The Hunger Games Short Story Collections

Empty Bottles

=Empty Bottles=

Chapter One

I am drunk. Maybe far too drunk for the hullabaloo I am supposed to endure today.

I have wasted away on the drink. I abuse my body and mind but only because my memories abuse me more. I have long since envied the children who get to die. To survive beyond the arena is the real death. I exist, though I do not live.

And now am I not only drunk, but late.

I stumble towards the crowd, my vision blurring with each staggering step I take. I slowly make my way to the stage where the Mayor – perhaps Mayor Under-the-sea? – has begun the 74th reaping for the annual Hunger Games. I shudder, recalling the horrendous events which took place twenty four years ago on this exact date.

I squeeze the bottle in my hand; the familiar touch from the smooth, cool glass against my now sweating hands re-assures me. It’s going to be alright, Haymitch. One day, the tributes from this year -- and all of the past years -- will understand. I will be forgiven, and if they do survive, I may have someone to confide in other than the empty bottles piling high on my floor at home.

But what is the greater of the evils?

Dying in the Games, being brutally murdered by other tributes or by the creatures which lurk in the corners of the arenas?

Or living with the guilt; the nightmares of the poor souls lost to the world. Their blood spilling from reality, forever staining my hands in my failed attempt to forget by drowning myself in alcohol and morphling.

Every night, I awake in sweats. The knife clutched to my hands threatening the empty air above me as I relive my time in the Games. Wounded and confused, I would lay my head down upon my tattered sheets and weep into them, wishing my tears would wash away my memories. Though I would never admit it to anyone, I am a walking tragedy.

After I had leaked every miserable drop of water from my ducts, I would take another bottle and climb my way through my house in Victors Village, a house far too large for an individual like me, towards the bathroom. There I drink until I am too oblivious to the world and pass out into the tub.

I had picked that place in the beginning as I hadn’t wished to soil the rest of the house with my waste and filth. Though after a while I hadn’t cared, and soon the rest of the place had become a toxic hazard. I only still go to that bathroom out of habit, accustomed to its smooth, cold surfaces and its still, damp air.

As anyone from our District can see, I am beyond caring. As far as I believe, these children are better off dead. Of course, they don’t know that now, but if we ever meet in the afterlife – if such things are true – then they will appreciate what I have gone through and just how lucky they truly are. Still, one can only pray that life be ever so simple.

Crowds, on the outskirts of the square, part for me as I make my way up to the podium. I hear their murmurs at my tardiness, sighs at my demeanor, even out right laughter as if they are welcoming an old friend. Perhaps I was to some. They were all once my friends, until the 50th Annual Hunger Games.

Pair of blue eyes catch mine; a connection of loss runs between us. Poor Jenny Everdeen - or Jenny Parker as she was once known as – has lost plenty, though not nearly as much as me. Her husband and her best friend, gone, one might as well have been to my own hand. I could have – should have prevented it. Maysillee, my dearest comrade, deserved her life far more than I ever did.

She smiles a sad smile, before turning her anxious gaze back towards the pens which keep the children at bay. That’s right; both of her children are entered this year. It is highly unlikely that the younger one is chosen, though we all know the odds are never in our own favor. It’s the older one, the brunette that she’s casting her eyes to. Knowing her, the child has quite a few entries this year.

It was a funny thing, really. Jenny only ever awakens from her deep depression on days that suit her so. I’m sure that if she was rich, she would be heavily relying on the drink as much as I.

I don’t worry, however, as I unsteadily sway up onto the podium. My vision blurs again, the stage a solid wave of metal. I yell something at the top of my lungs as I stumble over nothing, even I don’t understand what I say. I drop heavily into my seat, my limbs looped over the chair in an awkward pose. In the distance, I can hear a faint hum, an applause it is. Ah, they must be thinking, look at Haymitch, being himself as usual.

A wave of repulsion takes me, my stomach curling in on its self as I sicken. I lurch from my sprawled position and latch onto the closest thing in range for balance: Effie Trinket.

She lets out an ear-throbbing squeal into my ear while her hands softly defend herself with a slender whack on the chest. I can barely feel it, though in my drunken state I completely lose my balance and I tumble off the seat, landing with a dull thud on my side. Ouch.

I rub my side as I slowly rise to my feet, using the chair as support. As I do, I noticed that the Mayor has desperately tried to take control of the audiences by introducing Effie to the crowds. His voice is panicked as he realized that I had just made 12 the laughing stock of Panem. I shake it off, not caring as I stooped back on the chair, my world once again blurring.

“Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” The high pitched voice rings out through the speakers surrounding the square. I mentally groan and push my hand through my hair; I hated that saying, and the witch says it every year.

I look up at her, intending to burn holes in the back of her head but I instead break out into a smile. Who is she fooling? Certainty not me. Even in my neglected state, I can still see through the superficial illusions of the Capitol.

Her pink curls – which look they had already been digested by a mutt– are slightly off center, favoring the right to the left. She had always dyed her hair different colors to match her costume, and every year she had it dramatically curled in the Capitol way of theirs.

I always knew it was a wig.