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***
Haymitch understood the before. The after, though? That was proving to be more confusing than his time in the 50th Games. Every year as a mentor in the years that followed fractured his reality further. Splinters of understanding stabbed his consciousness whenever his access to liquor ran dry.
He wasn’t sober. But he wasn’t trying to die either. He lived in a purgatory solidified by bricks of trauma and mortar made of guilt.
Some habits were harder to break than others, but once a day he confirms he’s still alive by joining the young folk for a meal.
Haymitch rarely eats at these gatherings, preferring to drink his calories. For those in the Seam, starvation evoked a kind of nostalgia.
Like he said, some coping mechanisms are tattooed too deeply. Generational trauma seeps into the marrow of people who live in District 12.
After all, bones bear the brunt of memories. Death by millions of cuts to his skeleton. Marrow oozed and fed the ravenous citizens of Panem year after year. Haymitch belonged to Snow, in every way that mattered.
“Please, have one. They’re cool enough now.”
Haymitch grunts, struggling to focus on the younger man.
Peeta makes candy. He’s never had access to such pure sugar. Months of mushy plain food in District 13 has inspired him to experiment with flavor.
His battered mind turns to 12 for inspiration. Memories of baking, working for his family come in dribbles and waves. Riding the recovery tide is exhausting for both Mellark and his wife.
Haymitch can’t say why he won’t try the concoctions.
Pure, white sugar coats gelatinous spheres.
“Gumdrops?” Katniss asks. “Prim loved to look at the Donner’s display. She’d take Lady into town and dawdle at the shop window.” Her gaze softens as the memory wraps her in a bittersweet embrace.
Peeta nods. “We had a little extra of everything, I wanted to use the lavender tincture. Try something new, soothing before Jo gets here.”
The kids talk as they snack, appearing carefree. The Games haunt all of them, but the star-crossed lovers manage to choose life. They wake up each day in each other’s arms...in possession of something Haymitch can’t ever have.
Haymitch resists the impulse to knock the candy out of their hands. Visions of bloody saliva and Lenore’s breathless body push to the forefront of his brain.
Dead, dead, dead. His hearts pounds in concert with the macabre mantra.
Safety came with isolation, and he had become an expert in breaking relationships. He owed Burdock’s girl a hell of a lot, but he couldn’t unload decades of trauma onto the poor child.
As a compromise, he chugs the rest of his bottle and bolts back to his property.
Cowardice was the oldest friend Haymitch had, so he locks and barricades the door.
As if furniture will keep out the ghosts. He knows better. Unscrewing the cap brings a wan smile to his lips. He savors the burn as the liquor collides with his empty stomach.
***
The cheese buns that Katniss covets burn one morning in February.
Smoke billows from their kitchen, windows flung wide to disperse the ashy clouds.
Haymitch can’t breathe. Bars wrap around his ribs, tight as the stitches that once held his gut together.
His bare feet stumble out of his house on their own accord.
He kept his promise to Lenore. He stopped the reaping and the Games. Burdock’s daughter slaughtered the wannabe fascist leader, next in line for Snow’s position.
But if they died, that version of events did not matter. Losing another person, let alone two would shatter the fragile facsimile of a man he’d recently assembled.
How could the cruelty repeat?
Haymitch pictured Peeta and Katniss, wrapped in death as they burned.
The burned remains of his family flashed in his mind. Charred flesh ensnared his senses, nearly forcing him to his knees to vomit.
His mother and brother would welcome them in the afterlife, until he could get there. But where was Lenore? Louella? Maysilee?
He lurches towards their home. Abandoning his dark house should be freeing, but he feels like he is being hunted. That fear has never abated.
He knew! He fucking knew he was toxic.
Haymitch knew his company, his very presence was poisonous. Snow ensured that after his violent victory in the Second Quarter Quell.
Oh Gods, the only people his shriveled heart gave a damn about were dying. He needed help, but his voice was as broken as the rest of him. Birds screamed and squawked, but no one understood.
His heart pounded; blood thrummed in his ears. Where was Burdock? He had to get water from the cistern. Did someone fill it?
They were dead. Dread and resignation pinned Haymitch to the spot. He pictured them choking, holding each other as flames licked their skin and hair.
Dying together was a measure of control, a fuck-you to the Capitol. It was good, wasn’t it? His thoughts bounced between extremes, making mush of his already maudlin brain.
Panic transformed to buzzing nonsensical thoughts. A pine box, large enough for two. Who would build it? Everyone was dead. No one would attend the funerals. Silence would reign, because all those who sing the funeral ballads were deceased.
He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he was not capable of assembling a coffin. Haymitch’s hands shook when he held a pen or tried to button a shirt. There was never enough liquor to calm his frayed, frazzled nerves.
“Abernathy. Hey!”
He pivoted towards the threat, his feet stumbling over rocky grass.
“Stop.”
Grunting as he landed a haymaker. He could rip out an eye if he needed to, he knew the plan included his death. He decided how it ended.
He needed a weapon, anything. Why couldn’t he focus? Time was ticking away.
“Fucking hell, how are you still this strong? Thought the liquor would slow ya down.”
Alcohol. Right, he wasn’t young anymore. His people were dead. His district amounted to nothing more than an ash filled cemetery.
His knees connected with the dry earth, sending a jolt of pain up his spine.
Pain grounded him, it had since he embraced death in the arena. He welcomed oblivion and until now it had rejected his pleas.
“Haymitch. Listen to me, hey!”
Lou-lou stared, boring holes through whatever remained of his soul.
Her temper flared and the hallucination morphed into Maysilee. She hated when he lagged. He felt so dumb when she put her hands on her hips, face contorted in judgement.
“Do we need to pump your stomach?” She raised her voice, anger singeing her words. “Ma’s got some charcoal. What’s wrong with you?!”
His girl, the love of his violent youth flickered in the features of the Mockingjay. Their valley, their place wasn’t safe. Nothing was, he couldn’t save her. He would anything to keep her alive, but it was futile.
“You’re dead.” Haymitch shook his head, digging his nails into his scalp. “It’s never real! I wake up and you’re gone. Everyone’s dead, I can’t…I can’t.”
Grief pulled Haymitch’s shoulders towards his chest. Hot tears tracked down his hollow cheeks. Sobs contracted his muscles. Haymitch willed the anguish to pull him under and grant him eternal damnation.
The truth rose to the top of his thoughts, like President Snow’s convoluted revelations. Feelings that presented as facts popped like bubbles in Posca along the synapses of neurons.
Promises made to a ghost were meaningless in the face of Haymitch’s latest spectacular failure.
On days like this, when everyone he loved was dead, what did any of it matter?
***
“Is he losing it?” Peeta chewed on his thumbnail. He paced along the length of the kitchen, executing tight turns around the corners of their handmade table.
Katniss snorted. “Aren’t we all?”
Peeta paused to steep their tea, mentally organizing his response.
His patience frustrated the former Girl-on-Fire, but she respected his process. “I meant, is the alcohol pickling his brain? The damage he’s done…it’s got to be permanent. Decades of threating his body and mind like shit are finally catching up. He hasn’t been completely sober for more than a couple months.”
Katniss studied the fire, cataloguing each flickering flame in the hearth. “We’ll cross that creek if the time comes. For now, we’ll take care of him.”
Peeta snorted as he laughed into his mug. “Yeah, he’ll love that.”
“Doesn’t have to like it.” Katniss unfurled a quilt from a trunk. “We’re kin.”
***