Ch. 4

For a few seconds, we are still, taking the sight of our mentor passed out on the floor in a pool of his own vomit. The sour reek bends my stomach, almost bringing up the rich food I have just devoured. Poppy also looks a little green. We exchange a glance. Obviously Haymitch isn't much, but Effie Trinket is right about one thing, once we're in the arena he's all we've got. Poppy sighs, and we both bend to pick up our wasted mentor.

"Let's get you back to your room," I say, speaking to him as I would to an ill child. He is blinking fast, as if stunned by his surroundings.

We help him back to his compartment and dump him in the shower to clean him off, not bothering to take his clothes off of him because he is so filthy.

I turn to Poppy and see her eyes wide open in fear. She stares at me mournfully. "It's okay," I soothe. "I can take care of it." She flees the room faster than I can say "Bye."

I peel Haymitch's clothes off and let the shower wash away the vomit and dirt that splatter his body for a little while. Then I let him dry off and hand him a nightgown to put on. As I leave he is tucking himself into bed and muttering incoherently about the Capitol and a television.

I meander down the hall, thinking about what just happened. I'm not sure why I did it, maybe I felt bad for him, maybe I wanted to make a good impression on him. Honestly, I have no idea; it had to be done, and I was the opportune person. Still wondering, I arrive in the corridor that houses Poppy's and my room. The floor is decorated in plush green carpeting and the walls are a similar green with striped patterns printed on. There are probably eight rooms total in this train compartment, only two of them occupied. Poppy's and mine are right across from each other, so when I get to them, I stand in the middle uncertainly. Then I make up my mind and knock on her door. She opens it after a little while, just a crack. Only one sharp grey eye peeps out at me. So similar to Katniss's.

"Yes?" she says quietly. I stare for a second and then swallow before replying.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You looked a little queasy," I stammer, swiping a hand through my hair.

"I'm fine, thanks," she replies curtly and I take it as a signal for me to leave.

"Well, I'll see you in the morning then."

"Sure." The door is shut and locked before I can say goodbye. At first I am astonished and somewhat hurt, but I realize that she must be reeling from the days events and wouldn't want to speak with someone who is to be her competition in the arena. I dally a bit before heading back to my room. I don't want to face the emptiness of it, without my family, without Katniss. I miss her too much already.

I realize that, although unwanted, I do need my sleep, so I head into my room and fall asleep on top of my bed, still wearing my nice capitol clothes.

I am awakened by a sharp rap on the door and a command from Effie to be ready for breakfast in 10 minutes. Yawning, I slip out of the warm nest of blankets and wash my face in the sink to perk me up. My clothes are rumpled, having slept in them, and in no fit condition to be worn again, so I open the wardrobe and pull on a fresh pair of tan shorts and a neatly pressed white shirt. Like it was just another day in the bakery.

Suddenly I am wracked with a vise-like pain, not physical, wrenching my heart. I miss my house, waking up in the mornings and working with my father in the steaming kitchen. I want my mother, my dragon mother, even her complaints. I miss my brothers, especially Heath with his knowing, blue eyes staring straight into me. I want to paint. I want Katniss. An image of her pops into my brain, knocking the breath out of me as if I have been kicked, and I dearly want to reach out and hug her, but she is miles away, most likely not giving me a thought. Will she notice when I am dead?

I find it hard to believe that I am so homesick. Who knew it was possible to miss the every day things in your life? Soothingly, I stroke the tiny paintbrush that I have just plucked from the pocket of my rumpled pants I wore yesterday. It is the only real painting tool I have ever owned, bought for me by my parents on my 12th birthday; the first year of my reaping experience. It is my treasure, and hopefully will be my token in the Games. I pocket it, and stumble out of my compartment, attempting, but failing, to smooth the hair that is sticking up on the back of my head. I give up; once we are in the Capitol they will make me presentable anyway.

Effie and Poppy glance up as I enter the room, and Effie glares, staring pointedly at a clock that is hung up on the far wall of the room. I am 2 minutes late. Sighing, I sit down in an empty chair across from Haymitch. He is smirking and winks as me as he catches my gaze. Although florid from last night's drinking, he seems in much better spirits. Servers heap my plate with minced fruit in all sizes, poached eggs, and thick rolls, butter just the way I like them. These rolls are not stale like what we would eat at home, though. They are freshly baked, still steaming from the oven. A tall glass of an orange liquid and a pale mug are plunked down in front of me. Both are so delicious that I drink three cups of each. Poppy tells me that the orange one is called orange juice and the brown is hot chocolate.

Poppy is the first done and sits back in her chair, scrutinizing the rest of us. Maybe she has deemed us good company because she finally joins in the conversation, which is the first time I've seen her speak during this journey. Effie daintily excuses herself, probably going to do some heavy primping before we arrive in the Capitol. Out of the corner of my eye I see Haymitch dumping a flask of something in a glass and turn on him.

"Will you quit drinking!" I cry, looking at him in angry disbelief. "We need you coherent if we are going to survive. We definitely do not want a repeat of last night." He stare at me for a second and then laughs, draining the cup in a single gulp.

Impatiently, Poppy gets his attention. "How do we survive in the Games?" He ponders this for a moment before smirking again, and goes to fill his cup again. Quick as a wink I snatch it from him and pour the flask's contents all over the intricately patterned carpet, glowering at his unbelievable inattentiveness. These are our lives on the line.

"Are you going to help us or not?" I demand, asking the real question. Haymitch looks us up and down, and then reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a spare flask of liquor. Poppy grunts in exasperation, drawing a smirk from Haymitch.

"Listen close, sweetheart," he rasps, laying a hand on her arm, which she promptly snatches away with a glare. "I will help you both if you don't mess with my drinking and do everything I say." As I start to object he interrupts, "Have no fear. I'll stay sober enough to be at your aid. Now, what are your strengths and weaknesses?"

I shrug. "I can bake and paint. Not much else." Poppy gazes up astounded.

"I've seen you lift really heavy bags of flour!" she exclaims. Haymitch looks vaguely interested and says something about strength being a good asset in the Games. "How about you, sweetheart?" he continues, staring pointedly at Poppy.

Her eyes widen and she raises her shoulders, muttering, "I can sew. I can wash clothes. I'm pretty good with plants. And I can climb trees pretty well." Haymitch nods, pretty impressed.

"Climbing and knowledge about edible plants are pretty important in the arena. But the rest of those things don't matter." He takes a huge swig from his glass just as we enter a dark tunnel. "Ah, finally here?"

It doesn't matter that he's just proclaimed that we have arrived at the Capitol; as we exit the tunnel the magnificent city emerges. It is nestled in between two hills and flamboyant houses and buildings litter the streets. Bright hues of color jump out at us, and we race to the windows to see more. Colorful cars and even more colorful, extravagant people meander down the cobbled streets. Shrieks of delight pierce the air as the bizarre people recognize the tribute train and begin lurching down the streets in shoes like stilts. Their faces are oddly painted, their multicolored hair standing straight up in incredible hairdos, their clothes wacky and somewhat repulsive.

Poppy's face is drawn and pale. The same feeling that is evident on her face is rolling around my stomach. These people dearly want to see us kill each other. They want to see us die. I clutch her hand in fear of falling over in terror, and she doesn't push me away. I think she's just as scared as I am, also in need of some support. These people are freaks, freaks who are prepared to slaughter 23 innocent children.

This is the beginning of the end.