The Mockingjay Project

Don't Walk Home Alone

I didn't need to hunt anymore. I didn't need to do anything now that I was a Victor.

It had been months since I came home from the Hunger Games and it had been months since I had last spoken to Peeta Mellark. Haymitch, on the other hand, I talked to almost every day.

I would never admit that I enjoyed the presence of the old drunk but my actions proved otherwise. I managed to check up on him every once in a while. Not because I wanted to, of course, but because of a sense of duty. After all, he was the one who got me and Peeta out of the Hunger Games. For the most part.

"Open up!" I pounded on Haymitch's door but the demand was more of a formality. He wouldn't open the door, I would barge in anyway, wake Haymitch up, leave him food, then leave. Haymitch would give some crude comment, I would reply with equal fervor, and the cycle would go on.

I stepped inside, the rancid smell of alcohol, bile, and rotting garbage attacking my senses. The first few days, I would clean my kills, then leave the meat on Haymitch's table. I quickly realized Haymitch had no capacity for cooking the meat and would just let it spoil. Since then, I took him a cooked dinner instead. 

Haymitch was passed out in his favorite armchair, and my least favorite armchair. It reeked of alcohol--like the rest of his house--and was covered in stains that I didn't dare to wonder about. I immediately turned to the sink, filling up a glass with water and holding Haymitch's hand down as I threw the water onto his face. Haymitch tried to fling his knife up to swipe at his assailant , but I was one step ahead and pulled the knife from his grip, letting it fall to the ground beside him.

"I could've killed you, sweetheart. Not like that's a bad thing," Haymitch grumbled, using his sleeve to wipe at his face. The first time I woke him up with a mug of cold water, he protested for hours. Now, he took it in stride. Progress.

"Sae made some stew with my turkey. You should drink it while it's still hot," I said, setting the bowl onto his table. My eyes caught sight of something I didn't see the first time, a plate with half a loaf of bread. 

"Looks like everyone's thinking about their old mentor today, huh?" He caught my gaze and ripped off a chunk of the still-warm bread to eat with his soup. "A full meal, complete with bread and stew? I've never felt so loved, sweetheart," Haymitch drawled sarcastically.

"Peeta usually doesn't come on Thursdays," I muttered. Through no communication whatsoever, Peeta and I had managed to create a system of which days I would feed Haymitch and which days he would. I didn't see how it even mattered since Haymitch had been surviving for years without either one of us.

"These are probably just leftovers from whatever he's doing that's making so much noise." My brow furrowed at Haymitch's words. I'd set out to the woods early in the morning and tried to sell my meat at the Hob for one or two coins before coming to Haymitch's with a bowl of Greasy Sae's Mystery Stew.

"What's he doing?" I asked, trying not to let my curiosity show. Haymitch smirked, predicting the question the minute he made that seemingly casual comment.

"You're asking me as if I go out every day."

"No, but Peeta visits you. Leftovers for what?" I asked again, my curiosity getting the better of me. Haymitch shrugged, still smirking, and I resisted the urge to reach for the knife that was on the floor.

"Alright, you've done your job, now you can go." Haymitch grinned at me and I scowled back.

"I wasn't thinking of doing anything else, old man." Haymitch reached around for his bottle and took a swig, casting a glance towards the warm food in front of him, only halfway finished, or the bottle in his hands. He chose the bottle.