I don't own the Hunger Games, or Haymitch.
Mirage
(4 years later)
Haymitch's POV:
You have been trying to forget about her for thirty years, except that recently you are realizing the irony behind that resolution.
So you have everything-kids, a house, mountains of food, a stable life, a successful rebellion under your belt-but still—still—you're throwing it all away for the siren song of a bubbling drink, because you want to forget. Everything. Everyone. You want to forget her especially. You want to forget why the hell there is a reason to forget in the first place.
And does it help?
NOPE. Not for long. She still pops up. In the last few dregs at the bottom of the mug; peering through the duct-taped window on the second floor. You scream apologies but she can't hear them. And her face doesn't look so beautiful when it's gnarled in accusation, when her eyes reflect on a smoldering death. It's damn scary. That's why you keep drinking and drinking and drinking and drinking—until 25 years goes by, and you realize that your life has become about as functional as your liver. You're useless and it's your fault. And you still remember every painful detail and she still lurks in your coat closet. You've lost whatever game you were trying to play with yourself.
So eventually you've given up. On everything. You've succumbed to the fear. It's not what you ever wanted. It's exactly what you've been trying to prevent, in fact, but somehow you haven't been very good at it. You spend your days with a sticky bottle and a nasty, self-induced headache. You wind up talking to the geese in your backyard, spilling secrets and regrets about that long-dead sweetheart, and kind-heartedly trying to share your booze. And you try to ignore your bitterness towards the blossoming love going on next door, because you never had love like theirs. Safe love. You didn't let yourself have it, after her.
You try to make the pestering feeling of worthlessness go away by chucking rocks at the nearest goose. But you're secretly glad that you miss, because they have been politely listening to the forgotten secrets that you have been longing to tell someone.
Soon you're shuffling sheepishly out to your backyard every day, to talk to the only creatures that you think want to listen. And to escape the specter that lives inside that house. Even though it hurts, you find yourself explaining her personality and her quirks, and other small factoids about that young lady. That sweet heart. You give them a lengthy description of her face, and you re-enact all the times that she slapped you. And the times that she kissed you. Everything you can remember.
You feel stupid at first, but you begin to recognize that with each passing day you are becoming lighter, and that something within you is being purged. It's a therapy of sorts, and as long as it's kept a secret from Peeta and Katniss, you think you'll continue the sessions.
And one day, for the first time in 29 years, you say her name. Why was it so hard? It sounds strange on your blistered tongue. You cry. Mostly because you know that you're finally letting her go. Not forgetting. Releasing. Letting go.
They are tears of joy that you're shedding.
And although this revelation doesn't prevent you from continuing to pour the vile alcohol down your gullet every night, perspectives start to alter. She doesn't guest star in your nightmares quite as often as she used to, and when she does, she's the clever Seam girl that you knew once upon a time, and she doesn't hold anything against you. You greet her mirage with open arms. And you're sad when the sunlight arrives, and she has to leave.
But then her visits become fewer and farther between. She never stays long. She's slipping and you know it.
Your pleading calls can't bring her back, but you never expected them to. All you can do is lament on the night that she whispers a goodbye.
Because she's free now. And you're not.
A/N: Thank you all a million times for reviewing! I appreciate it so much!
And are you guys growing sick of Haymitch? I wasn't planning on another chapter dedicated to his ranting, but this piece literally flowed out of my brain the other day, and I just let the floodgates stay open. 'Tis about his lover. The finished product turned out... Oddly. Decided to post it, but he'll probably be out-of-action for a while. Because even I'm weary of him.
Chow!
