Dear Ma
(ten years old and twenty years old)
Haymitch Abernathy was born on a stormy winter night, when the wind was ferocious outside and snow kept everyone in. The blizzard had knocked the power lines out which sent Lachlan Abernathy scrambling to keep the house lighted up with candles.
Whenever Isla recounted that night, she would always tell it with a laugh. Years after his birth, it seemed to amuse her the fact that no one present was able to tell which was louder – her screams while in labour or the howling wind.
"Oh, you were a stubborn one, Haymitch," Isla would say as she brushed his hair away from his face. "You took hours – hours. I thought you weren't at all interested to see the world; that you wanted to stay in me a little longer. I would have woken the neighbours up with my screaming had it not been for the storm."
Imagining that night would always make him shiver, so he would curl further into his mother to seek the warmth of her embrace as they both squeeze in his small tattered cot.
"I waited for hours for Lief," Haymitch reminded his mother when his brother was finally born. "So I ain't the only stubborn one, nah-uh."
"You were eager to meet your brother," his mother told him in her quiet voice. "Time stretch longer than usual when you want something, doesn't it? It was easier for me with Lief."
His brows crinkled at that comment and Haymitch pushed himself up.
"I'm sorry, Ma," Haymitch placed his small palm on his mother's cheek.
At only ten, his palm was starting to callous from the odd jobs he learnt to do for food.
"I didn't mean to make it hurt for you. I'll be good, I swear."
"No, Haymitch. Never apologise for being born. Never, you understand?" she told him sternly, willing him to comprehend it before her expression softened and she pulled him to her. "You are the bestest gift. You are my first born, my life. I would go through it all again for you."
"I don't want you to," Haymitch told her in all seriousness. "You said it was painful. I don't want you hurt. I'd protect you!"
Haymitch jerked awake, breathing heavily in the night.
His nightmares were often exaggeration of his fears but that… That was not a play of his subconscious. That was a memory he had long forgotten, and had chosen now of all time to resurface.
Haymitch stumbled out of bed and made his way through the house which was entirely much too huge for only him to live in. It was oppressively quiet. He dragged his feet to the fireplace and sighed at the dying embers.
Outside, all he saw was a swirling coat of dense white snow.
That might have triggered it.
The wood was cold beneath his feet. Thankfully for him, he knew just the thing to keep him warm. Haymitch found the bottle stashed in one of the cupboards in the kitchen.
He hesitated.
Haymitch pulled the chair and dropped heavily on to it as if he was carrying the weight of the world's burden on his shoulders.
He been drinking every night to help him deal with his nightmares and he knew that it was not healthy, that he should not go on this way. He was aware that he was going down a slippery slope but he did not know how else to cope.
Drinking was the only thing that helped.
He missed his family on desolate nights like this, when others had someone they love to keep them warm.
But he was alone and he had no one to talk to, no one to share his fears and nightmares; no one to tell him to stop and find a better way to deal with his problems.
"Only you and me," he muttered.
With shaky hands, Haymitch uncapped the bottle and poured himself a glass. He downed that in one go. The burn in his throat made him screw his eyes shut but it was also comforting, and warm. So he poured himself another.
I'd protect you.
Haymitch scoffed at the memory. He made the promise when he was ten, not realizing just how foolish and how inept he was at fulfilling it.
He shouldn't go down that road but his thoughts began to wander treacherously, pulling him deeper into self-despair. He thought of the pain he had put his mother through during his birth. He thought of the pain she went through when she was murdered because burning alive must have been painful, so much more than giving birth to him, he supposed.
She shouldn't have given birth to him, he thought darkly, now bringing the bottle straight to his lips.
For all he knew, she could still be alive now.
Lief should have been her first born. He would have been a better one because he would have died in that arena and that would be it. His mother wouldn't have paid the price. Lief should have been her only son.
He hated himself for that thought because he loved his brother just as much.
With the bottle empty, Haymitch made his way to the kitchen window. He could stop this pain if he was brave enough and if he wasn't such a coward. He could step outside; end it the way it started for him in the winter storm.
He pushed open the window and the biting cold draft of air across his face made him clenched his jaw.
How many times had he contemplated this?
He couldn't accept dying in the arena. He couldn't do it now. He was too stubborn. He was too much of a survivor.
He slammed the window shut.
Not for the first time, he yearned for his mother's touch. Just one last time, he wanted to feel the gentle kiss against his forehead or the heat from her fingertips against his cheek. He wanted her comfort.
I wrote this a few days ago under flu medication and it turns out to be quite dark. but worry not, he's twenty and alone, somewhere down the road he will meet people that matters. I just wanted so explore how alone he is in twelve.