You would think that after twenty-five years I'd be used to getting locked inside trains with two distraught children.
You'd also be wrong, so the duty of comforting his would-be fiancée falls to Peeta. We've been robbed of our final farewells to loved ones and Katniss is clearly reeling from it. It feels like I'm meant to commiserate with her on this, but skipping over the hour of goodbyes is honestly something of a relief. Everyone that I said goodbye to before my first Games is long dead. And there's not exactly a line of people in District 12 eager to take their place.
Oh, I still had a couple loose ends of my own to tie up. But all that could be taken care of without a single word exchanged. A stray wad of cash placed on Ripper's counter, repayment for years of service and seemingly endless patience. An old photo of Saige slipped into Hazelle's bag while she was too busy tidying to notice, perhaps the only photo of her sister still in existence. I even briefly considered arranging something for Kay Undersee, Maysilee's twin sister, but in the end was unable to think of anything I had to offer her. Regardless, I would never want any of these people to see me off before the Quell. I'm nothing but a liability to them now.
The boy seems engrossed enough in cheering up Katniss that I contemplate slipping away before his focus leaves her. Too bad I'm not particularly quick and even less lucky.
"We had a deal," says Peeta, his voice barely above a whisper. He turns to me and raises it to something firmer, angrier. "We had a deal and you treated that like it was nothing."
"Looks like it," I say.
"Don't you dare brush this off. What exactly was your plan here? Is this the part where you get to drink yourself half to death for a week and then let them carry you into the arena unconscious?"
Katniss gives him a sharp look. "You're not being fair to him. Haymitch just saved your life, he doesn't owe you anything."
"And what about you? You're supposed to go in with no ally just because he prioritizes getting drunk over everything else?" says Peeta.
"That's not true," I say, my voice now rising to match his. "This entire time these past few months, I haven't-"
He cuts me off. "You haven't gotten drunk because I didn't allow you the opportunity to. And it's not just the drinking, it's- it's everything . We were supposed to play this so that two out of the three of us would make it home alive. How do you expect to contribute anything of value in the arena? You couldn't even get through our training exercises."
There is no thought that accompanies the action, but by the next second I have grabbed Peeta by the collar and shoved him into the nearest wall. "You have no idea what I'm capable of, Mellark."
"Boys, boys!" Effie shrieks. "This behavior is unacceptable! We are a team ! Hands off this instant!"
I don't take orders from Effie on principle, but hers is as good a suggestion as any. I release my grip on Peeta and storm off to my bedroom, making sure to slam the door behind me as I go. Not my most mature moment, but if I don't decompress in here I'll just end up doing it in the bar car instead.
It's not until I sit down on the bed that I realize that I'm not even in the right room. I've wandered into the mentor's quarters out of habit, but my status as a mentor was stripped away the moment I became a tribute again. Technically, Peeta is supposed to sleep in here now while I take the male tribute's room adjacent to Katniss. Me being in here at all probably qualifies as some kind of rule violation.
There's no real reason to get upset over a simple room change, but I'm so mad already that I go ahead and do it anyway. My mind launches into a huge production of imaginary arguments in preparation for when Effie inevitably swoops in to scold me on my improper conduct.
Quite some time passes before it finally occurs to me that nobody is coming to fight me about the stupid rooming arrangements. When Effie finally does knock, it is only to meekly announce that dinner is ready.
The meal is a silent affair. Effie makes a valiant effort to spark a conversation here and there, but the kids and I are either too miserable or too pissed off to take the bait. Almost makes me miss the screaming.
Eventually, Effie just sighs and directs us over to the television to watch the recap of the reapings. Somehow, this is the part of the day that I had been dreading the most, even more so than our own reaping ceremony. But the very last thing either of the kids need right now is to take on my baggage over whomever is about to be sentenced to die. So I plaster on the most neutral facial expression I can manage as the highlight reel plays.
When Cashmere's name is called, all of District 1 pauses and waits for the enthusiastic string of volunteering that they've come to expect at their reapings. But this year is different. These Games are for victors, not naive teenagers with dreams of fame and fortune. The only females that are eligible today are world-weary adults with battle scars and tired eyes. Not one of them steps forward to save Cashmere from the arena.
Somebody else does, though. Her brother Gloss volunteers for the males without hesitation. The camera zooms in as their eyes meet, and the look they share is all I need to know that the two siblings are prepared to defend each other to the death. I make a mental note to be extra wary of them in the arena. A tribute willing to die for their ally will hold nothing back.
District 4's reaping is particularly awful. Poor Annie Cresta looks ready to lose her mind all over again when her name is called. Mags, composed as ever, steps forward to save the girl, but I can't help but find her sacrifice wasteful once Finnick Odair is reaped immediately afterwards. Maybe the arena won't kill Annie, but being forced to watch her secret lover's death on live television might.
I hate myself for how numb I feel watching Beatrice and Morris get selected for District 6. I'd like to remember them as the vibrant freedom fighters who taught me how to work right under the Capitol's nose, but it's impossible after decades of watching them fade away to morphling addiction. Morphling is the kind of volatile shit that even Chaff and I won't touch. Seeing Bea and Morris as unrecognizable as they are now, I can't help but contemplate whether death might be preferable for them.
I wonder how many people around Panem have been thinking the same thing about me.
The footage cuts to Johanna Mason glaring murderously as her escort fumbles around for the single slip of paper inside of District 7's first reaping bowl. Johanna shares Katniss's awful fate of being a lone female victor, guaranteed a spot in the Quell no matter what. Blight is reaped next and goes to stand protectively beside her. This might have been touching if not for the fact that Johanna is the last person on earth who would ever want or need someone else's protection.
I am feeling nauseous by the time we get to District 11. They call Seeder's name because of course they do. With my luck, why wouldn't they? She's the only person who ever came close to replacing even a fraction of what I lost when my mother died. Of course they would take her away.
Next up for 11 is Acker Johnson, and I don't even get enough time to feel guilty about being relieved before Chaff steps up and volunteers in his place.
"Well, Chaff never could stay out of a fight," says Effie, and she doesn't know the half of it. That idiot . If he were here right now I'd be strangling him.
And then I'm on the screen volunteering, looking infuriatingly calm for the audience that has never let me emote even a second of the pain they've put me through. The announcers are eager to debate the meaning behind my unexpected volunteering along with Katniss and Peeta's disparate reactions to it. I don't stick around to hear their theories- I'm already out of my seat and heading back to my room without a word to any of the others. I wait until the door is shut before sliding to the floor and burying my face in my hands. At least here there is nobody to hide my reactions from.
Ultimately, this is nothing that I hadn't been expecting. Of course the Quell is rigged. Of course they were going to use it to target only the most rebellious victors. That much has been obvious ever since the reading of the card. But seeing it actually play out is so much worse. Every Hunger Games is a slaughter, but this one is a culling. One specifically designed to weed out all of my best allies. All of my best friends .
I don't know quite how long I last huddled on the floor- minutes? hours?- but eventually it becomes unbearable. I rise and prepare to make my way to the bar car. Whatever plans I may have had for maintaining sobriety throughout all of this were obviously wishful thinking. I can't stand this another second, withdrawals inside the arena be damned. Plutarch and his half-baked crew of rebels will have to accept that I've already done all I can to help them. They should have known from the beginning that they were asking for too much.
I've only just opened the door when a scream rips through the train. My heart leaps out of my chest for a moment before I match the voice to Katniss. A false alarm, then. The girl only screams like that during a nightmare, not for true life or death situations. She was loud enough to overhear several times during my own sleepless nights on the train during her Victory Tour.
The noise is enough to pull me back to reality, terrible as that reality may be. Because it really does all come back to Katniss, doesn't it? Peeta was right during our argument earlier, damn him. I didn't have to volunteer. I had the chance to be able to drink without directly endangering Katniss in the arena and I gave that up. I am the one who blocked Peeta from being available to her as a sober, devoted ally. If she dies in there because she has no competent district partner to rely on it's going to be my fault.
A deep sigh escapes me at the realization that I've taken this way too far to start relapsing now. Though how I'll manage the coming week without drinking is beyond me. The only reason I've made it this far is because Peeta cut off my source of liquor in District 12. Today is the first day in months where there is nothing at all standing between me and getting wasted. I could flag down any attendant on this train and have a bottle delivered within minutes.
I begin pacing around the room as if on autopilot, rummaging around uselessly for a distraction, relief, anything. Wasn't going all that time without liquor supposed to make this easier? I try to dredge up some motivation and find that I'm mostly just resentful about being saddled with sobriety during what will almost certainly be my final days alive. Good enough. At this point I'm ready to rally behind any emotion that isn't full blown despair.
Eventually I admit that the anxious circling about the room is unhelpful and resolve to take my pacing elsewhere. I tell myself that this is in no way an excuse to get closer to the many sources of alcohol that I know are all over this train. It's only because it feels like the walls are closing in and I need to get away from this room as soon as possible. That's all. That's the only reason.
Then I hear her.
She is at once unmistakable and unrecognizable. It feels wrong, almost, to hear that voice as something other than sickly whispering at the dark edges of a nightmare. Or as screaming accusations while the world warps and twists from the worst of withdrawal induced delirium. No, this voice is calm and steady and real. As I creep closer to the television room towards the source, I find her there on the screen: Maysilee Donner. Intact and alive.
The kids don't notice that I'm here. Good thing, because I don't know where to start with this. It feels judgemental, them picking apart my Games so soon after questioning how well I can perform in the arena. But a reluctant part of me understands; were our situations reversed, I would have wanted to know.
And perhaps the curiosity is even more universal than that. It would be easy to tell the kids off, order them to go to bed, and then spend the rest of the night drinking until I forgot what I caught them doing. But instead I stay quiet and keep watching. I want to know, too.
I'm detached from the events of my Games in a way that most victors never get to be. I don't get bombarded with clips and highlight reels every year like the rest of them do. A lot of effort has gone into making sure that my Quell in particular will be forgotten by the masses. Most people haven't seen anything on this tape since the year it was first filmed. Including me.
So much of what is on the screen is fresher than any twenty-five year old memory has the right to be. The nauseating technicolors of the arena, the deceptively sweet calls of the songbirds overhead- Maysilee's screams in the moments leading up to her death. All exactly as I remember them.
But there are discrepancies, too. Moments that I've replayed so often in my own mind that they've become distorted with time. The Maysilee from the footage has no hatred in her eyes as she grasps at my hand in her dying moments. The girl from District 1, Diamond, is flawed and not nearly as indestructible as her name. She and I don't seem more monstrous than any other tribute as we fight for our lives against each other. We are children. Nothing more.
I manage to keep watching as Maysilee fades away and as Diamond and I tear each other's bodies apart. But I do finally close my eyes right before the axe hits the forcefield. I say a silent goodbye to Saige, Locklan, and Mom.
Katniss and Peeta shut the recap off. Just like everybody else, they zero in on the forcefield stunt. Katniss appears strangely delighted by the whole thing.
"I bet they had a good time trying to spin that one. Bet that's why I don't remember seeing it on television. It's almost as bad as us with the berries!" she laughs.
"Almost, but not quite," I say. Both kids jump at the reveal that they've been caught in the act. They look ready for me to start yelling, which I could, but that's not the type of mood this has put me in. Instead I just shrug and leave them to it. I'm going to bed.
Staying to watch may have been reckless or even masochistic, but I don't regret it. Facing the arena head on, even if only as a memory, eases some of the dread and takes the bite out of the cravings. I feel grounded now in a way I haven't since before the reading of the card.
Maysilee is dead. My family is dead. Soon I will be dead. I repeat it to myself like a mantra as I fall into an uneasy sleep. I can't un-volunteer any more than I can bring any of my people back. But I've got living people, too. Katniss and the other victors. People whose odds aren't nearly as dire as my own. They've still got a chance. But only so long as I've got a plan.
The luxury of tuning reality out is something that I can no longer afford. I'm going back. And I'm going to make it count.