The Miner's Wife

Chapter 1: Prologue

DISCLAIMER: THIS IS NOT MY STORY, I TAKE NO CREDIT.

THE LINK TO THE ORIGINAL IS IN THE COMMENTS

IF THIS STORY IS TAKEN DOWN I CANNOT DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT

The rain was pouring down. Peeta Mellark, lone victor of the 74th Hunger Games, looked with disinterest out of the train window. Fall in 12 was dark, and dreary, and wet.

The string of parties he had attended the last three weeks or so in the Capitol had been anything but dark and dreary. They were full of glitter, lights, outrageous clothes, loud music and entertainment that he didn't quite understand. Though after fourteen years, he knew the drill. Drink. Eat. Take that little glass of emetic. Throw up. Eat some more. Suck up to the right people. Laugh at the right places. Flirt, but not too much - except with the client of the night.

So it would seem that the parties were dreary, too. Just dreary in a different way.

The trick to survive was not to drink right before he took the emetic, because if he did, he wouldn't get drunk. He had to give the alcohol time to reach his intestines before he expelled the contents of his stomach. He really needed the alcohol to numb his body, numb his mind. Numb his world. Wigs, glitter, make-up, expensive clothes, mindless conversations about nothing. Oh, he knew how to play them now. The men and the women. He wasn't the most popular victor, but he was close. He knew the prices he commanded weren't far behind Finnick's or Cashmere's.

The drugs helped, too. Thankfully. They worked even better than alcohol to numb his mind. And if his body wouldn't cooperate, if whoever bought him was particularly ugly, particularly boring, or particularly nasty, well... the Capitol had pills for that, too.

He had a couple of months off now, at least until the next Victory tour. Some poor girl from 1 had been the victor of the 88th Annual Hunger Games. She'd been a vicious killer with impressive knife throwing skills, but he felt sorry for her nonetheless. She was pretty. He'd just witnessed her first season "working" in the Capitol. He wondered if she would last in the long run. At least she had Cashmere to help her out.

In January, the Victory Tour would come to 12, and he'd be expected to put on a show at the reception and then the party. Twelve was the last stop before 1, the new victor's home district, and they saved the Capitol for last as always. Peeta had been a mentor 14 times, and not even once had he been even close to getting a tribute out of the arena alive.

Perhaps that was for the best.

The train approached the electric fence, and came to a stop. Peeta poured himself another drink. They'd be there in five minutes. The train passed through the electric fence, and he studied the armed peacekeepers outside of the window because he didn't have anything better to do. He saw their closed faces. They looked wet and miserable.

Haymitch met him at the train station. There was no one else. He guessed he shouldn't be surprised, his family hadn't met him at the train station in years. That was probably for the best, too.

"You didn't even bring an umbrella," Peeta huffed at Haymitch. The old drunk was still ruggedly handsome, but his lifestyle was starting to take its toll. The sclerae of his eyes now had a slight yellow tinge to them. Peeta made a mental note to make some phone calls to the Capitol. If Haymitch died... Peeta shuddered.

If Haymitch died, he'd have no one.

Haymitch was already soaking wet, but by the looks of it, he was so drunk that he didn't care, anyway. He just guffawed at Peeta's umbrella remark.