mgowriter's notes: Inspired by page 72 of Catching Fire.
Chapter 3: Sleepless Nights
Effie quietly closes the door to her sleeping compartment. Tiptoeing toward the dining room, she stops to take a peek out of the nearest window. The first gray lights of dawn seep up from the horizon while the train hums along at more than three hundred kilometers per hour. They are due to arrive in District 2 by midmorning.
She walks past the dining tables to the small bar at the end of the room. After a moment's hesitation, she picks up one of the stemmed glasses and pours from a half-empty bottle of wine, left over from the previous night's dinner.
Effie takes a sip from the glass, sets it down, and sighs to herself. "Wine before sunrise. You're turning into Haymitch."
"I'll say," Katniss' voice startles her from behind.
"Katniss!" Effie turns around. "What are you doing up so early?"
"I should ask you the same thing," Katniss replies.
Effie looks down at the wine glass and sighs again. "It's harder and harder to sleep through the night. The stress of the tour, I guess. I'm glad we only have two districts left before we reach the Capitol."
Katniss nods, but her thoughts are elsewhere. Effie is aware of the heavy bags under her eyes and the way she nervously crosses her arms.
"Nightmares again?" she asks gently.
Katniss doesn't answer right away. She picks out a tall glass from behind the counter.
"Did you take one of the sleeping pills?"
"They don't work," Katniss says briskly. She pours water into the glass.
Effie's expression softens at her words. Everyone on the train has heard the screams coming out of her room, night after night, like clockwork.
"I'm glad you have Peeta. You two are good together."
Katniss looks up from her glass.
"The cleaning crew tells me Peeta's sheets have hardly been touched. His room is the easiest to clean in the mornings."
Katniss considers her words for a moment, as if weighing something in her mind.
"We're in love, aren't we? You can hardly blame us." There's a pause before she continues. "I guess we can try to be more discreet about it, for the benefit of others on the train." Katniss places her empty glass on the counter and turns to leave. "See you at breakfast, Effie."
. . .
Effie is about to leave the dining room herself when she hears a peculiar sound in the next compartment. It can only be coming from Haymitch's quarters. He makes sure to have the one closest to the bar each year.
She inches closer to the door. A tormented moan comes from the other side, followed by sounds of distress. Haymitch says something inaudible, and then a loud "No!"
Effie jumps back from the door. She puts her fist up to the metal surface, but pulls it back at the last second. What if Haymitch isn't alone in there? What if someone's trying to harm him?
She quickly runs through her memory of the previous day. It was an especially stressful one for Katniss. Her ingenuity in setting off the bombs that protected the Careers' pyramid of supplies directly resulted in the boy tribute's death from District 3.
Haymitch sought out one of the past victors, a nervous man named Beetee, and disappeared for a good portion of the day. She didn't see him again until they were all back on the train. In fact, he was the last one on, and even late to dinner. Haymitch left the table early, saying sarcastically that he didn't want to miss the excitement of District 2 in the morning. He did look more haggard than usual. What if…he's ill?
Having made her decision, Effie pushes open the door. Her eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness, as she sees that Haymitch is the only one in the room. He's asleep in bed, but the moaning continues. It's obvious he's having a nightmare.
Effie kneels at the side of the bed. Haymitch's features are twisted into a look of torment. His forehead is wet with perspiration. She whispers his name and reaches out to shake his arm.
A forceful hand grabs her own the second she makes contact. She startles back, then realizes that Haymitch is her assailant. He has her pinned to the bed before she can react. The knife in his right hand is centimeters away from her throat.
"Haymitch," she inhales sharply. "Haymitch, it's me."
. . .
The sound of her voice is familiar, but he doesn't yet trust the divide between dream and reality.
"Don't. Move," he says to the figure underneath him, maintaining the position of his knife. His breath is laced with alcohol.
"Lights, dim," he says again, this time to no one in particular. A second later, the lights in the room glow at quarter strength.
Forcing himself to shake off the remnants of sleep, Haymitch looks down at his captive. It takes him a few seconds to recognize her. Effie Trinket, in a silk night robe, without the makeup, the wigs, the ostentatious clothes of the Capitol. She's beautiful. The dim lighting illuminates her blond hair, highlighting its natural waves. Up close, the lingering scent of her body wash reminds him of fresh strawberries picked from a field. Her blue eyes are a mixture of worry and fear.
"Effie," he manages to say aloud. "What are you doing here?"
Her eyes gaze downward. He realizes he's still holding the knife and withdraws it quickly.
She sits up in the bed, taking a moment to collect herself. "I heard noises. I wanted to make sure you were okay."
He frowns at her words. He's usually silent during the night, but the dream that lingers in his mind is a particularly bad one. "What was I saying?"
"I don't know," she replies. "You were having a nightmare, running away from something."
He was back in the Game, the same one that he re-lives almost every night. Haymitch removes himself from the bed. He puts five steps between himself and Effie before his back touches the wall. He doesn't want her to know, to see him like this; he's not ready.
"I'm sorry," she says with sincerity. "I should've knocked."
"Go," he says simply. "I need to be alone."
"Haymitch—"
"Go on, get out!" he almost shouts.
She opens her mouth to speak, but changes her mind. She moves silently to the door.
When she's gone, Haymitch takes a long drink from the bottle on top of his dresser. He pauses to catch his breath, only to repeat the process. He does this, swig after swig, until he overturns the bottle and nothing falls out. When he finally climbs back into bed to will himself into unconsciousness, the scent of strawberries still linger on his pillow.