The night before Haymitch was reaped, he anxiously huddled up in his broken twin bed, sweating profusely because the Seam never heard of air conditioning. That nifty contraption might as well have been as mythical as those Minotaurs he read about in school the week prior. After ruminating on the excess tesserae he pulled out for his family that year, he finally fell into a fitful, sweaty sleep.
He dreamt of a clearing in the woods. He dreamt of many, many kids. He dreamt of being so thirsty he felt sick, a spile being brought down, and instead of sap coming out of the tree, it was metallic, freezing blood.
He woke up in a frenzy then, ran outside and dry heaved. When he looked out in those deep, dark woods beyond him, processing those horrible dreams, he knew. He just knew.
Eventually, his little brother came out of their shotgun home, worried about Haymitch and asking him what was wrong. His brother was a real sensitive boy, their pa called him soft. Haymitch always defended him from that tyrant, but he did worry how he'd fair when he was older and had to confront their deep poverty. Would he be able to hunt? Help out?
He waved him away, "Go back inside."
"But Haymitch—"
"Go, boy!" He snapped, immediately regretting it. He never snapped at his little brother. Never snapped at anyone. Haymitch was a kind and even-tempered boy; handsome, loving, adults in twelve adored him, girls wanted to settle down with him. He held loyal to his family, to his district. Hunted for the hungry, gave away barley and oil if he had surplus. But he knew this would be the end. He just felt it in his soul.
And then, just as his dreams warned him, he was reaped and sent off.
Effie was so little at the time he was reaped, and there were double the tributes that year, so there was no way she could remember encountering him. Her Capitol-bred mother was married to a high-up gamemaker and they often accompanied him to games events, including the day he was to impress gamemakers.
He stood in front of them anxiously, trying to remember what his escort told him about how to introduce himself. None of them were paying any attention, which wasn't at all surprising to Haymitch considering he was the last district. They were all laughing haughtily and talking amongst themselves about their exciting games parties the upcoming weekend.
However, there was a teeny blonde girl in plaits weaved with glimmering ribbon and a bright pink, ruffled dress that stood out among the muted colors of the chatty gamemakers and their wives. Haymitch used to be good with kids once upon a time, in a life that now felt so long ago.
She gave him a small smile, bashful like kids can be. A little wave of encouragement. Something about the bright-eyed girl reminded him of his little brother. She looked younger, though, maybe four or five. He looked away, he couldn't think of his family right now. He knew he wasn't going to win, not even obtain a high enough score to be considered. He had to do something, though, he had to try. His escort would have his head if he didn't and the last thing he needed was more conflict.
He grabbed a few knives and started throwing them. He hit the targets square in the chest every single time. Seemed like all of those years of hunting helped him with aim, he remembered his pa used to commend him on dexterity. When he turned, he saw that the little girl now stood on the lowest rung of the safety rail to make herself appear taller, applauding loudly. She grinned and revealed a missing front tooth.
"Yay, Haymitch!"
His eyes went from the girl to the gamemakers, who were all slowly turning around upon hearing the girl's impressively booming, shrill voice.
"Daddy, did you see? He hit them right in the chest!" She exclaimed, her voice echoing out of the silence, her little face beaming.
Her towering father picked her up and looked down at Haymitch from the platform.
"Now, Euphemia, it is not polite to yell out, nor should you be hanging on those rails like a little monkey," he said, but- despite his reprimanding- there was a glimmer of pure love in his eyes, the kind of love Haymitch didn't know these people were capable of. The man turned to him, "Do it one last time, boy. For all of us. I do apologize, I wasn't paying attention."
Her father had the same light eyes as his daughter. And, more than that, he had a very, very subtle district accent. The others probably couldn't tell, but Haymitch could. He wondered where the man was from originally and how he made his way up to Capitol gamemaker.
Upon the request, Haymitch turned and did it one last time, hitting the burlap mannequin square in the chest.
"See? He's good, isn't he, daddy?" Squealed the little girl.
"Very, bunny! Good job, boy."
Haymitch gave a curt nod, walked out. He couldn't believe it, but that tiny shock of pink they called Euphemia might have just saved his ass.
It hadn't occurred until their second year together on the train, when they were actually speaking sentences to one another, that the little girl dressed in pink was probably her. He didn't say anything, but he certainly remembered it all. It came flooding back to him so vividly.