Disclaimer: Some names and events in this chapter refer to my prequel-story "An Era Awakens". I tried to explain everything as best as I could without getting out of the story flow. If you want to know all the details, I'll start posting the prequel as soon as this story finishes.
What Happened In The Past
Haymitch tells me about Peeta. About his fragile mental state and the torment he was put through in the Capitol. Torture. Tracker Jacker venom. Distorted and fear-manipulated memories. His attempt to kill Katniss. Now, he is receiving mental health treatment. Nobody knows whether he will ever find his old self again. I'm at a loss for words.
We can both be thankful that we got away unscathed. Johanna had suggested that Peeta had it worse than us. But that? What sick person would even come up with such methods? What kind of abnormal brain is capable of this? I feel the blood pooling in my cheeks. A wave of shame washes over me at the thought that Peeta hasn't crossed my mind sooner. I was so busy with myself that I completely forgot about him.
I have a hard time believing Haymitch's story. When I saw Peeta in the Capitol, he was doing well under the circumstances; like me. I could see the love and pain in his eyes when Caesar spoke of Katniss. The very idea that he could feel hatred toward anyone makes me uncomfortable. No, not our Peeta. Not this amiable young man who has a kind word on his lips for everyone. Not this talented young victor who lived to protect Katniss.
An image flies by in my mind's eye. A cozy, large house surrounded by red and orange flowers, the corridors of which are decorated with bright, glowing pictures. In an upstairs room stands a smiling blonde boy, a smock around his waist with dried, colorful blobs of paint on it. He strokes his golden hair, takes a step to the side and proudly presents his canvas to the camera positioned in front of the door, recording his every move. Peeta is a gifted artist. Does he still remember that?
"We failed," I whisper into the silence. It's the truth and I know Haymitch feels the same way. They are our tributes, our children, our responsibilities. We couldn't protect him. I will somehow be able to live with the pain the Capitol caused me. But the thought that they dragged Peeta in front of a camera to use him for their own purposes disgusts me. The thought that they hurt him is worse than anything I've lived through. He was innocent. Innocent. And they knew it.
"We failed." Haymitch's words echo through the canteen, which spreads around us just as desolately as it had minutes before. The lights on the ceiling make the gray of the walls appear tired and exhausted and I can't for a second imagine eating here.
Haymitch slowly lifts his head to meet my eyes. Blonde strands frame his face. The emotion in his silver pupils takes my breath away. We still hold hands and I squeeze his fingers to let him know he's not alone. Even before, I sometimes had the feeling that he deliberately avoided other people's company. Maybe because he lost trust in people after his Games. But maybe also because he saw it as his punishment.
Would the Peacekeepers at the Capitol have done the same to me? Haymitch may be an important resource for the rebels, but what use would he be to Snow? He is not the face of rebellion. His family is dead. The relationship between him and me has never been comparable to the relationship between Katniss and Peeta. The actual romance was more than eleven years ago and after those first Games that gave him so much hope, Haymitch nipped it in the bud. In a twisted way, I now understand why. Is the picture of our kiss the only evidence they have? They must have more, because if not, my capture was nothing but a highly speculative decision. The rebels might as well have left me to rot in my cell if it weren't for Haymitch. I was just the only potential leverage within their reach. The Capitol didn't know how much Haymitch cared about me, and if I'm honest, I still don't.
Our shared history has been like a roller coaster ride. Full of ups and downs and many unexpected turns. And I have relegated an important part of this story to the back of my mind for a long time. Now that I know what real pain feels like, those memories are nothing but unpleasant spots on my retinas. My eyes no longer burn when I think about them. Nevertheless, I'm aware that sooner or later we will have to talk about it. What happened at the end of the Quarter Quell doesn't change the betrayal and lack of understanding I felt when he simply dropped me all those years ago. Maybe it was ridiculous of me to think that this between us could work. A victor and an escort? From the moment we first met, Haymitch had continually told me how much he loathed the Capitol and its people. So much time has passed since then that I actually can't remember a lot of it. It's probably better this way. All I know is that I was a different person back then: young, naive, inexperienced and with big dreams and plans.
Haymitch returns the handsqueeze, breaking me out of my stream of thoughts and memories. There's no point in thinking about it. What is done, is done. We are both different people now. I close my eyes and lean my head forward until my warm forehead touches our clasped hands and his cool fingers.
"I don't know how long the war will last, but when it's all over, we'll climb out of this shithole and get the life we deserve," he murmurs in a low, rough voice and I can hear the open doubt in his words as he speaks them. It takes energy for him to keep his composure. It surprises me. Haymitch has been through so much, has seen so many terrible things, that he has hardened. That alone convinces me to cling to his words. Even though I deserve a different life than him.
It's been far too long since I stopped believing in anything. Back in the day ... Old Effie always believed in something. She set unattainable goals for herself, believing she would be the first to achieve them. Now even the simplest goal seems too difficult to me.
Haymitch's fingers move over the back of my hand in soothing, circular motions. The gesture reminds me of the Quarter Quell when we were standing upstairs in the newly built sponsors' lounge on the opening day of the Games, and I was so nervous that he had to hold me tight. Although my father's company was responsible for its construction, I can't even remember the name of the glass towers. In my memory they reflect the sparkling light of the midday sun. My father's last inheritance and I have forgotten its name.
You have to believe in something. I really have to, as I suddenly realize in this moment. The scales fall from my eyes as I try to remember the name of the building. If I don't believe, who will do it for me? What would my parents think if they were still alive? They wouldn't want me to throw away my existence like a dirty piece of clothing. They would want me to keep going, even if I can't quite put my finger on what there is to keep going. My father's legacy, the legacy of his name, the Trinket name, would evaporate if I give up. He would have died for nothing.
Haymitch's fingers still linger on the back of my hand. A feather-light touch. My cheek is within reach, but he doesn't dare. Or he just doesn't want to. Or he fears that I don't want it. So many possibilities. So many decisions that affect a life. I open my eyes and lift my head from the desperate gesture with which I was resting my forehead on his hand. I can't tell what Haymitch sees in my eyes, whether he sees how the expression in my gaze has changed from one second to the next, but something about his posture changes too. The muscles in his arms twitch, but I don't let go.
"I want to see him," I say then, my tone stronger and clearer than before. Not like before, but better. On the right track.
"Which lady uses the word want, sweetheart? How rude." Haymitch sounds almost sarcastic and so much like the man from a bygone era that it gives me back a little bit of normality. My eyes move from our hands up to his gray, shiny pupils that are already on me. He looks at me with a soft expression in them.
I don't forgive him yet. A lot has happened and despite all expectations, we are both alive. We're still together. And after everything we've been through together, none of us would have expected this. For my part, never in a thousand years would I have expected to one day find myself sitting with Haymitch Abernathy in an abandoned cafeteria in the ghostly District 13, as a rebellion disrupts the people and a war rocks the land.
I give Haymitch a small smile. Because I for one don't believe in coincidences.
oOo
The smile dies on my lips as soon as we reach Peeta's hospital room. If you can call it a hospital room. It's located in the psychiatric clinic, a separate part of the hospital. Peeta lies on a white bed in a white room; so bright that it hurts your eyes. His forearms and legs are bound with thick straps, and the matching reddish scratches on his pale skin show how many times he must have tried to free himself from them.
There is no furniture in his room except for this monstrous steel bed. Everything about it reminds me of the darkroom in the Capitol. It doesn't seem to me to have been created for a recovery purpose. The wide glass wall behind which Haymitch and I are currently standing, also speaks against this. What does Peeta see? A mirror? He's smart enough to figure out what's behind it. Or who.
Does Peeta know we're there? He can't see us, and yet his wide, crystal blue eyes are focused right on us, as if he could see us through the thick glass. It gives me goosebumps.
The young man lying tied up a few meters in front of me has little in common with the man I last met in the Capitol just a week ago. His body looks haggard. Just like Johanna and me, they probably only gave him as much food as was necessary to avoid dying from hunger. His once strong shoulders are gone. All that remains are the bones of his shoulder joints, protruding from beneath a thin layer of skin and threatening to tear it apart.
My first thought is that Johanna was understating; that we actually got away unscathed. But then I wonder what we looked like when we arrived here in District 13. Just the look in the mirror today shook me to the core and I'm now well enough to get out of bed. Peeta is worse, no blind person could deny that. But there was a point in time when we were in a similar state. His body, his posture, even the blankness of his eyes hold a mirror up to me, reminding me that I share the same past as him. And even if I hadn't known where he was, I would have realized it in that second. We all bear the same mark, not a physical one that can be seen or touched; it's the aura that surrounds us; the way we react to our environment since then.
I have to suppress an annoyed snort. This constant comparison with the suffering of others that my mind makes as soon as something reminds it of my own suffering feels wrong. It shouldn't be about me; I shouldn't automatically compare my time in the Capitol to Peeta's or Johanna's, but I can't help it. In moments like these, my fingers have trouble staying still. It's the sight of Peeta and the images he brings with him, and I can't stop it. It doesn't change the guilty conscience and the shame of not being able to suppress egocentrism, at least for this moment.
A long time, it could be hours – but my sense of time is so bad nowadays that I wouldn't bet on it – we both just stand in front of the observation window and stare at the child we failed. And he is nothing other than that.
"He's just a child," I whisper into the silence of the small visitor's room, which suddenly seems much too small for two. The silence is like a silent whirlpool that wants to drag me into the depths without any warning. "No man in his right mind would let another person pass through fire. Panem forbid, a child."
Haymitch doesn't respond. His face hangs on his bones, as if it would separate from them at any second and fall to the ground like a mask. Everything about his demeanor changed the moment he crossed the threshold. He blames himself for what happened to Peeta. I don't know if he regrets saving Katniss instead of him, but that question must be so heartbreaking that I dare not even ask myself. However, you can tell that he would swap places with Peeta in a heartbeat if he could go back in time.
I lean against the window with my hands. The glass is cold under my touch. I'm aware that it is unlikely to collapse under the pressure of my fingers and yet I hold back. Even though Haymitch has told me what Peeta did in the short time he was reunited with Katniss, he looks peaceful. There is no madness in his eyes to confirm that this is indeed what happened. If you ignore his frail condition, the friendly boy from District 12 could be right in front of us. The shackles alone bear witness to a reality that looks different.
At some point, Haymitch's watch starts beeping. With its inconspicuous gray color, I haven't noticed it on his wrist until now. When I take a closer look, I notice that it's not a watch at all, but a small digital display. Haymitch raises his arm and his eyes darken, as if he remembers something in that second.
"I have to get back to Command," he murmurs in a rough voice, trying in vain to hide the agitated tone in it.
We are silent on the way back to my own room. We trot side by side with the shuffling gait of two people attending a funeral. People give us weird looks and I don't want to know how weirdly lost we must seem. Haymitch's gaze is distant, he seems to be deep in thought and doesn't notice the people we meet in the corridors of the infirmary. He doesn't respond to greetings from individual soldiers either.
When we arrive at the door of my room, I'm already wondering whether Haymitch will turn around in the same monotonous movement and continue on his way to Command without breaking his stupor. But then he lifts his head and the reaction in his eyes tells me that he has realized where we are. There's something else in his gaze, but it must have something to do with the thought he was taken from, because I can't make any sense of it.
Haymitch clears his throat and I wait for him to say goodbye, for another promise about our next reunion. "If I had known that the Capitol was aware of our affair back then, I would have never left you there."
His words catch me so unexpectedly that I have to hold on to the doorframe to keep from tripping over my own feet. It's a small sentence and yet it rolls over me with the force of a snow avalanche. I feel my body pausing beneath me, still unable to adequately deal with the issue after so many years. All my brain can do is turn my head in his direction, my eyebrows raised in a mix of surprise and shock.
In the last eleven years, none of us has said a word about what happened between us during the 64th Hunger Games. It's a taboo subject; a spark that turned into an inferno within a few days and went out again just as quickly. I know that if I close my eyes long enough, I will see the images crystal clear. That's why I force myself to pierce Haymitch with that look that speaks a thousand words. His breaking of taboos throws me off track and he sees it. He sees the invisible wall that I build around myself in a matter of seconds; he sees the mask I put on to hide the fragments of my dull feelings. The memory of it doesn't hurt, not anymore, but my body's automatic reaction to it is defense. Completely natural, because I've done nothing but that for years when it came to him – us.
Haymitch and I have worked together for so long that we know each other's characters inside and out. Our bodies react automatically to each other's movements, imitating or adapting to them, without either of us having a really active part in it. It's nothing but habit.
Haymitch's body reacts like a mirror image to my defenses. He hesitates and shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe this isn't the right time," he then remarks, breaking eye contact with me. His words were blunt, not thought through, because he knew that otherwise he might change his mind and continue to remain silent. He tried to open up to me and my passive, evasive attitude is now causing him to close down too.
A sigh escapes my lips as I tear down the walls. There's nothing I'd rather do than turn on my heel, walk through the door, and lock it behind me. It would be so easy to avoid this conversation. An excited tingle runs across the back of my palms. "We are at war, there will never be a right time," I finally say, leaning against the closed door. The cool metal beneath my sweaty fingers makes it easier to concentrate. "Say what you have to say."
I don't know what I expected. Maybe a short, clipped explanation. But when Haymitch opens his mouth and begins to speak, the words he strings together make no sense to me. Still, I can't stop my stomach from cramping. "I won my Games with a trick. Maybe you remember. I used the force field to kill the last opponent, though it was actually nothing more than mere luck. Snow didn't like it, but they had no choice but to make me victor. A Game without a victor would have been unacceptable."
Haymitch's Games are nothing but a shadow in my mind's eye. I vaguely remember the scenes on the edge of a cliff where a girl throws an ax at him, but he manages to duck. Force field or not, he fought and won. "I was a brash, arrogant victor who boasted about making the Capitol look like a fool. The force field was never intended to be used as a weapon. But my feeling of superiority didn't last long. When I returned to Twelve after the celebrations, my family was dead. Officially they had died in a fire, but Snow made it abundantly clear to me that I was to blame for their deaths." Haymitch pauses, his voice faltering and he struggles with himself to produce word after word. How many times has he shared this story out loud with someone? Chaff or Mags maybe. His stormy gray eyes wander through the deserted hallway. "They publicly executed my girl shortly afterwards. She's said to have stolen from a store in town, but that's bullshit. After my victory she would have had no reason to do so. They still put the bullet through her head. My punishment for not dying in the arena."
I can't do anything but stare at him with wide eyes. It's not the first time that he has spoken of the losses that his victory brought with it. Most of the time he was drunk, and it was nothing but scraps of words. This is different. The hallway spins around me and I wonder why there's no one here but us. Where are the doctors and nurses?
"For most of my life, booze has taken up my time. I tried to escape this damn fate of a victor, but the Capitol makes no exceptions," Haymitch explains, and his eyes meet mine again, an intensity in his gaze. Like a teacher who now expects maximum attention from his students. "The Capitol has the victors in its hands from the second they leave the arena. It forces them to do things you can't even imagine. If they don't bend, they hurt the people you love. Johanna and I found this out the hard way, and in the end, there was no one left for the Capitol to use as leverage. That got me off the hook for a while. Unlike Gloss or later Finnick, who still had a family to protect."
Of course, I know what he's talking about. These rumors about the purchasability of victors have always circulated in certain circles, but neither I nor anyone I know was part of the elite. And only they could afford the company of victors. Still, I know more about it than I would like. Because of Haymitch and because he pulled a stunt during the 64th Hunger Games that I could tear his head off for to this day. Is that what he's getting at? Would he like to talk to me about the prostitution of victors? I don't see where this is taking us, even though it's a topic that makes me nauseous. Finnick's coronation had brought it further into the spotlight, and although the young victor had been on everyone's lips, no one had ever heard a word about the business. But the rapidly changing celebrities who presented themselves in public with Finnick were proof enough of it. Businessmen, millionaires, actors. Every A-lister had at least appeared on one event with Finnick in their company and disappeared just as quickly.
Even if Haymitch hadn't told me anything about this back then, I would have found out about it at the latest when Finnick had come of age. Through Haymitch's friendship with Mags, Finnick had developed a close relationship with him early on. In the eyes of the young victor, he must have been a kind of father figure, because there was no other way I could explain why Finnick had showed up in the penthouse one night. Shaking, out of breath and with a nasty bruise on his face. But this is another story.
"But then you came," Haymitch says, bringing me back to reality. A small, sad smile lies on his lips as he watches me. What does he see when he looks at me? At this moment I would love to be able to read his mind. "I wanted to hate you. I tried so hard to hate you because I detested everything about you. The colorful clothing, the artificial accent, the cheerful nature, the naivety, the ignorance. You so perfectly embodied everything I'd learned to loathe the Capitol for over the years."
"Today I loathe it as much as you do," I whisper and can't help but lower my head. He had had every reason to hate me – us. He had been right, even if I hadn't wanted to believe it for a long time.
"That's the point," he remarks quietly, and his voice sounds suddenly so much closer that I look up in shock. Haymitch stands not a meter away from me, his smile widens a little as he raises his left hand to my cheek and strokes it in a feather-light movement. For a brief second, I wonder if I'm just imagining it. "I couldn't hate you; you didn't let me. To this day I can't quite explain it myself." He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and the smile turns into the grin I know so well. "Yes, you were a pain in my ass, and you were more demanding than any damn woman I'd ever met ... but your confidence about the future ... your hope for the good woke me up."
"At least for a while," Haymitch adds after some hesitation, the thoughtful expression returning to his face. "I was happy, you know? I always remember those Games fondly, even though I know how they ended."
He doesn't speak of the two dead tributes, even though I know their lives mean something to him. And yet their deaths have faded into the background because so many other children have followed them. The memory of us is the only constant from this time that has not blurred over the years. "Why are you telling me all this?" What does he hope to achieve from it?
"You need to understand my motives, Effie," Haymitch replies, more forcefully than before and I can hear a necessity in his voice. In one fluid movement he turns his back to me, presses his hands against the opposite wall and lowers his head. "Do you remember when we sat at the dining table during the Quarter Quell and talked about your nightmares? I said that if we're both lucky, one day I'll be able to explain everything to you. That day has now come."
I stare at Haymitch and my mind simultaneously travels back in time. The Quarter Quell is still a hazy part of my memories, but I can recall the moment he refers to because I was already surprised at his choice of words at the time. I nod slowly.
"You should know the truth about what happened back then and why I had to end things the way I did."
The cold shiver that runs down my spine cannot be prevented. Suddenly I feel cold. My skin is shivering and I have to wrap my arms around my torso to warm myself. "Say it." No request. A demand.
"Deep inside me, I knew from the beginning that this between us was a mistake," Haymitch explains, all warmth gone from his voice. "Not because I'm from Twelve and you're from the Capitol like you thought. It turned into something public. All it took was for one wrong person to see or hear something and Snow would have known. For a while I put my concerns aside, hoping that other, younger victors would be popular, so I'd be forgotten."
"Someone wanted you," I realize. Haymitch hasn't finished telling his story yet, but I'm slowly getting an idea of where it will take me.
Haymitch nods. "They gave me no choice. I had no idea how much they actually knew. Our public appearance had always been affectionate but had never crossed that line. But it was the first request in years, and I didn't want to risk finding out how much the Capitol knew. Now that we're clear that they actually knew all along, I'm glad I did what I did. No matter how much heartache was involved."
"So you cut off contact with me because you were afraid that I would end with the same fate as your family had?"
"Look around, Effie," Haymitch says, still refusing to turn around. "Look what you went through because of me. I would rather have you alive and far away from me than dead in my arms. It was no different back then. I also had to give our relationship a crack in the media so that the right people would notice. I hoped it would save you."
"So everything you said was a lie? You only did it because you were trying to protect my life?"
"Not trying," Haymitch corrects, clenching his hands into fists and then turning back to me. "For a few years I played their game and danced to their tune. Until Finnick finally came of age and all other victors suddenly became uninteresting. There you have your explanation for all the headlines from the years after." Each of the syllables out of his mouth sounds more bitter than the one before it.
I still remember the pain and incomprehension about the many headlines that reported on Haymitch and numerous women. Knowing the truth behind it, knowing that he was pushed and defiled, makes me sick and angry at the same time. "Is it the same as the thing with Laetitia Lowell?"
Haymitch raises his arms in a gesture I can't interpret. No emotion shows on his face, and I suspect he has to suppress the anger he feels. "Not quite. Laetitia was known among the victors for exchanging favors. Through her connection to the Head Gamemaker, she was able to achieve a lot. That doesn't make it any less disgusting, but she wasn't the kind of person who would have paid Snow for a victor."
I nod slowly and push myself away from the door to take a step closer to him. Somehow, I'm relieved by the answer, even if it's irrelevant. Laetitia Lowell had been one of the most influential women in the Capitol, in the early days of my career. From a wealthy family and part of the elite. At the age of 20, she had married the Head Gamemaker at the time, had thrown her money around and attracted all kinds of people who had wanted to influence the Hunger Games. Five years later, she and her husband had died in a tragic car accident that had paved the way to the top for Seneca Crane. But his time had also been limited. The job of Head Gamemaker probably came with more risks than opportunities.
"Do you remember the night you wanted to tell me the truth about the Capitol?" I ask, even though I already know the answer. I want to hear it from his mouth. "Back then, my fear of a shifted view of the world was greater than my curiosity."
"Mostly I remember the kiss." A twisted grin spreads across Haymitch's lips, then he rolls his eyes. "But I remember that too."
"Would it have made a difference if you had told me everything then?"
He shrugs but then shakes his head. "We wouldn't have lasted through that, at least not me. I'm a selfish man. Knowing that the reasons we couldn't be together had nothing to do with our actual feelings for each other would have only made things worse. My lies about my lack of feelings created a wall that you couldn't overcome."
Haymitch's watch makes another sound. A high, urgent sound ringing in my ears. How can he put up with this thing all the time? I probably would have smashed it against the first wall long ago. "You have to go," I say.
Maybe it's better when we end the conversation here. I've heard enough and my head is spinning with information that I have to think about. Not that there are tons of questions left to ask, but somehow, he's right: This is not a good time. This rebellion, this war, have changed a lot, but I shouldn't focus on the past now. The present demands enough of me.
Haymitch nods, his silver eyes scanning the hallway as if searching for someone. Then he stretches out his arm, squeezes my hand once and disappears through the small foyer out into the District. I could follow him if I wanted, could go out into the District. But something in my stomach tells me it wouldn't be a good idea.