The Hunger Games (Peeta's Point of View)

Chapter Four

We stare at the scene for a moment, trying to take it in. The stench of spirits and vomit is a lethal mix and threatens to bring my dinner up. Katniss and I exchange a glance. Unfortunately, Effie is right about Haymitch being all we've got. We take one of Haymitch's arms each and lift him to his feet.

"I tripped?" Haymitch asks. "Smells bad." Haymitch wipes his hand on his nose as if to wipe away the odour but only succeeds in smearing his face in even more vomit.

"Let's get you back to your room," I say. "Clean you up a bit." It takes a lot of effort but we manage to get Haymitch back to his compartment. If we set him down on the bed it will be covered in sick and therefore ruined, so we put him in the bathtub. I switch the shower on. Haymitch doesn't notice.

"It's OK. I'll take it from here." I say to Katniss. It isn't fair for her to do this. I don't really want to do it myself, but being a fellow male it will be easier for me. Though Haymitch sullies the name of men.

"All right. I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." No. I don't want anyone. Although they're supposed to wait on us, just seeing them full-fed in their extravagant clothes is an unspoken insult to me.

"No." So I say this to Katniss. "I don't want them." Katniss nods and leaves. She's probably glad to leave the room and breathe fresh air. I have half a mind to leave myself but if the Capitol people get hold of Haymitch in his condition who knows what they'll do to him? The matter would probably be taken to someone higher up, after the Games. It is his fault for drinking but maybe after this episode he won't drink as much. I can dream.

It's unpleasant, seeing Haymitch like this, lying in a pool of lukewarm water and his own vomit. He's muttering something incoherent and his eyelids are drooping. Oh no, I won't let him spare himself by sleeping. If I have to go through with this torture, so does he. Conscious.

I haul Haymitch Abernathy upright so he's sitting up against the shower wall. He seems determined to sleep through this! Determined. Like Katniss. I chuckle- the two are so different it's odd to be comparing the two, especially now.

"Haymitch," I say. I get no reply. "Haymitch," I repeat, louder. Still nothing. "Haymitch!"

"Uh, what?" He jerks awake.

"It's time to wash you up."

"Shame. I rather like myself like this." I decide to ignore the crass comment, for Haymitch's own good rather than mine.

"Come on." Haymitch still refuses to budge, rather stupidly, for I press the button to lower the water temperature. I lower it all the way down.

"Ah!" He almost leaps out of the shower. He's certainly conscious now. Haymitch looks disdainfully at the shower stall; the disgusting colour of the vomit is smeared across the perfect white of the shower. He looks at the mess contemptuously, and then at me, as if it's somehow my fault. He gives an awkward laugh. "So... You gonna clean me up then, son?" His voice is slurred.

"I'm not your son," I mutter but push him back in the shower anyway, after raising the water temperature. I don't know why I had an idea he'd be conscious; instead, he's slumped against the shower wall in a drunken heap. I don't bother to wake him up again.

After all the vomit is washed away from the shower- some of which had to be forced with my hands- I plaster his shirt off his back. His chest is extremely hairy and little globules of sick are stuck to them. I resist the urge to heave. Instead I use what I have at hand- a long white sponge. Gingerly I prod at the web of chest hair to dislodge the sick. I wipe the rest off. Next I have to peel off his trousers. This I definitely don't want to do but this is the best way. I can't just leave him here. Can I?