Disclaimer: The Hunger Games characters and situations are not mine.
We can make fun of Haymitch, but Effie can't. He's ours, alcohol and all.
"Yes," hisses Effie, "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"
It's like he knows when anyone says his name. In comes Haymitch, staggering to one of the chairs, and puts both hands down on its arm for balance.
"I miss supper?" he slurs out. Then he turns his head, vomits all over the expensive carpet, and passes out, falling in the mess.
"So laugh away!" Effie says, eerily echoing my mother's comment. She daintily sidesteps the vomit-covered Haymitch and hurries from the car.
Chapter 5
In the wake of Effie's expedient exit, both Katniss and I are left speechless. Effie can't know about my last conversation with my mother. I guess there could have been secret cameras in the room where I said my last goodbyes, but whoever puts together the viewings of the Hunger Games wouldn't be able to resist showing the tributes in their most vulnerable moments. It's the kind of thing the people in the Capitol eat up. The commentators for the broadcasts have big reactions to three things: tears, dramatic outfits, and violent death.
But even if there were secret footage we don't get to see, and even if Effie has watched it, I have a feeling she would never deliberately use the information to harm me. Despite her pretentious Capitol idiosyncrasies, I don't think she wants to hurt me. In fact, everything she's done after drawing my name from the tribute pool has been to help me, to prepare me in the best way she knows how. Sure, she wants to be assigned to a "better" district, one where she doesn't have to put up with the drunken groping of former victors, but I also think she genuinely wants to one of us to win, because she may actually like us.
I shake my head, writing her comment off as a weird coincidence, and bring my attention back to Haymitch's disgusting predicament. He regains enough awareness to feebly push up, only to have his hands slip across the slimy rejections of his stomach and fall right back in the mess. I look over at Katniss, who meets my eyes impassively. She raises an eyebrow at me, as if to say Haymitch is my problem and she'll just follow my lead.
I sigh. Wasn't I just thinking about how Haymitch is ours, alcohol and all? I guess if that's the case, he's ours in this state as well. And Effie has a point. Haymitch will be our only link to the outside world while we're in the arena. Right now, he needs us as much as we'll need him. I nod to her, and we each take Haymitch under one arm and help him get to his feet. He's recovered to the point where standing and speech are possible, if barely.
"I tripped? Smells bad," he says. It's the understatement of the century. I thought it was bad from a few feet away, but up close and personal, the mingling smells of bile and spirits leaves me as nauseated as when we first finished our meal. He swipes his hand across his face, leaving a smear of bile. My own stomach seriously threatens to purge itself at the sight, but I hold it down.
"Let's get you back to your room. Clean you up a bit," I say. At least, we'll get away from what is left of the vomit on the floor.
Haymitch's room is through the door Effie just left, on the other side of the train from ours. I haven't been in this compartment, but we half drag, half carry him into the narrow, rocking hallway. Luckily Haymitch left his door open, so we don't have to guess which room is his.
I look around the room, noticing how similar it is to mine. The main difference is the bed. Where mine was done in linens and downs of pristine white, Haymitch's is covered in dark, embroidered fabrics. Katniss would like to just lay him on the bed and be done with it, but I'm reluctant to do so. I don't want to just leave him to his own devices, and I don't want to ruin the beautiful bed coverings. From what I've seen of the Capitol so far, they would probably just be thrown away rather than have effort put in to clean them, and the thought of the wastefulness threatens to bring back my earlier anger upon discovering my excessive wardrobe.
So we take Haymitch straight into the bathroom and dump him in the tub. I turn on the water, wincing at the icy temperature, but Haymitch doesn't so much as flinch. It will warm up soon enough.
I look over at Katniss. She's standing with one foot outside the bathroom, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. She stares at the floor, unsure whether to run or stay. I hate to see her distressed, but I am curious as to why she's upset. Her mother is a healer of sorts, ready with herbal remedies and alternate treatment options for people who can't afford to seek medical assistance from the one Capitol educated doctor in our district. Katniss must be used to dealing with the sick and injured. They're brought to her house all the time. Maybe she's just disgusted with Haymitch in particular.
Whatever the cause, I want to help her. So I give her an out, an excuse to run and hide.
"It's okay," I say, "I'll take it from here."
She hesitates, but only briefly. "All right, I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." She looks a little ashamed at accepting my offer so readily, but she's not ashamed enough to stay.
"No. I don't want them," I say. Good or bad, Haymitch really is ours. He's the last person from home I'll get to see or talk to before going into the arena, besides Katniss. He's a drunk, but the only one who could possibly understand what either of us is going through. He's also the only one who may be able to help me. I don't want Capitol people in here to mock him, to share this story until it eventually becomes part of the running joke that is his life as a mentor. He doesn't deserve to be torn apart by the Capitol. Nobody does, but since I can't do anything about my own situation, I may be able to make Haymitch's a little better.
She just nods and leaves. I watch her walk out of the compartment, sliding the door quietly closed behind her, and I feel suddenly cold. I've been close to her tonight. We even touched a few times, simple brushes of shoulders and elbows as we got Haymitch situated in the shower. I've been spoiled by proximity, and now without her the warm buzz tingling across my skin all evening dies down, leaving me feeling alone and lonely.
A sputtering cough erupts beside me, brings me back to the task at hand. Haymitch is trying to escape the jets of water streaming into his face. His arms wildly attempt to block the flow, spraying droplets all over the bathroom.
"Calm down, Haymitch," I say, "it's just water, and we need to get this vomit off you before it dries."
He stops struggling and blinks up at me like an owl in daylight, no comprehension on his face. I sigh, kneeling by the tub, and grab the bar of sweet smelling soap resting in its porcelain cradle along the white tiled wall. I wave it in front of his face.
"I need to clean you now," I say, slowly, "You are a mess." I point to his face, chest and stomach.
He looks down at the now ruined fabric of his shirt, soaked through with water and bile residue. He groans, and mumbles something incoherently.
"What was that, Haymitch? I didn't hear you," I ask. Reaching in a wicker basket like the one in my bathroom, I sort through the dark navy towels until I found a small one I could use to wash his face and hair. I push the cloth under the running water and wait until it's soaked through, and lather it up with soap.
Haymitch makes another attempt at speech, but his words are still unintelligible. I lean in closer, saying "I still can't hear you, Haymitch. I'm going to wash your face now."
As I bring the cloth up to his face his right hand whips out and grabs my arm. I stare at his grip on me, shocked he could move so quickly in his current state. When I look back at his face, his eyes are wide open and look angry.
"Leave me alone," he says. His words are still slurred, but the menace behind them is unmistakable.
I sit back on my heels, arm still in his grip. I'm not really surprised at his words, I just can't believe he can form coherent thought. His eyes start to close again, but his hand remains locked on me. I shake the arm a little, and his eyes jump back open.
"Just... need… sleep," he murmurs. His eye lids droop again, and his jaw hangs slack. I wait to be sure he won't wake up, then take advantage of his unconsciousness by pulling loose from his hold on me, and consider my options. Haymitch wasn't exactly clean before we got on the train, and even without the vomit his hair is so greasy I don't know if this one bar of soap will be enough. I could turn the water off, throw a blanket over him, and leave him. Right now, it's the easiest option. He's not going to remember anything about tonight anyway, judging from the amount of alcohol he threw up, so he won't even know I was here. He'll just assume some Capitol servant brought him back to his rooms, if he even remembers leaving them.
But I can't walk away. Pretty soon, I may have to do things in the arena I would normally never dream of doing. And I'll do them willingly enough, if not gladly. But that doesn't change who I am, here and now.
Getting to work, I scrub Haymitch's hair and face, careful to keep the soap away from his eyes and nose. The sudden stinging may wake him back up, and I'd be in trouble if that happened. I use my cupped hands to clear away the lather, and decide a second wash is necessary. It must have been days, if not weeks, since Haymitch has done this for himself.
Hair and face clean, I look down at his shirt. I'm going to have to take it off if I want to finish cleaning him. Thankfully, the water has washed the bile off most of the small, black buttons, so I gently ease the garment open. The view of his chest isn't much better than the vomit soaked shirt, but at least only a little of the mess soaked through to his skin.
If I could just get his arms free, I could pull it out from under him. Working slowly, painstakingly, I'm able to get the right, and then the left arm up and out of the sleeves. Haymitch grumbles and shifts a few times, but makes no other sign of consciousness. Worried I may push it too far, I decide to leave the shirt pushed up behind him.
I make quick work of washing his chest, and I'm done. I absolutely draw the line at removing Haymitch's pants. They didn't get dirty when he fell, they're just wet from the shower, so I don't feel so badly about leaving them on him. I rinse him off until all traces of soap are washed down the drain, and turn the water off. Without the heat from the steam, Haymitch's exposed skin starts to form goosebumps. I'm a little chilly myself.
Grabbing a towel, I gently pat his hair and face dry, then work my way down his chest. The towel seems to instantly absorb the water and eliminates it somehow, so that when I'm done Haymitch and his clothes are completely dry, but the towel doesn't feel wet at all. I whistle softly. This is something the towels in my room didn't do. I wonder if the train servants anticipated the need to dry Haymitch off without his cooperation and threw in the best tools for the job. If that's the case, I wonder how often he repeats this scene. Every year? The thought makes me a little sad, gives me a little pity for him.
With Haymitch clean and dry, I need to move him to the bed, but he's complete deadweight now. There is no good angle for me to get a hold on him, and I wonder if he would be able to get himself up if I rouse him a little. I'm trying to decide the best way to handle it when Haymitch lets out a loud, gurgling snore. So much for waking him up! It's a mystery to me how Haymitch could possibly have become a victor.
Shaking my head, I loop my left arm across his waist and around his back, I steady myself and then stand up, adjusting Haymitch's weight on my shoulder to make him easier to carry. He's not light, and I feel my knees buckle a little under the pressure. I grit my teeth, and firm up my legs. I don't think he's going to wake up even if I drop him on his head, but a drunk and injured Haymitch will be even grumpier than just a drunk one. I don't think Effie, Katniss or I could take it.
The train rocks gently as I slowly make my way through the bathroom door and towards the bed. The swaying actually plays to my advantage in the end, as I time the rocking with my attempt to lift Haymitch up and onto the high mattress. He lands crooked, feet sticking out over the side, but I still call it a victory. He lets out another contented snore.
"I'm happy you're happy," I tell him. I look around for something to cover him with, since he's on top of all the bed linens, but see nothing available. I walk back into the bathroom, grabbing the towel from the floor, and throw it over his inert form.
Looking down at Haymitch peacefully sleeping, toes poking out from underneath the towel, I feel the day's exhaustion, both mental and physical, catch up with me. All I want to do now is make it to my room to clean up and go to sleep.
Closing Haymitch's door as quietly as Katniss, I tread lightly through the corridor and into the television car. The screen is blank, and the lights are dimmed down to a minimum. The pool of vomit has already been cleared from the carpet, and the disturbed furniture set back in its place. What little light there is guides me to the other door and through to the dining cart. The crystal chandeliers make soft tinkling sounds, the hushed lullaby of the train.
The song follows me to my rooms, playing through my thoughts as I prepare for bed, taking a quick shower get rid of Haymitch's awful smell. After I'm clean, I'm too tired to care about dressing, so I fall in bed wrapped in a towel. I close my eyes and expect sleep to come quickly, but it doesn't. Now that there is nothing to distract me, no Katniss or Effie or Haymitch, I can't turn off my mind. Thoughts zip by, about home, my family, the Capitol, the bakery, Katniss and it's impossible to sort through them or slow them down.
I look out the window, watching the stars in the distance streak by as we pass at incredible speed. It's funny, after the first few minutes aboard the train, I didn't even notice we were moving, except the side to side rocking of the train. Now, looking out the window, I remember just how fast we're moving, how fast we'll reach the Capitol. We should be there before noon tomorrow.
What will my family be doing then? No one will be required to watch any of the Capitol's broadcasts until later tomorrow evening, when all 24 tributes will be presented to Panem in the opening ceremonies. So around noon tomorrow, Colm will be eating lunch at school, sitting with his friends. Jemin and mother will be in the store front, dealing with customers. My father will be in the kitchen, manning the fires and monitoring whatever is going in the ovens. I know Colm mixed up cake batter while I was chopping wood this morning, so maybe it will be cakes. But my guess would be breads or pies, since I won't be there to frost and decorate the cakes after school. I wonder who they will get to do that now. Neither Jemin nor Colm have the skills or patience for that type of work.
Are they missing me? Mother is, or at least my labor. Those cakes are some of the most profitable things we make in the bakery. Now that's she's realized she has no one to decorate them, she may regret I won't be coming home, if only for that reason.
I hope my father and brothers don't think about it too much, me not coming home. It's why most families in District 12 have multiple children, anyway. Having lots of kids helps if you lose one in a random drawing, especially if you have a family trade like mine does. At least they don't have to worry about Jemin or Colm anymore, since they've both made it past their final Reaping. Having more than one tribute from the same generation in a family is extremely rare in our district, anyway. But in other districts, there are eager volunteers to follow in the footsteps of siblings. Because in the wealthier districts, whole families devout their lives to training for the Games, even though it's technically illegal. All the other districts call them Career Tributes, and they mostly come from Districts 1, 2 and 4. Consequently, most of the victors are from those districts, too.
In seventy-three years, District 12 has only produced two victors, so the odds are definitely not in my favor. I know I'm not going to survive this. I can bake bread, and I suppose I'm fairly strong compared to other tributes from District 12, but not when compared to the Careers. I'm not really smart, I don't know how to survive in a harsh environment, and I have absolutely no experience killing anything. But since that moment back in the Justice Building, I know my goal isn't survival. That's not something I can achieve with my limited abilities, so I've set my sights on something else.
All day, this plan has been working at the back of my mind. I have a lot of weaknesses that will keep me from winning the Games, but I have a few strengths. I am likable, if you judge by the number of friends I have in school, and I'm good with words, and most importantly, I have something the Capitol has never seen before. I have a story new and different, to add a spin on the Games that's never been played. We all know how the residents of the Capitol loved to be entertained. Well, if I can put my ideas in motion, I'll knock their socks off.
The comfort that thought brings and the rocking of the train finally lull me to sleep.
oOoOoOo
As soon dawn begins to shine through my window, I am awake. I try to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but it's useless. Stretching, my back twinges and several of my joints are sore. The softness surrounding me is definitely not what I'm used to, because my bed at home has one, thin mattress and a nearly flat pillow. This bed has two mattresses and five thick down pillows. Digging myself free of the plushness, I stand and do some actual stretching, the kind we perform before wrestling matches at school. I want to be prepared for the day.
The opening ceremonies will be tonight, and as soon as we reach the Capitol, we'll be handed over to our stylists in preparation for for the event. The stylist we're assigned will be responsible for our appearance from that point forward, which can be a huge factor in a tribute's success or failure. The Games aren't a beauty competition, but a memorable look can help get sponsors, who provide much needed support in the arena.
Finished with my stretches, I walk into the bathroom, and bend my head under the faucet. The cold spray of water helps to shake off the last bit of sleep. Drying my hair and face, I search the small table tucked in beside the tub for a comb, opening drawers and discovering bottles and vials of unidentifiable liquids. I ignore these, finding a black comb tucked back behind a violently green plastic bottle. I run the comb through my hair, dragging the strands back towards the nape of my neck. Once it dries, nothing will prevent it from falling in waves over my forehead, but for now it will stay out of my eyes.
Grooming done, I go back out into the bedroom, and look at the chest full of clothes. I know they will all be discarded as soon as I leave the train, but there's nothing I can do about that. I can be angry about it, or I can do my best to focus on the things I can control. So I choose another set of clothes at random, this time a dark red shirt and black pants. My hand-me-down shoes look shabby next to the crispness of my new clothes, but I haven't seen any extra pairs lying around, and I don't want to look for any. I'm comfortable in my own shoes.
A rumbling noise from my stomach makes me realize how hungry I am. After we finished dinner last night, I thought I was so full I'd never eat again. Apparently my stomach has other ideas, so I make my way back into the dining car, wondering if breakfast is ready.
I'm disappointed to see Effie's hair bobbing by before I open the door to the car. I was hoping to have at least the beginning of my meal in peace, but Effie will undoubtedly chatter through the whole thing. I gear myself up for polite smiles as I walk in, but it's worse than I thought.
Haymitch, looking the worse for last night's activities but with clean hair for once, sits at the table in the seat I occupied last night. He beckons me over to the chair at the end of the table and I reluctantly move to take the seat. I know it would be rude to retreat back to my room now, but I'm really tempted.
"Peeta! Good morning!" Haymitch says in a surprisingly cheerful voice. I would have guessed he would feel as bad as he looks, but he seems as chipper as I've ever seen him.
A servant puts a plate in front of me, covered to the rim with eggs, ham, and potatoes. On the table is a huge glass bowl of fruit on ice, some of the fruits I recognize from dinner last night, and some I have yet to try. A basket of rolls sits beside it, and I can smell their warm yeasty aroma from under the delicate white cloth covering them.
Another servant places a glass of orange juice in front of me, and a cup of dark brown liquid. It has steam rising in small wisps from the mug. When I take a curious sip, the flavor glides over my tongue, a smooth, sweet taste I've never experienced. Haymitch indicates to the servant he doesn't want any and instead asks for a glass of tomato juice.
"What is this?" I ask. I wish the mug was three or four times bigger. It is delicious.
"That's hot chocolate, kid," says Haymitch, "one of the perks of being on this cattle train."
Effie sits with a huff in the seat on my right. Primly folding her napkin in her lap, she looks at Haymitch, and I know I was right. This is not going to be peaceful.
"We should probably discuss how everyone will comport themselves from this point moving forward, especially for televised events," she says, "Everyone in polite society should know what is appropriate to say aloud and what to keep to ourselves. Also, neatness in attire and grooming is incredibly important. There are those of us here who obviously need tutelage in these areas, which I am more happy to provide." She glances meaningfully at Haymitch who is ignoring her, instead focusing on the glass of red liquid the servant brought.
He takes a sip, winces, and pulls out a flask from his pocket, diluting the drink with a clear liquid. I can smell the spirits as soon as he opens the flask. He'll be drunk again by the time we reach the Capitol.
Effie lifts her nose and sniffs haughtily, disapproval seeping out of every pore. Haymitch continues to ignore her, sipping from his glass, then thinning it out, sipping , thinning, sipping, thinning.
Finally, she can take no more.
"Haymitch! Do you not wish to present yourself in the best light possible in the Capitol? Your drunken fall at the Reaping may have been laughed away by the commentators, but potential sponsors will not tolerate dealings with a slovenly pig who reeks of alcohol! You are an embarrassment to your District and your actions reflect on me!" She is fuming now, but I can't tell if she is more upset about how rude Haymitch is, or how it makes her look in the eyes of her fellow Capitol residents. I'm surprised she raised her voice, but I can't really blame her. Haymitch did practically assault her at the Reaping and has been violently ill from alcohol ever since.
Haymitch just looks at her, blinking, then a slow grin crosses his face.
"Sweetheart," he says, faking an exaggerated Capitol accent, "If being drunk will keep the snotty, useless Capitol cronies away from me, then I say, Cheers!" He drains his glass, gesturing for the waiting servants to bring him another. They deliver it quickly and quietly, as if they already had it ready for him.
Effie's mouth gapes open, and her eyes are wide with consternation. Rather than risk another impolite explosion of emotion, she pushes herself back from the table and stalks over to the long, low counter than runs along one side of the car. It's got a pot of coffee, along with beautiful porcelain mugs, milk, sugar and honey. Murmuring under her breath, she makes a cup, going heavy on the sugar. I guess she's decided to take breakfast alone, and as she's making her out of the car she brushes past Katniss, who has just made an appearance.
My eyes immediately go to her, and I can see she is trying to make sense of the situation. Haymitch's smirk, Effie's angry exit, my embarrassment.
"Sit down! Sit down!" says Haymitch. She takes the empty seat beside me, and her food is delivered. Her eyes go as round as Effie's at the sight of so much food, but she picks up her cup of hot chocolate first and peers into it inquisitively.
"They call it hot chocolate. It's good," I say.
She looks at me, then and takes a sip. I can see the enjoyment on her face, and the feeling of warmth I got from the drink is nothing compared to the look of pleasure in her eyes. She ignores everything else until she finishes her cup.
The cold feeling I got when she left Haymitch's rooms last night is instantly banished, and warmth seeps through me. I'm amazed nobody comments on my blush, because my face feels like it's on fire. She is calmly working her way through her food, Haymitch is working his way through his second glass of tomato juice and spirits, and I'm working through how to look at Katniss without staring.
Katniss eats everything on her plate before looking up. I have gotten about halfway through my breakfast, and have taken a break from eating to pull apart one of the rolls and dip it piece by piece in the hot chocolate. Her eyes wander around the car, but eventually settle on Haymitch, who is steadily sipping, thinning, sipping, thinning.
"So, you're supposed to give us advice," she says her gaze turning into a glare.
Haymitch leans back in his chair, glaring right back. Then he smiles, and says, "Here's some advice. Stay alive." He starts laughing, a harsh, cynical laugh.
I am infuriated. All the emotions I've been pushing down are rising to the surface. My anger with my mother and the Capitol, my loneliness and homesickness, and I can't fight them anymore. Katniss wants to talk about strategy in the Games, and he laughs in her face. It's suddenly all become very serious, and his flippant response sends me over an edge.
"That's very funny," I say quietly, "Only not to us." One second of silence, two, and I'm staring at the glass of juice and spirits in his hand. The next thing I know, I'm striking out at the glass, making contact with Haymitch's hand, and the glass goes flying across the car. The smell of spirits fills the air as the glass shatters on the floor and the juice begins to seep into the thick carpet.
I instantly regret what I've done. It's not like me to lose my temper. I stare at the sparkling, jagged remains of the drinking glass, the blood red liquid causing a deep stain that grows outward as I watch. I open my mouth to apologize when suddenly I'm on the floor. Pain explodes out from my jaw, and I'm disoriented. I think Haymitch just hit me in the face, but I can't be sure because it happened so fast. If it was Haymitch, part of the mystery of how he won the Games is solved. He moves like lightning.
"Well, what's this?" I hear Haymitch ask, "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"
I get to my feet, and notice a knife vibrating in the table, stuck point first in front of Haymitch's flask. I reach past it to grab some ice from the fruit bowl for my face. I'm no stranger to taking a punch, between my two older brothers' roughhousing and my mother's angry fits, I've taken my fair share of knocks to the head.
"No," says Haymitch, moving the bowl out of my reach, "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."
I don't understand Haymitch's logic. Tributes are not supposed to get into direct confrontations before entering the arena, and I say so.
"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," replies Haymitch. He turns to Katniss, "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"
She jerks the knife out of the table and without hesitation throws it at the wall. It sticks perfectly in the seam between two panels. I try to gauge Haymitch's reaction, but he just appears thoughtful.
"Stand over here. Both of you," he says. And we move to stand side by side while he circles around us. I feel a poke in my lower back, and Katniss jumps slightly as if she's been prodded, too. He grabs our chins in each hand, glancing back and forth at our faces.
"Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."
Katniss would look good in a paper sack, but me? I know I'm average looking. The best I can hope for is a stylist without an insane sense of fashion.
"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you, but you have to do exactly what I say," he offers.
This is more than I could have hoped for when I knocked the glass from his hand. Any effort on his part is better than nothing, and if he's willing to put forth some effort, I am hopeful I can get him onboard with my plan.
"Fine," I say, trying to suppress my enthusiasm.
"So help us," says Katniss, "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone – "
Haymitch interrupts her by holding up a hand and saying, "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."
"But – " Katniss starts. Of course she can't just accept total submission, but she's interrupted again.
"No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. He stalls any further argument by grabbing his flask and leaving the car.
The windows go black, as if the light left with Haymitch. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the soft light from the chandeliers, and I realize we must be passing through a tunnel in the mountains surrounding the Capitol. I can feel the steady climb of the locomotive as we make our way up towards the peaks. The darkness seems to last forever. Katniss and I just stand in silence, neither wanting to acknowledge what this final climb will mean.
Daylight floods the compartment again, and I blink against the pain. I can't help but run over to the windows to get a glimpse of the shining city I've only seen on the television, and neither can Katniss. Nothing in District 12 can even come close to this place. We pass through tall, mirror faced buildings that shine in the sun, cascading rainbows of light down on the streets. We see shiny cars and beautiful gardens. The colors are all vivid and bright, and I try to memorize everything I'm seeing. I could never have imagined some of these combinations.
The oddly dressed people in the streets begin to notice us, pointing and waving in excitement. I smile, and wave back. Any of these people could be rich, potential sponsors I need to charm. I can feel her staring at me, so I turn to look at her.
Katniss looks confused and a little angry at my friendly gestures to these people who will cheer to see us die.
"Who knows?" I say, "One of them may be rich."
Her emotionless mask drops back in place, and I know I've made her angry. She must think I'm desperate, willing to do anything to get sponsors to keep myself alive. She must realize that only one of us can make it home.
She must think I want it to be me.
She couldn't be more wrong.
Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updating. It's been a very difficult week for my family, but I'm happy to get this posted.
Please let me know what you think!
Next Chapter, you have Peeta's prep team to look forward to, so get excited