Chapter Text
It was a few weeks into spring. The songbirds call out once more and mice scurry around in the piles of god-knows-what on the corners of my floor. Hazelle had done a good job cleaning the years of filth and grime buildup on practically every surface of my house, but old habits die hard I guess. At least the vomit landed on a shiny and clean floor this time.
The wooden panels nailed to my windows had been ripped from their places by Hazelle. When I first found out, waking up from my regular drunken stupor at 2 in the afternoon, I had raged. Threw a few bottles at the wall, stomped around and screamed like an angry toddler until I passed out again. Any time I would attempt to nail new planks to the windows, they would be gone the next day. Apparently natural light would help, she told me. Hasn’t done a damn thing as far as I’m concerned.
So, a golden beam of sunlight stings my closed eyes as I shift around in my bed. I grunt, another splitting headache throbbing throughout my temple, and I move my hands to rub my eyes. It had been around 3 months since the end of the rebellion. Since both presidents had been killed. I had only been back at my home in Victor’s Village for a few weeks, and the most I’ve done was fetch my boxes of liquor from the incoming train from the capitol. By the time I came back, I emptied a whole bottle of rotgut and passed right out on the porch from the workout. I guess Peeta saw it from his house besides mine, and now I am forced every Wednesday morning to go on a run with him. He tells me it “clears his mind”, but if anything it makes my mind worse. Even though he was starved and tortured for weeks by the Capitol, the kid’s heart is in way better shape than me and always ends up miles ahead. I tried sneaking away once— slipping into an alley to catch my breath. A few minutes later the boy came back around, grabbed my shoulder, and forced me back into running as he ignored my groans of protest. It does a good job of flushing the alcohol out of my system judging by the gallons of water I'm forced to drink, ignoring the buckets of sweat that pour out of me.
Shuffling around under my blankets I swing a leg out and slowly move my body up. A wave of nausea crashes over me and I groan again. Wiping my sweat-coated hair out of my face, I rise out of bed and hobble over to the bathroom, where I vomit into the golden-rimmed toilet . Effie would always get on me about puking into somewhere that at least wouldn't stain, and at first I made sure to exclusively puke in places that would 100% leave a mark. After years of her relentless insisting, I finally gave in somewhat.
I wipe my mouth and wobbly rise up. Looking into the mirror, I take in my appearance. Same as always. Oily face, unkept beard that is really just glorified stubble, hair is a tangled overgrown mess (and also oily), but my eyebags that seemed carved into my face for decades have started to lessen. I hum and turn on the water, splash water onto my face, and call it a day. I walk back out into my bedroom and look out the window. A flash of dusty-gray— no, I think, dove, flashes by. A mourning dove perches on the tree outside my window. It cocks its head at me, judging my disgruntled appearance like a curious child.
“What d’you want?” I mumble, slouched over. The bird tilts its head again. Another dove joins it on the branch, and looks at me as well. They coo at me, or rather something behind me. I turn around and somehow a dove sits on my cluttered dresser. I scrunch my eyebrows and shake my head.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I walk over to the dresser, but the bird does not move. It stares at me just like the birds outside. It coos and I feel her. I take a deep breath and rub the back of my neck as I look down. Her sun-marked hand touches my shoulder and I smile. Lenore Dove’s hand rubs my shoulder soothingly.
“You should visit them today.” I turn my head to her. The corners of her mouth are creased, less than mine but still symbolizing her age. Her graying wild hair has a few braids in it, ended in wooden hand-carved colorful beads. In my dream last night I braided her hair, and they stuck with her apparition today.
I’ve been seeing hallucinations of my friends, family, tributes, and my love for years now. Sometimes they remain the same age they died, but sometimes they age with me. Today, Lenore Dove is my age. But she definitely wears it better than me.
“Visit who?” I ask, taking in her warmth. She smiles at me like it’s obvious.
“Your neighbors. I think you’ll like what happens today.” She says, but her voice dies as she fades into nothing. I sigh as my arms fall to my sides. Lenore Dove always leaves the fastest, just like the last time I saw her.
I stand there for a few minutes, taking in the grooves of the wooden panelling. Guess I’m visiting Katniss and Peeta today. I rub my hand on my face in thought. What could possibly be so intriguing that could happen today? I sigh, staring at the ceiling now. I need a drink.
I search through my drawers, nothing. I stumble downstairs and almost fall, but there's nothing in the cabinets of the kitchen nor the numerous boxes, openings, desks, or any other hole a bottle or flask might be stashed in. Every empty pull of a drawer ticks me off more and more. By the time I searched the last place (a dirty box in the couch), there’s practically steam coming out of my ears. I grab the closest object to me, a chrome vase that somehow hasn’t been smashed yet, and pelt it at the wall and yell. I look around again, thinking that perhaps a shiny bottle of vodka just so happened to magically form on my counter, but there is nothing but scattered books and other knick-knacks.
“Shit.” I rub my temples as I mumble. Maybe Katniss has a bottle stored away for some hunting reason. I walk with heavy steps to the front door, slide on some old shoes, and head out to the girl’s house. The sun blinds me again for a moment, but I harshly blink it away. Damn sun always screws me up. I trudge forward blindly for a moment, until I can see again. Stumbling up her porch steps, I drum my hand against her door. I hear talking inside, and assume that Peeta’s here too. Good. Maybe he has some if she doesn’t.
Katniss opens the door slightly, her eyes narrowing at my presence.
“What’re you doing up so early?” She asks with an accusational tone.
“Well, maybe I just wanted to say good morning,” I responded, eyebrows lifting and lips pursing.
We stand there for a few beats. She blinks at me.
“Alright fine, sweetheart. Have any refreshments?” I say, my voice turning blunt. Katniss rolls her eyes at me and begins to close the door.
“Okay, okay, wait!” I hurriedly slam my foot into the crevice of the door.
“Maybe,” I start, unsure what to say for her to let me in, “maybe…I would like to..talk.” I add, gesturing to nothing with my hands. Katniss just stares at me, a little dumbfounded.
“You, want to talk.” She repeats, her face contouring as if I said the stupidest thing ever. And honestly, it does sound a little stupid.
“Yes. Yes I…would love to tell you. What I have to say. Inside, preferably.” I lean my hand on the doorframe, trying to look at least a little serious. Katniss continues to stare at me and I can practically hear the gears churning in her head when I hear Peeta call from inside.
“Haymitch?” he says, walking up to the door as Katniss pushes it open wider. He has a leather pouch in his hands, and a big leather-bound parchment book lays on the table inside. Fun, some crafting to bond. How lovely. Now, any drinks?
“Hey, kid. Just trying to tell Katniss here that I would greatly appreciate her company. If she would let me inside.” I say in a mocking tone. Katniss glares at me, clearly not finding me funny. Peeta smiles slightly, probably figuring me out already.
“Well, I think it should be fine.” Peeta says, looking at Katniss. “Me and Katniss are making something, maybe you’d like to help?” Peeta gestures to the book on the table. Katniss bites the inside of her cheek, her face reading that she would very much not like to. I laugh a bit to myself at the look on her face.
“I would love to.” I force my way inside past Katniss, and immediately to her kitchen. The book lays on the dinner table just beside the counter, so it seems normal. I glance at the book, noting that around maybe 2 pages had been filled already.
“What’s this book about? Some art project?” I walk over and open the cover, and my jokes fall flat. I grow silent as I stare at the picture of Primrose, an innocent smile displayed on her face. It was before the 74th games, and she didn’t yet have the air of maturity that she did in 13. Peeta falls beside me as he sets the leather pouch next to the book. Katniss is next to him.
“It’s a memory book.” Peeta begins. “Katniss will write down things about them, and if there aren’t any pictures, then I’ll draw them.” He says solemnly, and my hand caresses the corner of the page. There are drawings of Prim on both pages, of Lady licking her cheek, her in her medic uniform, and her as a toddler. Katniss’ handwriting appears in the center, and next to the drawings and picture. Little bits of detail about her younger sister that she doesn’t want to forget. I can see Sid’s silver eyes gazing up into the stars. I bite the inside of my lower lip and look at Peeta.
“It’s a good idea.” I mumble. Hell, my own life is just memories. Ghosts of my past appear everywhere around me. Constantly, I remember. No, I don’t want anything to do with this book.
Peeta closes the book, and picks it up. He grabs the leather pouch and looks towards Katniss.
“We’re going to work on it now. Do you…” Peeta stalls, unsure if he can ask. I look away and shake my head.
“Nah. You two have enough memories to share. I’ll be down here.” I say, picking at the table. Katniss stays behind a little longer while Peeta nods and turns away, making his way upstairs. I look over at her, her face scrunched together and eyebrows knitted.
“You,” she sighs, fidgeting with her hands, “...can talk to us.” Katniss stares at him, her eyes honest. I grind my teeth as I look at her. That little girl, with her hair pulled into two braids at the Hob with her father, has matured. I let out a sad smile and pull her into a hug.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” I admit back. Katniss stands for a moment, her hands glued to her sides, before she rises them and holds me back. I smooth her hair down and pull away after a moment with my hands on her shoulders. No, she’s still there. I have to remind myself that she is only 17.
“You can talk to me too, y’know.” I add on quietly, noting the stinging wetness at the back of my eyes. Not today, I think. Katniss nods, and quickly leaves to join Peeta upstairs. Never the one to stay emotionally exposed for long. I sigh and drag my hand over my eyes until the stinging is gone.
“Not off to such a great start, Lenore Dove.” I say to the empty space to my right. I stand there for a few more moments before I begin scrounging around for some relief. After a few opened drawers and cabinets, I find a bottle of red wine. Maybe for cooking, I guess. Uncorking the bottle using a knife, I kindly throw the cork into the trash and not the floor, and lift the bottle to my mouth. Not always my choice of drink, but any alcohol is better than none.
I walk around to the dining room, and look out the window. Taking a swig of the wine I notice the same three doves outside perched on another branch. I scoff, wondering how interesting my life must be for these doves to follow me. Or maybe how boring there's must be. I roll my eyes, taking another sip as I walk past the stairs. I hear the two talking upstairs and since I have nothing better to do, I pause and listen. Peeta’s voice rings out first.
“...him. Not very well, but he talked about him sometimes.”
“Really?” Katniss’ voice answered.
“Yeah. I guess he helped him out sometimes.” Peeta paused. I wondered who they were talking about.
“He…no…that’s not right…” Peeta mumbled and I could hear the hints of aggravation and confusion fill his voice. Another hijacked memory. I lean back on the wall, sipping the acidic juice. After a few moments, Peeta resumed.
“Your father knew mine when they were our age. Real or not real?” Peeta asked quietly. I took the long pause afterwards as her answer. Katniss doesn’t know. But I do.
Before I know it, I'm at the doorway of the room they sit in. Katniss looks over at me where they sit, a crease between her brows as she looks for the answer in her memories. I answer for her.
“Real. We all knew each other.” I say, gripping the bottle in my hand harder. Peeta looked at me then; his eyes shrink slightly from their previous enlarged state.
“You knew my dad?” He asks, curiosity piqued. Katniss looks intrigued too, her eyebrows raising.
“‘Course I did. Otho was in our grade. Didn’t know him as well as Burdock, though.” I respond honestly. I can feel the warm hug of the wine sitting in my stomach, its effects slowly spreading throughout my body. Katniss looked back down to the page, her expression unreadable.
“He never told me.” She murmured, hands held in her lap. Makes sense. I was an asshole to him after the game. I had no other choice. Guilt seeps into the same pit the wine takes up in my stomach.
“Had a good reason not to.” I reply solemnly.
“You were close, then?” Peeta asks.
Suddenly I realize what I’m doing. I don’t want to carry these memories onto them. I can’t tell them, can’t tell them or else they will be taken from me too. I feel myself begin to panic, and I take another long swing of the wine. Cold sweat trickles down my back, my heart drums painfully in my chest, throughout my temples, and in my eyes and I need to leave. Can’t have my last family killed. Katniss, the last memory I have of Burdock. Of Louella. I can see them here. Burdock on the pages of the memory book, Louella laughing at something. Somethin’ funny? No, she’s laughing at me. I couldn’t save her, and she’s laughing at me. It’s my fault. Maysilee stands by the window, her arms crossed. Blood pours from the piercing wound on her neck, her eyes scowl at me just like Katniss does. Wyatt sits by Louella. He stares at me too, bruises decorating his face and blood is painted across his body. Lou Lou holds hands with Louella. She’s laughing too. Sid—Ma, they’re behind me now. I can hear their screams for help. I couldn’t save them. Ampert, Wellie, I couldn’t save anyone. But I need to save Katniss and Peeta, I need—
A mourning dove lands on the open window in the room. My breath comes in shallow gasps as I stare at it. I see Katniss standing, asking me something. It’s all blurry in comparison to the songbird. A soft coo comes from its downy neck. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and I can feel her; I feel her radiating warmth and smile. Her hands dashed with flecks of orange paint, the paint she used to paint her rebellious posters on the walls in town. Her songs, her laugh, I can hear her tune box in the wind as it gently lulls into the house. I see her dappled green eyes shine in the sunlight, and I know I am safe. Snow can’t hurt me anymore, can’t hurt my loved ones. None of them can. I can tell them.
“Haymitch? Are you okay?” Katniss asks, her hands now on my shoulders. Peeta looks between them, blue eyes filled with concern. I wipe the clammy sweat from my brow, and nod shakily.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” I say, setting the bottle of wine aside as I sit on the floor, finally taking in Burdock’s page. A black-and-white picture is glued to a side of the parchment, Burdock smirks in it. I smile back. Katniss had began to write little memories of hers. Peeta has a scrap piece of paper in front of him, with the beginnings of a drawing on it. Burdock singing, seems like.
“I met Burdie when I was eight years old. He was seven, just a year younger than me.” I begin, my voice unwavering now. Katniss and Peeta both watch as I tell them the story of how we met.
It was late July. I had been 8 for only a few weeks, but Pa had given me a special gift. It was rare when me or Sid got gifts, he and Ma couldn’t afford much for a present, but he had given me my very own knife. It was small, a little dirty, but I couldn’t have been happier. Ma was nervous, she didn’t want me to get hurt or worse—hurt somebody else. I was messing around with the knife when I heard the explosion. It wasn’t the strongest one, but I could feel it below my feet. I knew something had happened in the mines. Was sure of it. A deep pit of knowingness sunk deep into my stomach that day. Confirmed when I heard my mother let out a strangled sob after a Peacekeeper came to our door. I grabbed Sid’s hand, only 2 years old, and pulled him in for a hug. My skinny body shook with silent tears. I had to be strong for Sid, for Ma. I was now the man of the house.
Ma would scrub, scrub, and scrub away at the laundry she had piled up. Rubbing so hard that holes would be ripped into them again. Reminded me of my little sisters. She made bean and ham-hock soup for dinner. I put Sid to bed, but there was little chance of me sleeping that night. When Ma’s quiet sobs stopped, and the candle had been blown out from her room, I slipped on my shoes made from deer leather. Ma had traded the leather from a man in town. I grabbed my knife, and quietly snuck out of me and Sid’s window.
I ran like hell. When I got far enough away from home, I let my screams run out until my throat was scratchy and dry. Snot ran like rabbits from my nose; drool dripping from my chin as it joined my tears. I finally fell to my knees in a clearing next to a tree. I sobbed, crumpled onto the ground and ripped pieces of grass from the dirt. I screamed for Pa, for Mamaw. My knees now bled from the cuts I gained from falling. I switched from pulling at the grass, to pulling at my curls. I screamed while biting my lips.
I didn’t know how long it had been, but a boy had crawled down from the tree. I jolted up at the sight of his foot; I didn’t hear a single noise come from him when he climbed down. I clumsily reached for my knife.
“Your dad too?” He whispered, his voice quiet but as clear as the morning sky.
I looked at his face. Snot ran from his nose too. His eyes were swollen from the tears, a lone one crept down his cheek just now. My bottom lip wobbles. I nod.
He fidgets with his hands. His feet are bare, and It looked like he ran out in his pajamas too. I recognized him from school. Didn’t talk much, but I knew he liked to sing.
“M’names Burdock.” He mumbled. His voice was sore from crying too. I slowly stood up.
“Haymitch.” I croaked.
From then on, we would meet under that tree every night. We would talk about random things. Our dads, who turned out to be friends. A fight that happened at school. A song he heard from his mother or one of his numerous cousins. We then would meet at school. Sleepovers, going out for food at the Hob, and meeting each other's family. We were inseparable. Burdie showed me the woods, which showed me my Lenore Dove. I guess he cursed me in a sense. I remember his clear voice in the forest, the way his songs could pause all life while they watch. As if they were his audience. I remember a night he and Lenore Dove sang together. Me and Blair watched as Burdie sang his heart out, while Lenore Dove played a wicked melody on her tune box. The geese watched, honking along too. Me and Blair sang along as well, though we both sounded like a pair of dying goats. We all laughed at one another.
Peeta and Katniss ask questions about him. His favorite subject in school, and me and Katniss both answered at the same time: not math. She smiled and I laughed. But, Katniss’ brows furrow. I know what she wants to ask.
“Why did he never tell me?” She asks gravely. I rub my temple, the headache splitting my skull even further.
“It was for his safety. Snow would have killed him.” I mumble. I’m not quite ready to open up to that level, I guess. But It feels as if a little weight had been lifted off my chest. Looking at the book, I see Katniss had written my memories all down. Peeta finished the sketch of the Burdock singing, and was now drawing a goat belting. I smile again.
“He showed me her grave.” I add, my smile thinning to a line. I can feel puke stirring in my stomach, where the guilt and wine mixed together to make a nice smoothie. I grunt and rise, stumbling over to the bathroom where I vomit up stomach acid and wine. Well, it was nice while it lasted, I suppose. I can hear the two kids murmuring about my reminiscing. Questioning what I meant by “her grave”. Shit. I don't want to go into that right now. I clumsily rise up from my place by the silver-rimmed toilet (guess the Capitol loved their fancy toilets), and I walk past them. I grab the bottle of wine, take a swing, and sigh.
“Thanks for the juice, dear!” I try to lighten the mood by mimicking Effie. Joke lands very badly, judging by Peeta’s concerned face and Katniss’ unreadable gaze. I grunt, stumble down the steps, and grab a cheese bun on the counter. A dove joins me for my walk back home, and I smile a bit to myself. Maybe Lenore Dove was right.