Drunken Thoughts:
To Reminisce
I do not own anything of The Hunger Games and this is post Mockingjay.
The middle-aged man wipes down the counter, chuckling with his customers as they tell jokes and stories from their childhood. The atmosphere is friendly, simple, a bit chilly from the winter wind but warm with the help of alcohol. Multiple small groups gather around in the corners, engrossed in the current raconteur of their table. Just as a young man starts explaining how he saved his family form starving the previous year the entrance door flies open. Bone-chilling air cuts through the bar and every man pulls his jacket tighter to his body. The door remains open a second too long and one impatient customer turns around to yell at the fool to shut the door. Then he realizes its Haymitch Abernathy and immediately returns to his fellow drinkers.
The haggard man staggers to the bar; pulling out a stool two seats away from the group the bartender was conversing with. Nodding to his companions, the bartender walks toward Haymitch.
"What'll you have?"
"Whatever's strongest."
The dark-haired man nodded, yanking out a dusty bottle from under the counter and picking out a large shot glass from his supply. The other men cringe at the scent of the sharp cinnamon, but he fills up the glass to the rim and Haymitch accepts it, downing the liquor without flinching. He sets down the glass in front of the bartender, who proceeds to refill the glass three more times before Haymitch finds temporary satisfaction.
The bar slowly resumes the usual level of chattering, but every pair of eyes occasionally glances in the direction of the drunken man. He feels their stares, but focuses on drinking. Sobriety makes reality possible, and he left reality decades ago. The group also sitting at the bar, three men and the bartender, work to absorb themselves in the current tale but know it's only a matter of time before Haymitch speaks up about the past games, the Capitol, or about the loss of humanity in general. However, another hour passes by and he says nothing but ask for another glass. The pub regains its usual vibrancy and eventually forgets about the Victor.
The clock ticks toward midnight and every group walks out the door to return to warm houses and sleeping families. The bartender starts to send off his group when Haymitch starts to speak.
"You got any vodka?" he asks, interrupting the man. He takes a quick sigh, full of pity rather than true annoyance, and easily pulls out the bottle. He grabs a clean glass and pours Haymitch more of his medicine. He nods appreciatively before taking a drink. Just as the bartender starts to continue, the Victor interrupts him again. "Any of you know… what happened to the…" He swallows loudly. "The Donner's?"
Each one watches him, eerily silent. Finally, the one closest to him, with graying, thinning hair, replies. "They didn't make it out of the attack. All dead now."
Haymitch nods. The four companions can't tell if he's remembering his ally from the second Quarter Quell out of nostalgia or if the alcohol is to blame. He looks at the new drink in his hands, the liquid sloshing around, and continues his sudden speech. "Everyone judges, don't they? How I could let those children die over the years. Why I never bothered to change anything. Could any of you save those kids? Could any of you bring someone back from the damned games?"
The youngest man of the group cleared his throat, albeit quietly. "No one ever expected you to return, Abernathy. I don't think we ever really cared." He took in a breath, cautious of his anger but wanting to voice the harsh reality. "I guess any hope we had for our own coming home was based off the fact that they were our own flesh and blood. Of course we blamed you for their death. We blamed the Capitol. We blamed the games. We blamed every other kid in that arena. We blamed everything that breathed because our own children couldn't."
Haymitch nods again, the truth of the District 12 citizens soaking into his blood stream thicker than the liquor. However, he'd heard it all before. "If I could take back every death I would. Forty-seven children and teenagers murdered so I could make it home. I would either continue living, but be a hated and damned bastard for the rest of my life, or die. At the time, I preferred to breathe and killing was the only thing necessary." He paused, taking a swig of the drink. "When death stares you in the face, either you fight or close your eyes forever." He pauses again, this time because his emotions catch up to his words as he vividly recalls his time in the arena. "I can't wake up each morning and pretend it never happened, and because each one of those tributes will never be able to open their eyes again. They'll never wake up from that nightmare. Or maybe they did, and I'm the only one still living in it."
The bartender offers him another drink, but he refuses. He lays down his money on the counter and climbs off the stool. He bid goodnight to the men, but stopped just before he opened the door. The bartender stared at him, anxious for him to leave but curious for whatever he had to say. However, just as he parted his lips, he swung open the door and vanished into the frozen night. The four men shivered against the cold until the heat from the room refreshed their bodies.
The bartender focused on the finishing conversation, but he never did concentrate wholly on the men. He ran over in his mind the possible words Haymitch had wanted to say, had been about to say. But then, maybe those words were better left unspoken. He reviewed the night, the location, his friends, and himself.
He wondered how many others had been left anticipating the words that never came from the mouth of Haymitch Abernathy.
_HG-CF-MJ_
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~HappyHowler4myLuver