ghosts that we knew: A mockingjay fanfiction

Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I own nothing
Chapter 11

Haymitch

Katniss nods her head along with my orders, her quick obedience out of character, and releases a bothered breath before hugging me close again. Her fingers etch frantic, grasping patterns into my back as she debates the thousands of things she could say. It all feels so formal, so final.

"Thank you," she whispers as she pulls away. Our gazes are gridlocked for a moment, caught in a staring contest that neither of us wants to lose. She is the first to surrender, eventually, and she retreats back to Peeta. Their fingers intertwine almost automatically before they slink off together into the shadows, both of them stealing what they believe to be one last glance at their mentor.

Each of them thinks that they will never see me again, that they will die in the Third Quarter Quell by trying to protect the other. I have other plans.

I just hope she remembers who the real enemy is.

Running a heavy hand down my tired face, I sigh heavily. I truly thought they would cancel the Games. Delay them, at least. It was nothing short of brilliant, playing the pregnancy card, on Peeta's behalf. For a moment, I think we all forgot who was in ultimate control. Snow has no problem killing the baby if it means he gets to kill Katniss.

I turn to retire to my bedroom for a useless night of tossing, turning, and throwing back drinks. My body feels as though it is made of lead as I trudge through the District compound, every last inch of the room containing some significance to this journey we've all found ourselves aimlessly wandering on. The chairs we have sat and strategized in, side tables that have been furiously flipped over, even the pristine floors we have paced upon resonate heavily within me.

I am barely halfway to my door when I hear them:

Cries. Sad, strangulated, wounded cries come from the other side of Effie Trinket's door.

Trinket has always been a piece of work, that's for certain. Whether it's her perky demeanor, her flashy personality, her damn schedules, or her innate desire to make a spectacle out of anything and everything, she has managed to get under my skin since day one.

The previous escort was annoying purely because he was from the Capitol. But he was a trustworthy companion in that he did his job, only speaking to me when it was absolutely necessary. It usually never was necessary to call upon me, as our tributes were often hopeless cases coming from the mining district. In over ten years, I don't even think we ever bothered to learn each other's names. He retired and the Capitol brought me her. She, unlike my good friend What's-His-Face, was ten times more infuriating because she was from the Capitol and she tried. She tried hard.

Effie Trinket truly believed that, with each new year, the tributes of the District had a shot at winning the Games. The helpless boy and girl were often forced-on top of all the other shit they had to deal with-to uphold Effie's demands for manners, posture, and punctuality, in hopes that it would give them promise.

It never worked.

The worst of it all would be when Trinket would turn her tactics on me, forcing me to be the example for the children. I was quickly proven unteachable and she began to use me as the antithesis of her work, pointing to me and telling the children I was exactly what they didn't want to become, should they get the chance to become anything.

That didn't stop her from the occasional jab at my lack of tact and grace every now and again. Don't slurp your soup, Haymitch. Sit up straight, Haymitch. Smile, Haymitch.

My pure hatred for her evolved into accepting her for what she was: a Capitol citizen who knows nothing that strays too far from the little bubble in which she lives. My constant jeering toward her emerged in order to curb my resentment toward her, wigs and all. Her no-nonsense façade was no match for my flask and tongue, and I often got off on the flustered body language that was thinly layered beneath her reprimanding.