Haymitch's Love: The Untold Story

Chapter 8

Haymitch: The Interview

Haymitch forces himself into even breaths. He can't go out looking anxious. That would just ruin the entire point. He and Rockwell, his mentor, have decided that his image for the interview is to be a mix of arrogance and confidence. He is on strict orders to appear superior to all in order to win over the hearts of enthusiastic sponsors.

He wipes the cold sweat from his palms onto the velvety fabric of his suit while his eyes wander to the stage where Maysilee currently sits in a dark and sparkly dress, chatting awkwardly to an enthusiastic Caesar Flickerman about her strengths and weaknesses. That won't do. Not at all appealing to the sponsors... A twinge of guilt plays at the back of his mind just like every time he is forced to look at her. Haymitch intends to win, but doing so would mean accepting her death, something he can't help but feel hesitant to do.

And as a sharp buzzing slices the air, signifying the end of Maysilee's time, Haymitch prepares his face in imitation of a scowl. A scowl already so well-known, so loved by the hundreds of Capitol fans. Fans that thirst for your bloodshed, he must remind himself constantly.

'Now, I know you've all been waiting anxiously for this one.' Caesar side-grins knowingly, mauve eyebrows in high arches.

'Give a hand for Haymitch Abernathy of District Twelve!'

The audience erupts into a thundering euphoria that pounds hard in his ears as he walks up to the stage with unfaltering footsteps, pausing only to yawn pointedly. It takes longer than the other tributes for the crowd to calm down. His clammy hand is shaken by Caesar while the audience expresses their joy through maniacal hollering. He crosses a leg and slouches into his seat, spreading his arms over the top, trying to appear comfortable. An unnecessary spotlight flashes directly in his face, completely obscuring his vision.

'So! Haymitch! How're you feeling? Strapping guy like you, I'm guessing that your not nervous?' Caesar grins widely, his blindingly white teeth glinting like diamonds.

Haymitch answers without hesitation. 'Quite frankly, I'm feeling kind of bored.'

The audience bursts into rapturous laughter while Haymitch doesn't go as far as even raising an eyebrow.

'Bored?' Caesar repeats, a look of humorously exaggerated shock painted to his face, enhancing each surgically altered feature. 'Well that's definitely a first!'

'Now tell us about that high training score! A ten certainly is promising!'

Haymitch had demonstrated to the Gamemakers his ability of complete focus and precision as he hit the centre of a target time after time with his favoured weapon, a knife.

'And unlike the others, I barely even had to try.' He says, smirking ever so slightly.

Right on cue, the audience ecstatically hollers at his response, their laughter ringing in his ears.

'Well Haymitch, you know that I admire confidence. But doesn't it make you nervous knowing that there are twice as many tributes than usual?'

And this will be the cherry on top, his ticket to unlimited sponsors.

'I don't see what difference it makes. I mean, they're still going to be just as stupid as usual.'

And that breaks the Capitol. They're uncontrollable cackles bounce off the walls, forcing him to think of the wild hooting of monkeys. He allows them to catch a glimpse of a superior smirk, his eyes glinting with mischief. The buzzer sounds and he hears them all whispering excitedly to one another.

'Well Haymitch, it's been... interesting.' The Capitol chuckles pointedly. 'All the best and may the odds be ever in your favor!' Caesar pats him on the back.

The audience howls with the most cheers and applause of the night. As he leaves, he turns to wink, causing jubilee from countless women. It is hard to suppress the grin threatening to stretch between his cheeks. And this time, it's not even forced.

................

The elevator ride back to their floor is quite awkward. He is wedged in-between the two other District Twelve tributes, both seam children whom he has taken no effort to get to know. They shoot him glares, not bothering to hide their jealousy of his victorious interview. As for Maysilee, her presence is unknown. After her own interview she mysteriously disappeared.

When they arrive to their floor, Haymitch waits until the other two slip into their rooms, then hurries down the hall and up a flight of narrow steps, finally emerging onto a sort of roof balcony. Immediately, gentle gusts of cool air blow across his sweating face and the soft tinkling of chimes calms his nerves. Every night, he has secretly been coming up here to think in solitude. As he moves toward the edge of the rooftop, where a quaint flower garden grows, he notices a hunched silhouette looking out at the Capitol horizon. He moves forward and hears sniffling.

And without even glancing, he slips down beside her and stares to the flashing city lights. He can feel her tearful eyes on him, though he knows better than to reassure her. Maysilee is almost certain to die and there is no way in the world he can change that fact. There is no use in telling her false words of comfort. The only thing he can do is sit here and be with her. Perhaps his mere presence will give her courage.

For a few moments they sit in silence, listening to the muffled honks and shouts of the Capitol city below. And then she speaks in a shaky voice.

'You're going to win, you know that, Haymitch?'

He doesn't respond.

'The others don't stand a chance against you,' she says. There is a pause, then she adds, 'I don't stand a chance against you.'

And he can't help but look up at her. Their eyes meet for the first time in a week and she stares into them hungrily. Her eyes, glassy with tears, are dull and grey just like his, although they lack the bright determination withheld in his own. Her lips, still smudged with bright Capitol lipstick, slowly form a sad smile. And that is when Haymitch experiences his first moment of weakness. Her expression tugs at his heart and he suddenly is overcome with emotions of pity. None of this is fair. She shouldn't be forced to fight, to die. None of them should.

For a moment, he thinks of hugging her. Keeping her safe for at least these last precious moments of life. And he almost does. But the tiny voice in the back of his mind hisses, weak. He stares at her, trying to think of some way to comfort her, but nothing comes to him.

Instead, he forces his expression to harden and slowly walks away without even a backward glance at the hurt look on her face.