He sat quietly, draped lazily over a plush chair in his home in District 12's minuscule victor's village. Weak rays of light slipped through the cracks in between the drawn curtains all throughout the house, casting shadows everywhere. He didn't want any light, he didn't want any sound. Today was the reaping, and as the district's only surviving victor, he was forced to go every damn year. He lifted a glass to his lips, downing everything left in it. He winced slightly as the ice clinked in the glass as he rested it back on his leg. As he felt the liquor slither down his throat, the pain eased, but only slightly. Everything hurt. His head hurt, thoughts pressing against his skull. His legs hurt, laying slack and leaden. His shoulders ached with the weight of dozens of young lives. Faces flashed behind his eyelids every time he blinked; his mother, his brother, his lost love. A knock rang through the large house. "Haymitch Abernathy," the peacekeeper called, knocking louder on the door. Haymitch's hand tightened into a fist. He flung the glass across the room. He rose from his seat as it collided with the wall, splintering into small pieces. The shattering of glass ran through the air with the sound of his heavy, sloppy footsteps. It was time for the reaping.