Wow, it has been forever since I updated this story; it was literally August the last time I wrote this. I kind of forgot I had it in progress... Anyways, thanks for the reviews on this so far! I'm sorry it took me almost six months to write the next chapter... *sheepish grin*.
Oh, and I know the part about mahogany isn't in the book, but I couldn't resist adding it in. I almost died of laughter when I saw that in the movie the first time. And second. And third. And eighth.
ANYWAYS, enough of my rambling; enjoy, and please let me know what you think!
Katniss and I stand in raw discomfort as we silently watch Haymitch try to rise to his feet, only to slip in his freshly-made vomit and liquor mix. I cringe at the stench, and exchange a worried glance with Katniss. I try not to think about the fact that once we're in the arena, he is all we've got. Like it or not, Haymitch will be the thin rope connecting us to the outside world.
Simultaneously, as if coming to the same unspoken decision, we step forward and each grip one of Haymitch's arms, struggling for a few moments before eventually pulling him to his feet.
"I tripped?" Haymitch asks, surveying the vile scene around him. "Smells bad." He wipes his face with the back of his hand, succeeding only in smearing vomit all over his face.
"Let's get you back to your room," I say. "Clean you up a bit." With Katniss' help, we half-drag half-carry Haymitch to his room, hauling him directly into the bathtub, immediately turning the shower on.
"It's okay," I say, turning to Katniss. "I'll take it from here." A hint of relief floods her eyes, though she tries to hide it with a forced smile.
"All right," she says. "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you."
"No," I reply. "I don't want them." I'm not particularly fond of cleaning vomit off of Haymitch in the first place; trying to do that with the 'help' of one or more of those annoying Capitol robots would send me over the edge. Katniss nods before exiting the bathroom, presumably heading to her own compartment.
I carefully strip Haymitch down, trying my best to support him without dousing myself in the process. I eventually manage to clean him up, and hastily re-dress him before nearly dragging him to his bed. Though tucking my mentor in wasn't my ideal day plan, I do so anyways. Flicking the light off behind me, I tiredly trudge back to my compartment.
As I lay within the comfortable confines of the satin-lined sheets, I can't help remember the day with the bread. I know she probably remembers it, too, though refuses to speak of it.
I was just a little kid then. It was pouring rain, and I remember the cold draft that entered the bakery whenever the door was opened or closed. As I was baking bread, I had noticed a lump of what seemed to be a human; upon further inspection, I realized it was Katniss. Katniss Everdeen, the girl I had had a crush on for several years as of then, was huddled out in the pouring rain. Liquid streamed down her face; I couldn't tell if they were tears or just merely the rain. Nevertheless, I felt bad. Even from that distance, I could tell how thin and frail she looked, matching the state of many in our district. I had glanced down at the hot, steaming loaves of bread I had just pulled from the oven, wishing I could give them to her.
Then a thought crossed my mind; if I could somehow find an excuse out of the bakery for a few minutes, I could sneak them to her. I glanced down at the loaves in my hands, then at the burning coils inside the oven. I checked behind me, searching for any signs of my grump of a mother; if she caught me, I was toast, pardon the pun. Acting quickly, I dropped both loaves onto the red-hot coils, allowing them to burn for several seconds before yanking them back out. Just as I closed the oven door, I felt a smack on the side of my head. I whirled around, meeting the furious eyes of my mother as she glared down at me. Apparently my attempts at secrecy were fails.
"Look what you've done!" she yelled, hitting me again. I cringed but endured it, clinging to the two now-burnt loaves as if my life depended on them. In reality, somebodies did; just not mine.
"Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature!" she continued, face turning red with rage. "Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" She whapped me hard in the face with a large wooden spoon before she shoved me out of the back door. I stumbled and nearly fell over, but managed to catch myself against the weak wooden railing of the porch. I began to tear off small chunks of the scorched parts, slowly tossing them in the pig trough until I was absolutely sure my mother was gone. Then, never making eye contact, I took a few steps out into the rain, threw both loaves in her general direction, then turned and ran back inside before my mother had a chance to witness it. I watched from the window of the warm bakery as she momentarily stared at them in disbelief before snatching them up, shoving them under her jacket and swiftly walking away.
I saw her at school the next day, though I was with my friends and, for whatever reason, chose not to acknowledge her. My eye had blackened and my cheek was swollen, a prominent red welt on the side of my face. Though it hurt, it was worth it. I managed to lock eyes with her after school that day, though she only held my gaze for a second before she dropped it again, and I turned away.
Still lost in thought, I half-heartedly sift through the drawers of clothes, searching for something to wear to bed. I eventually gave up and just yanked my shirt off, tossing it to the floor as I undid my pants. I let them drop to the plush carpet as I climb under the warm sheets once again. Though you'd think I'd be exhausted after such a crazy day, sleep does not come easy. I toss and turn for God-only-knows how many hours before I finally fall into a restless slumber.
I awake the next morning to the shrill, overly-enthusiastic voice of Effie Trinket, chiming from the hallway outside my door.
"Up, up, up!" she chirps. "It's going to be a big, big, big day!" I groan as I momentarily try to comprehend the bizarre train-wreck of thoughts that must race through that woman's head day in and day out. After little thought on the subject, I come to the rapid conclusion that I do not want to know. Reluctantly climbing out of bed, I slip on a plain white t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans, pausing a moment in an attempt to tame my hair. Giving up, I step out into the hallway, and make my way to the dining car.
I am immediately greeted by the agitated voice of Effie Trinket muttering something under her breath in annoyed tones. Haymitch sits in a large, plush chair chuckling to himself. I notice his face and eyes are puffy and red from yesterday's events. I immediately feel uncomfortable, sliding into a chair as Effie greets me with a curt, distracted nod before continuing her quiet rant of obscenities.
In front of me on the grand, wooden table is food; more food than I have ever seen before, let alone been allowed to eat. An Avox quickly comes with a giant platter of delicious-looking food. I subtly breathe in and take in the wonderful aromas of the assorted foods, some of which I'd never seen before. Of what I did recognize, eggs, ham, and potatoes were piled on my platter. A large bucket of fruit sat chilled in a bucket of ice, and an unbelievably large basket of assorted rolls was placed in front of me. Though I was used to making bread every day of my life, these rolls looked extraordinary. A tall, crystal glass sits to the side of my plate with an orange beverage, which I take to be orange juice. Coffee is poured in a second cup, a steaming mug of dark brown liquid. Next to it is another mug with another brown substance, though it looks much more appealing than the coffee. I've never had much of a palette for coffee; I always find it too bitter and odd-tasting.
As Effie passes me again, I lightly catch her arm and point to the second mug of brown liquid.
"Excuse me, but what is that?" I ask her. Briefly glancing down, she responds without a second of hesitation.
"That's hot chocolate, dear," she answers. "It's much sweeter than coffee; try it." I nod and partake in a hesitant sip, swallowing it and allowing myself to taste it. It tastes really good; chocolate-y, but not too rich.
As I take another sip, Katniss emerges from the door wearing the same outfit she had on yesterday. Her hair is still up in her famous braid; though slightly tousled from a night of probably-not-much-sleep, it still looks presentable. She slides into her seat next to me and I notice her take a questioning look at the hot chocolate, probably wondering what it is.
"They call it hot chocolate," I say, and her eyes meet mine. "It's good." She nods and takes a sip, involuntarily shuddering. Ignoring the rest of the meal, she drains her cup, licking her lips in approval of the sweet drink. After both our cups our drained, we stuff our faces with everything we can hold. I didn't want to over-do it, but everything was so good. After several plate-fulls, Katniss sits back and heaves a satisfied sigh. I continue to slowly eat, tearing off bits of a roll and dipping them in my newly-filled cup of hot chocolate. I glance up and notice Haymitch's plate is completely untouched; instead, he is mixing some form of red spirit into a cup of clear liquid, probably meant to thin it. With deep agitation, I realize that he'll be completely useless by the time we reach the Capitol, if not incapacitated or passed out.
"So," Katniss begins, startling me from my annoyed thoughts of Haymitch. "You're supposed to give us advice."
"Here's some advice," Haymitch almost spits. "Stay alive." With that, he bursts out laughing as if it's the funniest thing in the world. I exchange a quick glance with Katniss, before she quickly turns away, as if deciding not to look at me. My usual-mild personality aside, fury boils inside of me. The man who was supposed to be helping us- or at least trying to help us- was drinking himself into sheer oblivion.
"That's very funny," I growl, eyes narrowed. I suddenly lash out, knocking the glass out of Haymitch's hand. It falls to the floor, shattering as the crimson liquid, not much unlike blood, spills across the floor. Haymitch pauses for a moment in shock, seeming to consider something before springing forward and punching me in the jaw. I suppress a grunt as I fall from my chair. Just as he turns back to reach for the red spirit again, Katniss picks up a knife and, with break-neck speed, drives it hard into the table. It just barely misses his fingers, leaving a solid margin of quarter-centimeter.
"That is mahogany!" I hear Effie exclaim from across the car. Ignoring her, I turn my glare back to Haymitch.
"Well, what's this?" Haymitch says as he sits back and squints at us. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" I rise from the floor, not taking my eyes off of him as I scoop up a handful of ice from under the basket of fruit. I begin to press it to the place Haymitch's fist impacted my jaw.
"No," Haymitch says, stopping me before I can reach my cheek. "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."
Confused, I state, "That's against the rules."
"Only if they catch you," Haymitch says with, to my surprise, a mysterious glint in his eye. "That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught yet, even better." He turns to Katniss, briefly surveying her before speaking.
"Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" he asks her. The manner of his voice makes it seem almost like a sarcastic remark, though I believe he actually intended it as a legitimate question. She's amazing with a bow and arrow! I thought to myself. Right in the squirrel's eye, every single time.
She says nothing, though; only wordlessly yanks the knife from the table, adjusts her grip on it, and throws it across the room towards a wall. The knife whistles through the air and lodges itself in between two of the wall's panels.
"Stand over here. Both of you," Haymitch commands, motioning towards the center of the room. We both obey as he circles us, examining us from head to toe as if we're prey he's waiting to pounce on. He prods our arms, checking our muscles and examining our physiques.
"Well, you're not entirely hopeless," he concludes with a satisfied nod. "Seem fit. And once your stylists get a hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."
I try not to think too much into what he probably thought were compliments.
"All right, I'll make a deal with you," he offers, standing in front of us with crossed arms. "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."
Not what I would call a wonderful deal, but a couple steps ahead of where we were previously.
"Fine," I agree, hoping I sound somewhat stubborn.
"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 grumbles. "In a few miutes, 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-" she begins.
"No buts," Haymitch cuts of strictly. "Don't resist." With that, he picks up a bottle of spirits and leaves the car, letting the door swing shut behind him. I let out a flustered sigh, glancing over at Katniss. She's not looking at me, though; instead, she stares straight ahead, seemingly avoiding my gaze.
As the lights suddenly dim considerably, I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs through the mountains and into the Capitol. As the train begins to slow, Katniss and I can't help but dart to the window. I stare out in wonder at the sight I've only seen on a small, grainy television in my living room: the Capitol. Its features are even more grand than the television, though I knew it would be. The tall buildings glistened in the afternoon sun, reflecting rainbows off of the glossy windows. Shiny cars make their way down the blacktop streets as oddly-dressed citizens mill around the sidewalks; their hair, clothes, skin, and overall appearance in general is bizarre, to say the least.
People begin to stare and point, excitedly waving as the train slows. Katniss steps away from the window with a look of disgust written across her face. I know why, but I refuse to back away. These people could be the difference between life and death; might as well be friendly. I notice Katniss staring at me and shrug.
"Who knows?" I say. "One of them may be rich."