Something To Root For: Haymitch's POV

Chapter 1

The metal handle in my hand once cool is now warm. The knife I sleep with is the only thing that can help me sleep, as if I am going to be threatened in my own house, that is too big and empty for my taste. Not that I want to sleep. The knife protects me from the real threats unlike the ones my mind makes dance across my eyes when I fall asleep. My eyes are puffy from exhaustion and drinking but I force them open to start the day I dread most each year.

Reaping day.

Every year the Capitol of Panem hosts a symbolic Hunger Games as a reminder to the districts that we are mere pawns in their society, forced to provide for them so they can have a lavish lifestyle. They select one male and female ages 12-18 from each of the twelve districts to fight to the death in a cage that they call an arena filled with horrors only dreamt in nightmares. No Capitol children are selected to remind the  districts that they lost the war with the Capitol. The last tribute standing is crowned the victor and given a life of luxury within their district. Of course the luxury in the district is not what those in the Capitol would think it entails. No, our "luxury" is receiving a house, money and  what they call the honor of mentoring the next tributes from their district until another victor from that district is crowned and they are mostly relieved of that duty. There has been no winner since I won 24 years ago, meaning I have watched 44 boys and girls die which will soon to be 46 here in the next few weeks.

Usually here in district twelve the tributes selected belong to the Seam which is the poorest community in the district. The people in town are still poor, but most of those who parish in district twelve from famine come from the Seam. The reaping allows an eligible male to volunteer for the selected male and vise versa, but that only really happens in the career districts which are districts one, two and four. In those districts they train their children for the games making them the likely winners each year. Even though it is against the rules to prepare your children for the games, the Capitol looks away from it's suppliers of items they desire.

I force myself to sit up from my place on the sofa and put the knife on the table, replacing it in my hand with a bottle of white liquor.

I take a long sip.

And then another.

I keep sipping until the bottle is gone and I am numb. I make my way to the bathroom, stumbling up the steps, clutching to the rail that is there to support me. Finally, I reach the bathroom and grip the sink to sturdy myself before looking into the dirty mirror. My hair is a dirty blonde that is shoulder length, my facial hair which only ever grows into a stubble is unshaven. I can't remember the last time I washed myself up but I must look presentable for the cameras today. It's part of the rules as a mentor. I must look somewhat put together for the reaping because they broadcast it in every home tonight during the recap of each of the district's selection for slaughter.

I begin by splashing water on my face to try and wake myself up. I start a bath to try and clean the stench off of me, but I drink so much the scent of alcohol seeps from my skin. 

I turned to alcohol as a way to cope from the wounds the games leave me to fight on my own, and to subdue any anti-Capitol thoughts left lingering in my head.. I have no family because the games took that away from me too. They were murdered before my return home, leaving me with no one. President Coriolanus Snow saw to that when I figured out I could use their arena as my weapon.

In my time in the arena my hatred for the Capitol only grew. I hated them for selecting my name. I hated them for making me kill other kids. I hated them for making me watch others die. And the thing that made my year stand out from the others was that I had to endure twice as much. The year I was selected as tribute was a Quarter Quell year which happens every 25 years. For the 50th anniversary they selected two males and two females from each of the twelve districts to fight to the death. Instead of being the one of 24 tributes, I was one of 48. I knew the cage they threw us in had disasters too controlled to be real. In school they told us the arenas were built for each year. Knowing this when I went in I tried to find the edge. I wasn't sure if I was trying to escape or maybe trying to find another pile of supplies. Instead I found a force field I used as a slingshot to seal my final opponent's fate. The Capitol of course did not like me using the force field because they said it made them look like a fool. I should've been defiant and told them how I really felt about their Hunger Games but I was in too much shock to really process what I had witnessed in the arena and too grief stricken when I returned home.