Prim stared out the window of the train. It moved so fast that the landscape was blurred, which was how her brain felt. She was alone in the compartment. Peeta had managed to drag a drunken Haymitch off for a private talk – probably about how to survive in the Arena. There was no point in Prim being present for that kind of talk after all. Before they left, Haymitch had managed to offend the fluttery, purple-haired woman so much that she'd stalked off too. So Prim was left alone, with more food in front of her than she'd ever seen in one place in her life, and no appetite.
Nothing that had happened since her name had been called felt real. She had stood frozen in place, and Peacekeepers had come and practically carried her to the stage. The crowd had been silent, except for one girl screaming over and over. Prim hadn't allowed herself to listen.
Slowly, she brought her hand to her collar and touched the pin fastened there. Her fingers felt the smooth circle and the sharp edges of the arrow and the bird. The mockingjay. She closed her eyes and remembered Katniss's brusque fingers fixing it to her blouse. For luck, she'd said, but it hadn't brought Prim luck, or if it had, the luck was bad. Mockingjays weren't for luck, anyway. They were for – Prim opened her eyes suddenly. Mockingjays were for rebellion.
She stood, and went to find Haymitch and Peeta.
Three days later, Katniss still couldn't face the world. To hell with the world: she couldn't face breakfast. The only reason she was even downstairs was because Gale had stormed into her house and pulled her out of bed. She was sitting in her kitchen, still in the clothes she'd worn to the Reaping, her hair in tangles, a dish of stew steaming in front of her. Oh, and Gale, sitting across from her and glaring in a way she'd never seen before.
"Eat," he ordered. It was the only thing he'd said to her, but he'd said it several times.
The storm inside Katniss had not abated. She was still screaming in her head, but her voice had given out days ago. She couldn't do this. She couldn't go on, supporting a mother who for the first time Katniss understood. They were in agreement, Katniss and her mother. There was no life without Prim. There was nothing left and no reason to do anything at all. It was too much, or too little. She simply couldn't face it.
Gale stood in a single, abrupt motion. His chair clattered to the floor.
Katniss glanced quickly at his face, then down. It was all true – she couldn't do it, couldn't do anything – but most of all, she couldn't fight with Gale. She had nothing to fight with. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she picked up her spoon.
Much later, Haymitch was finally alone in his hotel room in the Capitol with a bottle of the finest booze money could buy. He thought it was whiskey. Probably it was whiskey. He took another swig, just to be sure. It didn't taste like much. It didn't even burn as it slid down his throat anymore. The only burning he felt now was in his eyes.
Damn that girl, damn her, damn her, "Damn her, damn her, damn her, damn her!"
Haymitch dropped the bottle and collapsed on the floor. He wasn't sure when he'd started shouting out loud. He could still see her, trembling with fear as she stood in front of him and demanded, in so soft a voice he could barely hear her, that she be included in their discussion. Her mild blue eyes accused him of indolence, of drunkenness, of distance and of abandonment. It was all true.
"Damn her, damn her, damn her, damn her." The words ran together until he was simply sobbing. A disgusting, useless mess. He couldn't help them. How could a pathetic wretch like him help anyone? He had never been able to help anyone but himself, and he'd done a pretty poor job of that. The boy with the noble ideals, the girl with innocence shining from her eyes – there was nothing he could do for them. He had learned the hard way that his only advantage, the cleverness he had been so proud of, was only a curse in disguise. Living wasn't better. A quick death and oblivion, that was the best that could be hoped for. And hope – hope was a bitch, too. Hope was what he avoided at all costs. It was what he couldn't give to the two pretty children in the hotel rooms across the hall, no matter how much they pleaded.
No matter what ideas his cursed, clever brain kept suggesting. It was all hope and lies. The best thing he could do for those children was to keep his brilliant ideas to himself and let them die as quickly as possible. Then they'd be the lucky ones, and he'd still be here, chasing oblivion from a bottle.
Haymitch lifted his head and groped around until his hand found the bottle he had dropped. The whiskey had spilled, but there was still some left in the bottom. He kissed the bottle, his only lover, and felt the whiskey's kiss in return, the burning in his throat and eyes.
There was nothing he could do.
