His Quell

III: The Morning Before

This wouldn't be Haymitch's first reaping. At sixteen years old, he had already survived several without his name being called. By this point he thought that he'd be used to the feelings the day brought. The familiar feeling of dread resided in the pit of his stomach, acting as a weight and causing his movements to become sluggish. His head wasn't much better. Every time he allowed his thoughts to drift, scenarios would cross his mind; all things he hoped wouldn't come to fruition.

Haymitch's body was in a constant mode of fight or flight and at that very moment, every fibre of his body was telling him to run away, to climb under the fence and run for the hills. Never would he allow himself to follow through with those urges. He couldn't do that to his family. Anyway, he was unlikely to even get that far. The Peacekeepers were on the lookout for runners today.

Haymitch stood in front of the bathroom sink. He glanced into the cracked mirror balanced on top. Dark circles threatened to show on the skin underneath his eyes. He had hardly slept during the night. Instead, he had held their mom the entire time, refusing to let go even after she had fallen asleep. He kept a listen out for Cyrus, but Haymitch knew that he wouldn't wake. He slept like a log and not even the reaping would disturb his precious slumber.

Turning on the tap, Haymitch splashed cold water onto his face. He would have to stay alert. Anything could happen today, and he had to be prepared for it. Using the droplets of water left on his hands, Haymitch ran his fingers through his hair to untangle it. It wasn't incredibly untidy, but the curls were starting to fall over his face. He hadn't realised just how long it had gotten. It was now below his chin. Maybe he'd ask mom to cut it for him when they got back from the reaping.

Drying his hands, he then went to fix his collar. The shirt he was wearing was now quite old, the colour now grey instead of white. Haymitch had worn it to every reaping, but it was still a bit too big. In a year he might fit into it properly. It used to be his dad's shirt; the one he'd worn on the day he married their mom. Wearing it felt like he would have a bit of them both with him. He tucked it into his waistband and ensured that he was presentable. Every year their mom was adamant that neither of them would look a mess. She wanted to prove that at least some of the residents weren't the 'savages' the Capitol thought they were.

Before leaving the privacy of the bathroom, Haymitch allowed himself one last moment of panic. Under his breath he counted down from ten. The doctor had suggested the technique when he was younger. It was when he couldn't come to terms with the fact that his dad wouldn't ever come home. He was angry, very angry and lashed out at the tiniest thing. He would allow himself ten seconds to linger before leaving it behind and carrying on. Haymitch let out a sigh.

"Ten".

There were double the Tributes.

"Nine".

His name would be on so many pieces of paper.

"Eight".

Twenty Times. His name was in the bowl twenty times.

"Seven".

Cyrus' name was only in there once. He was safe.

"Six".

He would volunteer anyway.

"Five".

He didn't want to hurt anyone.

"Four".

He didn't want to kill anyone.

"Three".