Chapter Text
I was nearly nineteen the day I was reaped. Two days away, to be exact. I had little in my life – perhaps none at all – since my father died in a mining incident and my mother passed away not long after when I was only ten. They say my ma died from the stress of it all, from a broken heart. I was left our house, a small hut on the Seam with little but clothes and a singular photo of my parents. I traded their clothes for food and money, and took up a job as a midwife and picked up what little jobs were available. I had no siblings, no relatives. I hunted in the forest for food and plants I could eat, secretly trading in the Hob. I had nothing to live for, especially. So when my name was boomed into the microphone at the sixty-second reaping, I knew I didn’t have anything to lose, no one I cared about seeing me as a murderer. I had grown accustomed to death, and how to survive.
My ears rang when I walked up to the stage, gripping the hand of Effie Trinket and hearing the sighs of relief around the district that their families were safe, that no one of excessive importance was about to be lost. I caught Hazel’s eyes as she stared in disbelief, my employer and the closest thing I had to family. The boy’s name was read out, Aspen. I remember delivering his younger sister and tending to her mother as she almost died. He had thanked me, his small eleven year old voice quiet in the loud silence of their home. I can’t stand to look at him, knowing what comes next. We shake hands, and I stare vaguely off to the side of him.
Next thing I know we’re rushed into the Justice building, into a large, dark room, about the size of my whole house. I only have Hazel to say goodbye to, and the only thing she does is hug me and say, “Well who am I going to have trade hunts for my liquor now?” For some reason, I can’t seem to get any words out my mouth, so I hug her tighter instead. For the only time until the games, I cry a little. She releases me and shuffles out, her gait slowing her. I sit silently in the room, my hands tightly clenched together and my forehead resting on them. I try to picture my parents’ smile and my ma’s caring touch. For a moment, I think I can feel her hand stroking my head, distantly humming a tune, and my pa’s lingering scent of coal-dust. What feels like hours pass before the peacekeeper snatches me away. I wipe the tears from my face and get to the train.
The train is unlike anything I have ever seen. It’s so clean, and the flowers are neatly arranged and tidy, unlike the unruly meadow by my house. I stare at the expansive trays of food in front of me, long enough for Effie’s long, green nails brush my shoulder and tells me to take some in her thick Capitol accent: 'It’s all for you, dears'. I vigorously load my plate up, sit down at the table and start scoffing. I’ve never seen this much food at one time before, not even when I hunt for a full day in the woods. As I’m mid-mouthful – pointedly not looking at Effie’s semi-disgusted face – I hear the cabin doors hiss open. Our mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, clumsily stomps in and heads straight for the bar. I watch in curiosity as he takes some white liquor and goes back to the door before Effie stops him with a mesh-green gloved hand, quietly ushering him to talk to Aspen and I. He begrudgingly sits down at the table, limbs stretched out around him. I’ve seen Haymitch around before, heard the things people say about him – 'He’ll drink himself to death one day'; 'you smell almost as bad as Haymitch!' 'I was there at his ma and brother’s funeral, poor soul' – one time, as a joke since I was new, Hazel sent me over to his house to offer to clean. When I got there, he slammed the door in my face and told me to get the hell away. I do remember, though, the time when he was in the meadow. I had just gotten off work and saw him in the meadow – topless – with a bottle in his hand, knee down and back hunched over the grass. I didn’t approach him, and hid from the windows until he was gone at dawn. I almost pity him, until he looks into his drink and tells us to accept our deaths before they’ve even happened.
“Seriously?” I say, staring him down. I’m not afraid of him any more than I’m afraid of a stray dog. “You’re our only mentor, and that’s all you’ve got to give?”
“What do you want me to say? Congrats, you’re about to die?” He stares at me with blank, sunken eyes. “You’re not going to have me in there, sweetheart. The sooner you accept there’s nothing I can do to save you in that arena, the better.”
“We’re not helpless, you know. You don’t even know who we are.”
“Good. Since you’re not helpless you won’t need mine, then.” I can feel my anger start to rise, and I can feel Aspen’s fear rushing off him in waves.
“Fine.” I push my chair out and walk out of the carriage to my designated room. I hear the door hiss behind me.
My room is unlike anything I’ve seen before. There are clothes, some silk and rich and others smooth and plain. I decide to use the shower first, to try and wash my anger off me. The buttons are confusing and I spend agonising minutes trying to find the right temperature. Eventually I step in, letting the scalding hot water rush over me. I breathe in and out, feeling my anger starting to subside. I’ll have enough anger in the arena, I decide, no use using it all up now. I pair a loose fitting black long-sleeve shirt and some cargo black trousers. After my hair is dry – I spend several minutes trying to work out the fancy Capitol machines – I step out into the hall, checking to see if anyone is close. No one is, so I explore the train, seeing if there’s anything useful I can use to help me in the games, since Haymitch seems to be a lost cause. I tuck my wavy brown hair behind my ears, shoving the wisps away from my eye-line. There are no books, which I half expected, but I pick up some small knives from a carriage that seem designated for tea and cake. I go back to my room and practice targeting them at small things, like the hair products provided for me. After many goes, I finally find the right groove and try aiming at them from different distances. After about an hour or so, Effie knocks on my door.
“Luna, dinner is ser- my goodness! What have you done to these? These are fine Capitol products, you know!” She shrills. I quickly step in front of the spilled products with a grimace on my face. I never stopped to think about the consequences of having someone from the Capitol against me, let alone my escort.
“Sorry, Effie. I was just-”
“Oh, nevermind. Come on, before your feast gets cold.” She hurries me to the food carriage. Luckily, Haymitch is nowhere to be found. When Effie notices my stare at his empty place, she says that he eats in his room. Judging by his smell, I’m not surprised.
Despite Effie’s attempt to get me to talk, she gives up very quickly and tries to elicit more than a one word sentence out of Aspen, without much luck. My mind blurs through dinner, and I focus on the food in front of me, distracting myself from creeping thoughts of home. I didn’t have much, but I can already feel my mind reaching for the feel of my body in the meadow, my ears grasping for sounds of the birds and trees rustling in the wind and my nose clinging onto the earthy smell of my home. When it’s time for bed, I toss and turn, the sound of the train too loud for me to sleep. Having sneaked a few swipes of alcohol meant for patients and the occasional squirrel for a small bottle of white liquor, I knew the only remedy was to drink.
I quietly toed out of my room, hoping the sound of the train was enough to overpower the sound of my door opening and closing. I softly pad down the corridor in my slippers. I reach the bar cart and take some whiskey and a glass. After softly pouring some in the glass I gulp it down in one and refill. The sound of the door opening makes me jump out of my skin and I whirl around to find Haymitch leaning against the door with a smirk on his face, clearly enjoying my shock.
In the soft light of the carriage he seems more gentle, more human. Still smirking, he wonders over and fills his glass.
“You know, aren’t you a bit young for this?” I glare at him, then sigh and stare at the empty carriage.
“Well, you know, faced with a possible – sorry, inevitable – death, why not. Can’t sleep, anyway.”
“Good to see you taking my advice on board,” He says, lifting his glass to his mouth. I scoff and carry my drink to one of the couches, legs hunched on the soft fabric, facing Haymitch when he sits down. He sighs as he sits, head rolling back onto the top of the couch.
“You know I meant what I said,” I softly say, staring at his locks blocking his face, “I’m not helpless. I know I have a chance. I hunt and I know what plants are medicinal, all that.”
Haymitch sighs again and takes his head off the couch, putting his elbows on his knees.
After a few moments of silence, taking that as confirmation that he’s listening, I continue, “I know how it usually goes for twelve, I know this isn’t easy for you. But I don’t really have anyone back home and I’m used to death. I know it’s not gonna be easy, but I’m prepared to do what it takes.” I take a deep breath. “I just need you to give me something. And maybe then you don’t have to lose someone else.”
He’s still silent, I would think he was asleep if it weren’t for the soft exhale of his mouth. He gets up and takes the bottle and his glass with him. Just as I turn away and start to face that I’ll be alone, he turns and says,
“We’ll start with the basics tomorrow. But you have to do what I say. You don’t question it, you just listen.”
Watching the soft amber of the light cross into his eyes, I nod once. He nods and turns away, leaving me in the room alone.
In my room, some minutes later, I feel sleep take over me. I allow it, and I fall asleep with the look in Haymitch’s eyes repeating over and over.