Chapter 4
: Much Needed Assistance
I rush to Haymitch's aid as he tries to stand up from his fall. His shirt is now soaked with vomit, and the car reeks of alcohol and bile. I take one of his arms and heave it around my opposite shoulder to give support. Peeta is already at the other side, taking Haymitch's other arm.
"I tripped?" Haymitch asks. "Smells bad."
The two of us support him back to his room. Because of my small stature, I realize Peeta's taken most of the weight, but he doesn't seem to struggle any. When we reach Haymitch's room, Peeta redirects him to the tub, and immediately turns the water on him.
"Don't worry about it, I'll take over from here, Primrose," Peeta assures me. "You can go back and rest up for tomorrow."
But I shake my head as I head out, telling him I'm going to help too. If there's anything I can offer, it's healing, and I'm willing to help anyone who needs it.
I head back to the canteen, I ask for a large bottle of water, for rehydration, a bottle of ginger ale, and a bag of ice. As best as I can, I carry everything back to Haymitch's sleeping quarters, and push the unlocked door ajar with my shoulder. I step inside, and find Peeta dressing Haymitch. I look away to be polite, though accustomed to working with many undressed, wounded miners back at home.
"Hey, thanks for coming back. You really didn't need to." Peeta supports a now dressed Haymitch from the bathroom to the bed.
"And neither did you have to," I respond. "You aren't required to help." And it's true. Neither of us were obliged to help out our drunk mentor. He's so drunk I doubt he'll even remember the help we've given him, and there are dozens of Capitol assistants around the train who could help out as well. In fact, if we called on them, they'd probably be required to help out, by law.
"I brought some water and ginger ale." I place the bottles on Haymitch's nightstand. Peeta nods and takes the bottles, unscrewing them and urging Haymitch to drink. Meanwhile, I look around for towels, which I realize are placed above the shower box, on a metal rack. I step onto the tub and reach for one, almost slipping in the process. Thankfully, I make it back to Haymitch in one piece. I wrap the towel around the bag of ice.
"Haymitch, you need to lay down," I tell him, and he drunkly follows, his movements slow and sloppy. But when he's down, head on his pillow, I place the ice on his forehead, in hopes it would help with any headaches he may have tonight.
"You've done well today, Primrose."
"You too, Peeta."
There's an awkward silence that follows, as we both know only one makes it out of these Games alive. And frankly, the both of us will be dead in a week or so, and building friendly relations now just seems so untimely.
"I'll watch over Haymitch tonight, so he doesn't get into more trouble. And, you know, so he's sober enough to help us tomorrow." I laugh lightly and wish Peeta a good night before heading back to my room.
A rinse down, quicker than before, tired from the long day. I slip into the simplest night gown I can find, wanting to feel like a normal, young girl preparing to go to bed before another perfectly normal day of school. I wish Buttercup was at my side.
I head over to hit the lights when I notice the cookies on my nightstand. A note in cursive reads, "You left these in your pockets last night. I found them before throwing your clothes in the hamper." I smile and wonder what kind soul had returned my cookies, because surely, the Capitol employees could have thrown them out, or eaten them. The happiness of the tributes aboard the train won't affect their pay.
It's dark outside. It's late at night, and I decide to have my cookies tomorrow morning. And as I stand at my window, arms resting on the window sill, I notice a couple lights flickering in the distance, from another district. For most citizens of Panem, today is just another night like no other. On the floor, I noticed the train tracks are lit with small lights along the track, and beside it, are hundreds of dandelions, dancing in the wind.
Dandelions. A sign of spring. Years ago, when Katniss, Mom and I almost starved to death, I remember our first real meal had been a dandelion salad, from dandelions Katniss and I picked together in the Meadow. We'd pore over Dad's book of plants for healing, plants for eating, and Katniss would go out and bring back these edible plants for our family.
I climb into bed and close my eyes.
At home, many districts away, Katniss and Mom must be getting ready for bed too, pulling down the blinds and pulling the sheets over themselves before falling fast asleep. Perhaps they will they stay awake, feeling my absence, haunted by today's events. Perhaps the Hawthorne's went over to comfort our family. Picturing Gale with Katniss' side comforts me, knowing she won't be alone even after I die. I think of Rory, our friendship, and how much I'll miss his smiles, his hugs, and all the good times we spent together. I think about Buttercup, alone, probably pacing around the cold, hard floor before falling asleep, wondering where I've disappeared to. But he'll soon learn to sleep alone, and that I won't be coming home.
I fall asleep to the sound of trains rushing across the tracks at night. No tears hit my pillow tonight.
. . .
When I wake up, I close my eyes, again, wishing everything was just an awfully long and terrible nightmare, with Katniss at my side, telling me everything's okay. That it's just a dream. Sadly, when I brush my fingers across the bed, it's cotton and not the rough canvas of District 12. I sigh as I pull myself out and onto the carpet. I lean against my bed as I indulge in my cookies, savouring each bite. Katniss could sometimes afford to buy a small batch on my birthday, and we'd each have a cookie at the table together. I'm happy and smiling when Effie comes barges in.
* "Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"
Her high-pitched, bouncy Capitol voice is sickening. It only reminds me of how "festive" the Games are meant to be. Because there really isn't anything festive about taking twenty four perfectly innocent citizens and excitedly watching them slaughter one another for entertainment.
Effie leaves almost as soon as she comes in. She doesn't close the door on the way out, and I sigh, getting up to close it myself. After finishing my three cookies, I change into a simple yellow blouse and blue jeans. I leave my hair as it is, still in their braids from the previous night, though a lot of hair has fallen out. It's the opening ceremony tonight, and the stylists will work on me, transforming me in ways I can never imagine. After pinning my Mockingjay pin onto the blouse, I head for the canteen.
I'm greeted by three: Effie with her coffee, Haymitch who is unsurprisingly puffy from his hangover, and Peeta, a roll of bread in hand. His eyes are bloodshot, probably from lack of sleep last night. I send him an encouraging smile. None of us talk to each other, but for good reason. The food is heavenly, and we're all digging into the eggs, ham, piles of friend potatoes, and many more delicacies. In a bowl of ice are fruits, like oranges. I remember having one once when Dad brought one home for New Years as a treat.
"Try this, it's called hot cocoa," Peeta tells me, handing me a cup of a brown liquid. It smells of chocolate, and tastes creamy and rich. But as I enjoy my hot cocoa, I notice Haymitch enjoying his liquor, as he mixes it into whatever concoction he's got in his glass cup. He drinks the whole glass, bottoms up. It's disheartening, to see in front of my very eyes, the very reason our district never has any victors. Sponsorships are a huge component to these Games, and no matter how rich a sponsor may be, or how promising a tribute may look, no one would want to do business with Haymitch. And with a mentor this drunk, no one's bound to get the proper training either.
"So, Haymitch," I begin, "do you have any advice you might want to give us?"
He looks at me, then Peeta, confused. Like he wonders why on earth I'd want advice when I'm bound to die. He laughs to himself, like a mad man, before turning to the two of us with a grin.
"Well. Here's something you might want to know." He motions for us to lean in, like he'll tell us a big secret. And I do, curiously, as do Effie and Peeta. "Stay alive!"
"That's not very funny," I comment under my breath. And when Haymitch reaches for his glass again, I swipe at it, so that it falls onto the ground and smashes into a million pieces. He looks up and glares at me, and brings up his hand to slap me across the cheek. I close my eyes in anticipation, but hear a smack before I feel one. I open my eyes and find Peeta grabbing his wrist. Haymitch proceeds to punch Peeta, square in the jaw. I grab a handful of ice from fruit bowl, and bring it to Peeta's face. Effie just sits back and watches, a smile on her face.
"Amusing enough for you, is it," Peeta says rhetorically, taking the ice from my hand to ice his face himself.
** "Well, what's this?" Haymitch says. "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"
I sit still. I'm not much of a fighter. Maybe Peeta is.
"Stand up," Haymitch orders. When we do he examines us from head to toe, walking round and round. He pulls Peeta's hand away from his face, forcing him to drop the ice.
"Let the bruise show. It will look like you got in a fight before the games. Looks tough."
"But we're not supposed to fight. It's against the rules." I almost immediately regret speaking up. Haymitch looks angry. He's scary when he's angry.
"Exactly. So it will look like he was in a fight and didn't get caught. Even better." He stops circling us and stands straight, looking us both straight in the eye, in turn. "You're not entirely hopeless," he decides. "Peeta, you've got quite the build, and Primrose, honey, you're bound to attract enough sponsors, given the right stylists and corrections on your behaviour.
"Alright, I'll make you a deal. As long as you don't interfere with my drinking ever again, I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you've got to do exactly as I say."
Sounds fair to me. Peeta and I both agree.
With the newfound confidence that Haymitch would answer now, I ask a second question: "So, when the gong sounds, should we run to the cornucopia, or run off into—" Haymitch cuts me off.
*** "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Haymitch.
And like that, we sit back down at the table, and it gets much darker as we enter a tunnel. We're going through the mountains. I nervously tap my fingers against the table, waiting to break out into the Capitol. I remember learning in school, it was that much harder for the districts to rebel against the Capitol because the rebels had to climb over the mountains to attack. This made rebels quite conspicuous, and easy to take down, on the Capitol's end. "A geographical advantage," the teachers had called it.
A couple moments later, we exist the tunnel, and light comes streaming back into the train. We are in the Capitol, no doubt, and Peeta and I both rush over to the windows to get a better look. Everything is so bright, both because of the light, and also the abundance of bright, artificial colors. Citizens of the Capitol await the train excitedly, pointing, and taking photographs. I can almost hear them in my head, with their thick, Capitol accents. "Look, it's a tribute train! I cannot wait to see how the Games turn out this year! I bet Twelve won't make it past a week! I'm betting on that Cato from District 2."
I shake my head to rid the thought, and plaster a smile on my face. I wave happily at the people, as does Peeta, and they wave back. Hopefully I'm doing things right. Hopefully, there will be some rich folk in the crowd who are willing to sponsor us. Once we're in the arena, we're gonna need all the help we can get.
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STAY ALIVE... STAY ALIVE...
WHERE'S MY SON?!
Mr. Hamilton...come in. They brought him in half an hour ago. He lost a lot of blood—
IS HE ALIVE?!
Yes, but you have to understand—
Me: *already crying* PHILIP NOOOO
Alright, Stay Alive is a great song, reprise or not, but you know what else is good? Sober up. AJR's Sober Up. Haymitch's promise to stay sober reminds me of the song.
| illiterate-writer |
aka Monica
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Taken from Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games:
*4.54.21
** 4.57.9-10
*** 4.58.20-23