inhabits the Village — the only other victor died years ago. He doesn't have any family, any friends, or anyone at all to live for. And year after year, he's forced to attend the Games to watch more children die. The disgust crumbles as I think of Haymitch in this train every year, towed to and from the Capitol.
"Let's get you back to your room," I say, even though he's not in his senses, "clean you up a bit."
Katniss and I return him to his living quarters, with him leaning heavily on our shoulders. We take him straight to the bathroom, set him in the bathtub and turn the shower on.
I glance at Katniss. Disgust is woven into her features and her skin is tinged green. "It's okay. I'll take it from here."
She looks obviously relieved, yet hesitant. "All right. I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."
"No." The Capitol has done enough. "I don't want them."
As Katniss leaves, I get to work. Stripping Haymitch down to his undergarments, I press random buttons until hot water fires down in full force. After all the vomit has drained from the tub and the air is thick with rose-scented vapour, I wrap a towel around Haymitch's shoulders and half-carry him back to the bedroom. At this point, his previously mumbled protests are beginning to turn to rowdy shouts, so I have to admit defeat and call for help. At the press of a button, a Capitol attendant appears at the door. Together, she and I force Haymitch into a pair of pyjamas. She brings him a bowl of broth which he nearly knocks to the floor. Maybe we should have put it in a flask.
Getting Haymitch to eat is tricky. Eventually, fatigue overtakes him and he passes out. As I pull the blanket over him and close the door behind me, I realise the sky has darkened. I make my way along well-lit corridors but once in my room, I don't turn the lights on. The train speeds by silhouettes of buildings. Of homes. People live within those shadowy silhouettes, going about their everyday lives as I once did. As I was doing just yesterday. I lie back on the bed, not bothered about nightclothes or blankets. How different people's everyday lives are, compared to each other. I used to rise at dawn, spend the day at the bakery, then school, then back again, almost always surrounded by people. That was the pattern of my life for months on end. When did Haymitch last have such a routine to his days? When was his last proper conversation with someone? I think of his unlaced boots, mismatched socks. The way his shirt was buttoned all wrong, and the scratches on his palm from sleeping with a knife wedged in his hands.
This is what the Games do to you. I close my eyes, wishing for sleep to come and trying not to let my thoughts stray home.
The first noise to interrupt the train's steady hum in the morning is Effie Trinket's voice.
"Up, up up!" Three sharp taps on the door. "It's going to be a big, big, big day!"
Her footsteps recede. She can't know that I've already been up for a while. Sleep evaded me for most of last night. I tossed and turned, brewing in futility until daybreak. According to habit, I got up at dawn and washed and dressed for the day. Although exhaustion sits heavy on my shoulders, maybe I was lucky I didn't sleep. I didn't want to dream of home. At some point during the night, I got up and pulled my token from the pile of my old clothes and now clutch it tightly. I simultaneously want to hold onto it forever and to throw it into the farthest corner of oblivion.
Moments after Effie's wake up call, I head to the dining area. Buttery sunlight bathes the whole room, but it has no real warmth to it. Like yesterday afternoon the room is empty, but the table is laid. Four sets of crisp white napkins, glistening cutlery and upturned cups and crystal glasses have been placed at each corner. In the centre stand baskets of fruit and bread, pitchers of juices in startling colours. A small bowl for butter. Little jars of jam.
An attendant stands at each end of the room. Bidding them a quiet good morning, I take my seat. Almost immediately, one of them lays a plate laden with food in front of me. Another turns the glasses and cups the right way around and adjusts the pitchers so the handles are facing me.
"Orange, pineapple, honeydew, cranberry," he mutters, indicating each one. I am about to reach for the orange juice when a steaming chocolate brown drink catches my eye.
"What's that?"
The attendant follows my gaze. "That's hot chocolate, sir."
I nod. I've never heard of it, but if it tastes as good as it sounds, I can't pass it up. I've just poured myself a cup when Effie Trinket enters, looking fluorescent as ever.
"Good morning!" she says brightly. "And how are we today?"
"Fine, thank you," I answer automatically as she bustles to the table, peering over the selection of food. Her face falls.
"No coffee?" She beckons to one of the attendants. "Excuse me, where's the coffee? I need some coffee!"
The attendant scuttles through one of the doors. Looking appeased, Effie Trinket takes a seat. She has just opened her mouth to say something when—
"You sure you can handle coffee, sweetheart?" Haymitch appears at the door, a smirk on his face. A flask dangles from one hand; my heart sinks slightly. I know I can't exactly shake the drunkenness from him, but all my efforts will be wasted if each morning renews his intoxicated state. It can't be easy to endure a reality that's so filled with horrors — especially one supplemented by his own nightmares — but he doesn't even seem to be trying.
Effie stiffens. "Are you talking to me?"
"Well, you don't see the boy hollering for it." Haymitch strolls in and sits down beside a now ruffled-looking Effie. "All I'm saying is, you already have a spring in your step. Wouldn't want you to shoot through the roof now, would we? If you did, who would wake us all up for our big, big, big, big days?" He laughs with his head thrown back. The sound is grating and I wish he would stop.
Effie glances from his face to mine in disbelief. I just take a long sip of hot chocolate, resisting the urge to clamp my hands over my ears. Two plates have been laid in front of them both. Haymitch looks his over with disinterest, but eagerly pours a glass of cranberry juice. I almost raise my eyebrows in surprise until he empties some of his flask into the glass as well. Of course.
Effie looks seriously miffed. I'm hoping Haymitch will just focus on breakfast now, but he seems oddly jovial this morning. "Big, big, day," he chuckles under his breath. Then he brightens. "Although, if you did shoot off like a rocket, you'd probably get to the Capitol before we do!" He takes a deep gulp, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't you think so, boy?"
They both turn their gazes on me. My face reddens as I mutter something non-committal, and I grab a roll so I don't have to look at either of them. Both seem oblivious to the fact that we're heading to a place where mass murder is passed off as amusement. Haymitch just sniggers. Fortunately, the other attendant has reappeared by now, clutching a coffee pot. Before he can set it on the table Effie scrambles to take it herself, apparently eager to put as much space between her and Haymitch as possible. She slams the pot onto the table and heads to the door, cup brimming and expression satisfied.
At this point, Katniss comes in, looking questioningly at the scene before her.
"Sit down, sit down!" Haymitch ushers her over. His eagerness gives me some hope; maybe he will try to help after all. But watching him steadily empty his flask, I don't know what to believe.
The attendants serve Katniss. The one who pointed out the juices to me puts a cup of hot chocolate by her plate. She looks at it with curiosity.
"They call it hot chocolate. It's good," I reassure her.
We both start on our plates of food. As we eat, I decide to work through the obstacles one step at a time. Haymitch looks more alert this morning. Maybe, somehow, he will improve as the Games advance. Maybe he will pull through.
I eat as much as I comfortably can, determined to avoid yesterday's nausea. By the time Katniss finishes, I've returned to my bread roll and cup of hot chocolate. Meanwhile, Katniss scrutinises Haymitch, who must be on his third or fourth glass of juice by now.
"So, you're supposed to give us advice," she says suddenly.
He looks up with a glint in his eye and for a moment, I foolishly believe he's going to help. "Here's some advice. Stay alive!" He dissolves into laughter.
Katniss and I share a frustrated glance.
"That's very funny," I snap, unable to help myself. I've given myself too much hope, and now his mild drunkenness is a huge disappointment. He smirks at me with his glass dangling between his fingers and I before I fully register what I'm doing, I've knocked it to the floor.
The sound of breaking crystal leaves silence behind. "Only not to us," I add, to break that, too.
I don't know what I expected. Haymitch's fist flies at me with surprising speed and I fall from my chair. Barely registering the blossoming pain in my jaw I look back, ready to defend myself, in time to see Katniss plunging her knife onto the table. I almost think she's stabbed Haymitch's hand, but he merely leans back in his chair, gazing from her to me. He looks mildly surprised.
"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"
Neither of us replies. I get up and my eyes land on a dish of fruit set on an ice bed. The stinging in my jaw has deepened, so I gather a handful of ice.
Haymitch interrupts. "No. Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."
The suddenly helpful comment catches me off guard so I all say is, "That's against the rules."
"Only if they catch you," he replies. I struggle to understand if he's actually being sincere. "That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better." He looks at Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"
I stop myself from praising her hunting; she will want to speak for herself. She does even better than speak. Pulling the knife from the table, she throws it across the room where it hits the wall and stays. And I can't help the renewed hope that washes over me. With Katniss' exceptional hunting skills and Haymitch's sudden helpfulness, Katniss' victory is seeming more and more likely.
"Stand over here. Both of you," Haymitch commands, indicating the middle of the room. We stand beside each other as he circles us, scrutinises us. I don't even mind as he grips my upper arms between his fingers and presses to the point of pain. "Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."
We both wait for him to go on. Apprehension is already breaking through my hope. Although he has started helping us, will he see this through to the end?
He seems to come to a decision. "All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do exactly what I say."
Well, at least we have a verbal guarantee. It's not worth much but it's all we've got. "Fine," I agree.
"So help us," Katniss says. "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone—"
"One thing at a time," Haymitch cuts across her. "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."
"But—" Katniss starts immediately.
"No buts. Don't resist."
Those are his last words before he leaves us. Seconds later, the compartment is plunged into darkness. The ceiling lights turn on seamlessly. Katniss and I stand rooted, waiting for the tunnel to end. This tunnel leads directly into the heart of the Capitol. The proximity to our final destination reminds me of how far we are from District 12, but I can't let my thoughts go back there. Instead I only allow myself to feel relief and hope in light of Haymitch's promise.
It's a while before the darkness abruptly disappears. The train slows down, and then we're surrounded by light again. Both Katniss and I are drawn to the window, through which we catch our first glimpse of the Capitol. The glamour is undeniable — the buildings are impossibly tall and gleaming, the roads impeccably smooth — but the colours are garish, grating against each other. As people begin to point at the train, at us, Katniss leaves her spot by the window.
I stay. Despite Katniss' enquiries to Haymitch before, she doesn't seem to have thought ahead. It's not like I have much of a plan myself, but I stay for the same reason I agreed to Haymitch's order to co-operate with the stylists. If Katniss won't win the citizens of the Capitol over, I will have to, so I can convince them to help her. So I plaster a smile onto my face and wave until my wrist hurts. Once we stop at the train station, I see Katniss appraising me.
"Who knows?" I say with a shrug. "One of them may be rich." One of them may save your life in the Games.
She doesn't reply, just looks deeply disgusted. Her contempt isn't exactly misplaced: it's because of the Capitol that the Games exist in the first place. But it doesn't matter what Katniss thinks of me now. It's a small price to pay for her victory.