mgowriter's note: Reference in Mockingjay: Chapter 26, page 362
Chapter 11: A New Prison, A New Day
Four knocks at the door. It has always been their secret signal. Two taps, followed by a pause, and two more in succession.
The secret inquiry is greeted with silence. He sighs as his fingertips graze against the invisible lock above the door handle. A green light flashes momentarily, gaining him entry into the room.
The heavy door is constructed with dark, steel-enforced mahogany wood. It opens quietly to reveal a fully furnished bedroom suite, one of hundreds in Snow's mansion now used to house rebel soldiers.
"Effie?" Haymitch calls out.
She sits motionless at the edge of the lavishly decorated bed. Her eyes lock onto him as he enters, and a familiar look of distrust clouds her features.
"Hi," he says, attempting a smile.
She remains silent, following his every move.
"I wanted to see how you're doing," Haymitch continues. "Better than yesterday, I hope."
It's been three days since her release from the hospital. "Mentally stable" is the official statement on the discharge papers. The hospital is running out of beds, and she isn't considered a danger to herself. Instead of a cot in one of the refugee centers, Haymitch has managed to secure her a room in the mansion.
"I brought you something," he tries again, maintaining a cheerful demeanor that couldn't be further from the truth. He holds up a navy blue dress that glows in the light. A gradient of blue swirls, from dark to light, move lazily across the garment by their own accord. When they overlap, a burst of silver appears, followed by the merging of the two colors.
Haymitch sits down carefully across from Effie. "I picked out the dress, but Octavia helped me with the accessories." He motions to the suitcase left inside the door, containing a sizable collection of wigs, jewelry, and makeup.
Effie's eyes leave his for a brief moment to take in the beautiful gown. A flicker of a memory flutters into her mind…an almost colorless winter dress that changes colors underneath falling snowflakes.
The shimmering fabric is cool to the touch, mimicking the feel of ocean water at her fingertips. At the hemline, the letters "AY" appear briefly underneath the warmth of her skin, and disappear just as quickly when she withdraws her hand. She looks up at Haymitch.
"Ariel Yvento. You remembered."
"The most famous designer in the Capitol," Haymitch replies, echoing her words from what seem like a lifetime ago.
"What is all this?" Effie asks.
"Snow's execution is scheduled for tomorrow. They need an escort for Katniss."
"The Mockingjay," says Effie.
Haymitch nods.
Effie shakes her head. "No, I don't think…I couldn't."
Haymitch leans forward and wraps his hands around hers. She flinches, but keeps her own in place. She's trying. Some days are harder than others.
"It'll be good to get out of this room, to get some fresh air."
Effie's eyes register a new wave of fear. She retreats from the bed.
"What's wrong?" Haymitch asks.
"I can't."
"Effie—"
"Please," she says again. "I want to be alone."
Haymitch sighs. Frustration penetrates into his demeanor. He wants to comfort her and wring the neck of the man that did this to her, but he can do neither. She has been conditioned to think he's an imposter and Javlen has already been executed. Instead, his only option is retreat. At the door, he looks back at the woman he loves.
Was his role in the rebellion worth it? He doesn't know anymore.
. . .
His own assigned room is one wing over. Two flights of stairs and countless doors pass. He presses his fingerprint on the digital lock impatiently. The door opens, and his first instinct is to grab the half-empty bottle of dark amber liquid on top of the dresser.
He sits on the plush bed, and takes a long swig from the bottle. The familiar burn runs down his throat. It's sweet and punishing all at once.
Haymitch closes his eyes. Heavy breaths fill the silence. He takes another drink from the bottle, emptying most of its contents in one breath. Broken glass crunches underneath as he sets the bottle down, remnants from a drunken night he doesn't remember.
After a while, he reaches for the one item that never leaves his body—a knife given to him by Chaff on his first night as a Hunger Games mentor. Sleep with both eyes open, was the advice given along with the weapon.
Chaff, killed by Brutus. Katniss, burned by fire. Peeta, memories stolen by the Capitol.
Effie. Tortured because of him.
He lowers his head, examining the smooth surface of the well-worn handle and the pinpoint edge of the blade. Slowly, he takes the blade up to his neck. The sharp edge traces the delicate skin over his carotid artery. He feels his heartbeat reverberate into the blade. It would be easy to end it all. Peace, after so much war.
Haymitch removes the knife and laughs at himself.
"You think it's that easy?" he asks no one in particular.
He places the knife underneath his pillow, lies down, and closes his eyes.
"It's never that easy. This is your punishment, Haymitch, and you will serve it to the end."
