Rosemary Acker was pronounced victor of the 55th annual Hunger Games, however she didn't feel like a victor. The trauma and horrors of the games continues to haunt her for many years to come. Watching her friends die one by one, under the hands of P...
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Time passed by quickly, and unlike Rosemary, Haymitch didn't want Reaping Day to come any time soon. However, nothing in this world ever waits for us to get ready, we just have to live- to endure. That was exactly what Haymitch was doing, waiting for the broadcast to start, without any type of excitement evident on his face. He hadn't visited District 5 since the Tour, and felt a nagging feeling prominent in his chest. District 12 was quiet, and his house was more likely dead speaking of sounds and warmth. His eyes changed direction from the bottle in front of him towards the holographic screen as it lit up. He wanted to puke upon seeing the white haired man, however, he didn't- you never knew who might be watching.
"Ladies and gentlemen. This is the 75th year of the Hunger Games. And it was written in the charter of the games, that every 25 years there would be a Quarter Quell. To keep fresh for each new generation, the memory of those who died in the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by games of a special significance. And now, from this, the 75th anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell.." President Snow said, and for a moment, the audience who watched gave him applause. Haymitch knew well enough a Quarter Quell wasn't a good sign for anything, and he feared what would happen.
"As a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol. In this, the third Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of victors in each district. The victors will present themselves on reaping day, regardless of age, state of health or situation-"
Haymitch screamed, throwing the bottle he had been drinking out of. It shattered into millions of pieces, and the room splashed with alcohol. The smell stayed the same. He regretted throwing the bottle the second it hit the wall. Stumbling up from the couch, his legs nearly giving up under him, he went into the kitchen to find another bottle. As he crouched down, he hit his head slightly and he moaned in displeasure.
"Haymitch," Peeta said, pushing open the creaky door to the older man's house. Haymitch looked up, a bottle of whiskey in hand, a permanent scowl etched on his face.
"Peeta," Haymitch grunted, acknowledging his presence without much enthusiasm.
"Did you watch it?" Peeta asked, a sense of urgency in his voice, his eyes locking onto Haymitch's.
Haymitch sighed, taking a swig from the bottle. "Sure, watched every damn second of it. Same old Capitol nonsense."
"This is different, Haymitch. They're throwing us back into the arena, and Katniss... she can't survive it again. I need your help," Peeta pleaded, his eyes desperate.
Haymitch's gaze sharpened, a rare seriousness creeping into his drunken demeanor. "Kid, we're all just pieces in their games. There's no way around it."
"No, Haymitch, you don't understand. She's not just another piece. They want her dead. President Snow wants her dead. I can't let her go back in there without a plan," Peeta insisted.
