The Anger Games [a Hayffie fanfic (THG)]

Chapter 2: After the Blood Bath

 Chapter 2: After the Blood Bath

By now, Katniss had stopped running and was crouched under the looming dark green leaves of an enormous tree. She was panting, and her legs were in pain—at least, they must've been, after that long, daring sprint from the rest of the tributes. But at least she was safe, and far away from the others. There'd be no problem for her to face, for now.

Others weren't so lucky.

Haymitch grimaced at each boom of the cannon, signaling the end of each fallen tribute. God, I'll always hate that sound. He took another swig of Bacardi and clumsily set the half-empty bottle on the coffee table beside his bed. He didn't take his eyes off the screen, off Katniss' terrified, blood-shot eyes.

"Just a little more, Catnip." He suddenly felt ridiculous, giving her advice that she certainly wouldn't hear. But it was true. If he gave her help at once, she'd let her guard down and unwittingly let herself be prey. No, let her get used to things, and when she least expected it, and really needed it, he'd send help.

Poor Catnip, Haymitch thought again. You must hate me so much now. He swung his arm over the side of his bed, his finger groping the air, searching for the bottle. The side of his hand brushed something cool and solid, but a split second later, a loud, cracking noise was heard, and bits of glass swam on a tiny pool of Bacardi on the carpeted floor by his bed.

"Darn it," Haymitch spat, reluctantly pushing himself from his bed. Without taking a second glance at the mess he made, he crossed over to the fridge and selected a random bottle of wine.

When he returned to his bedroom, an Avox was cleaning up his mess. Haymitch waited until the pieces of shattered glass were cleanly swept and the carpet more or less dried, before settling down on his bed.

By now the cameras were focusing on the District 11 tributes. One of them, a skinny, curly-haired little girl, had managed to keep herself safely hidden among the treetops. Atta girl, Haymitch thought. Although he rooted for Katniss and Peeta, deep inside, he was cheering for the little girl as well. Twelve-year-olds rarely lasted long in the arena. It had been quite a while since there was a twelve-year-old victor.

There was a commercial break, a particularly annoying jingle about "Panem's best shaving cream," sung by a gaggle of pink-haired ladies in yellow polka-dot bikinis. The ladies crowded around an ever smug-faced Seneca Crane, rubbing his beard and winking at the camera.

Haymitch instinctively reached out for the wine bottle. With his other hand he switched channels.

He came upon a documentary following the lives of three different Avoxes, who told—well, "told" might not be the appropriate term, Haymitch thought—about what they did and how much they regretted disobeying the Capitol. Of course, they spoke in sign language and their segments were subtitled, given that no sound came of out the subjects' tongueless mouths.

Haymitch thought about only one thing, something he'd always wondered about. How did Avoxes handle alcohol?

Speaking of Avoxes. Someone patted Haymitch on the shoulder.

"What?" He swung around. It was the same Avox who cleaned up his spilled Bacardi.

Then he noticed the Avox's eyes.

Avoxes were funny people. The Capitol silenced them, or at least they thought they had. Avoxes could say more with their eyes than what other people could with words. Haymitch, even in his drunken stupor, was able to read the emotions clearly in the Avox's eyes. She was nervous, and not in the typical scared-and-submissive-Avox way.

"What's the matter?"

The Avox simply pointed down to the wine-stained area of the carpet.

"What about it?" Haymitch did not understand; it was nearly dry.

The Avox crouched down and reached under the bed, pulling out a purple bra.

"WHAT?"

The Avox paused, looked around, found a notepad and a pen on the small bedside desk, and began to write something. Haymitch leaned closer and tried to follow every letter, but his vision was blurry and his head was spinning. He only managed to read bits and pieces of the message. Not...Eff...bed...home. "Wha-at?"

The Avox stopped writing, realizing just how drunk he was. She reached out for one of the pillows on the bed and smacked Haymitch across the head with it.

Haymitch fell off the bed. "What—what was that for? What on earth--" His head spun and spun and spun; he could only see the Avox's feet and a purple splotch that must be the random bra, and a mixture of colors around them. The smell of wine from the stained carpet filled his nostrils. As he reached over to the side of his bed to hoist himself up, he caught sight of another purple splotch. A larger one. The one he was struck with. The pillow.

Haymitch's hand slipped and he clumsily fell back on the carpet.

A purple pillow. There were no purple pillows in Haymitch's room. Unless—

Oh god, was that how drunk he was? Effie's room?

The doorbell rang.

Both Haymitch and the Avox  froze.