Prompt : Have you seen the film Cyberbully with Emily Osment? Maybe a prompt based off that where Effie tries to kill herself in the bathroom but Haymitch walks in and there's a struggle there? I'm not sure what time period this would work best in but yeah J

I haven't seen that movie so I improvised. Also, warnings are there in the prompt itself so don't read if this sort of things trigger you.

A Hole In Your Chest

The house was too quiet.

He didn't know what was rubbing him off the wrong way about this silence because it was hardly ever… loud. He had expected it to be when Effie had showed up on his doorstep with suitcases and a quiet almost defeated request to use his guestroom but somehow… It never was. She smiled and laughed and made silly comments when the kids were around but she never bothered to put on an act for him and so the house remained silent. A tomb.

He was at a loss about how to help her, too trapped in his own hell and too busy fighting his own demons. He wanted to but it was hard when she wouldn't let him in. He heard her roam the house at night, he heard her cry locked in her room sometimes, he saw the spark of terror flashing in her eyes at random times triggered by the smallest things… When he tried to reach out, she flinched. When he tried to awkwardly prompt her to talk, she fled. When he tried to comfort her… She rejected him.

He didn't know why she had come to live there with him because she rejected him at every turn. He didn't know if she was still angry about her being left behind or if she blamed him for what had happened to her… He didn't think so but somehow it felt that way and that only drove him further down the bottle.

They hardly ever exchanged two words a day.

The house was always quiet.

And yet that afternoon, as he read in the armchair in the living-room, the noise of pages being turned the only sound aside from the tick tock of the old clock in the hall… It felt too quiet. Like a shift in the air. Like something was about to give. There was a feeling of dread in his guts.

He closed his book slowly, his finger drumming distractedly against its spine, and he listened. There was no clicking of heels, no muffled music coming from upstairs, none of the usual noises that made her presence discreet but felt.

He tossed the book on the nearby couch and stood up, telling himself he would just… check. Maybe she was just taking a nap or maybe she had gone out and he hadn't noticed – or maybe she was curled up on her bed again, either staring at the wall or crying, and she would flinch away from him when he'd try to comfort her…

He tried to figure out what had him so on edge that day, what had him so disturbed by this quietness that was far from being peaceful, but nothing came up. They had crossed paths earlier, they had exchanged a few words that meant nothing, they had danced on the landmine of eggshells that was now their relationship… He didn't know what wasn't settling right with him, he only knew something wasn't right even for this new normal. It was in the air.

Her bedroom door was closed.

He hesitated, his hand poised to knock – which was another oddity because he had never knocked before she had come to live there, their whole affair had been built on doors slamming shut and one of them barging in – and then he thought twice about it and simply turned the handle.

The bed was neatly made and she was nowhere in sight. He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, wondering if she had gone out after all, when a splashing sound coming from the bathroom alerted him.

Again, he hesitated.

She loved to take baths. It was her thing. But she always put on some music when she took a bath and she usually lighted candles and shit – or she had before the war anyway.

There was another splashing sound and he decided he would rather face her wrath than leaving uncertain that she was alright. It was a gut feeling and he had learned long ago not to ignore those.

Good thing too because the bathtub was full to the brim and her head was under the water line. She was struggling weakly to push herself up but her movements were sluggish and her face only came up briefly before she slid down the tub again. The reason for her difficulties were made obvious by the two empty bottles of wine lying next to the bathtub. One had spilled and the tiles were covered in a red puddle.

He stood frozen on the threshold for what felt like forever, watching her half-hearted instinctive battle not to drown.

It couldn't have lasted more than one second really.

One moment he was standing there, the next he was dragging her out of the bathtub by the armpits, hauling her up to her feet.

"What are you fucking trying to do?!" he roared.

She barely blinked, she couldn't stand up, her legs wouldn't bear her weight and he didn't know if it was the liquor or if it was something else. She was so underweight… One bottle would have been enough to knock her out but two… She was shivering and he pulled her against his chest instinctively, not caring about his clothes getting wet. He wrapped her in his arms and he forced her to stay there.

"What are you fucking trying to do?" he repeated in a horrified whisper. "You don't do that, sweetheart. You don't."

"'M sorry." she slurred and suddenly she was sobbing, trying to cling to him. "'M sorry. 'M sorry."

She had never been a happy drunk but that was taking the cake.

He snatched a towel from the rack and tried to dry her. He did a lousy job of it but there was only so long he could keep her upright when her whole weight was resting against him. He picked her up and carried her to her bed. She buried her face in his neck and kept crying.

"I didn't mean to." she mumbled when he placed her down on the bed. "I didn't mean to. Don't leave me. Please don't leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere." he snapped, forcing her to loosen her grip. Clearly, she didn't believe him because the second her arms weren't around her anymore, she curled up and started to rock, repeating she was sorry and that she hadn't meant to do that again and again.

"You filled the bathtub to the brim and you downed two bottles." he scoffed. "Cut the crap. You meant to."

It only made her sob harder. He pursed his lips, knowing she probably didn't need harsh right now but his heart was racing in his chest and he was so angry… He rummaged in her drawers until he found a shirt and some panties. He tossed them on the bed but she ignored them, too busy rocking and muttering. She was wasted and she was helpless when she was wasted. He grabbed the clothes again, forcing the shirt over her head and slipping her arms in the holes with more anger than gentleness.

"I don't wanna die." she slurred, looking up at him with her bright blue eyes. "I don't wanna die…"

He softened a little and he was more careful when he slipped the panties on her.

"Then why did you go and do that for?" he scowled.

She shook her head. "I don't know. Tired."

"Yeah, well you're not going to sleep with that much booze in your system." he spat. "Should drag you to the hospital. You'd like a gastric lavage. Fun all around."

Her lips were wobbling. She looked pathetic. "'M sorry."

"So you said." he growled, his voice rising up in anger. "What good is that? What if I hadn't come up, Effie? What if I had been forced to fish your corpse out of my own fucking bathtub? What then? No one left to say sorry then." Her wet hair was dripping on the tee-shirt and on the bed, leaving big wet stains. He pushed it away from her face, cupping her cheek more brutally than he probably ought to. "I can't lose you, you stupid…" He cut himself of at the last moment but the snarl was there all the same. "I can't lose you."

She reached out and bundled his tee-shirt in her fist. "I can't be alone anymore. I'm tired of being alone. I don't wanna die but I'm tired, Haymitch…"

"I'm right fucking here." he spat. "I've been right fucking here for weeks. You're the one who keeps… running away from me. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"But I don't see it." she sobbed. "I don't… I'm still there."

Prison, he figured she meant.

"No, you're not." he said. "You're out. That's over. Nobody will hurt you again. You're safe now. I'll keep you safe."

Or he would die trying in any case.

She shook her head, sending droplets of water everywhere. It didn't matter, he supposed, between him and her, everything was drenched.

"I was alone there, so alone…" she confessed. "And now… Now I can't feel anything… I'm numb all the time… And there's a hole here…" She pressed her hand flat against her chest. "And I feel so… alone."

She was so drunk she was incoherent but he thought he got what she was trying to say. He let go of her cheek to cover the hand on her chest with his own. "Then we'll fill it, yeah? We'll fill the hole. Just give it some time, sweetheart." He gathered her against him, burying his nose in her hair. "Don't do something like that again. I can't… I can't."

"Why?" she whispered.

"'Cause I've got a hole in my chest too and I need you to feel it." he muttered, hoping she wouldn't remember that the next day.

He was sure they would need to have this conversation again the next day anyway, she was far too drunk to remember anything. And he wasn't letting her out of his sight until he was certain she wouldn't do anything stupid again.

She crawled on his lap and curled up against his chest. He was cold, his clothes were damp and her hair was dropping water down his neck, but he didn't protest. He held her tight.

"I'm sorry." she sniffed.

"I'm sorry too." he sighed.

It would have to be enough for now.