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once they were at her house, she brought together everything for dealing with haymitch's hand. she hated doing this, but it was necessary. as she cleaned the cut, she listened carefully. "do you want my advice on this? i mean, i'm sure you can ask peeta about this."
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overall, for her, loving someone was not worth the price of losing them. that was her core belief when it came to love and deeply important to understand why she was so bad with relationships and yet someone desperately starving for love: she was wrong. [...]
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their relationship was complicated, but grounded— deep. they’d lived through every phase of each other’s lives and found an understanding; a love he didn’t believe he would feel again. coming from two different sides though wasn’t easy. she struggled to understand his view,
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"what happened between you and effie?" she finally asked, closely paying attention to him. their relationship always seemed too weird to understand.
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"no, haymitch. we're doing this. i know you're not fine and i want to keep an eye on you" she replied back almost immediately. both of them knew once she made a decision, things weren't open for debate. her hand grabbed his again and now he had no choice. [...]
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a knife had indeed caused his wound. by his own hand too. 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. cutting a slice of bread and slipping, sharp metal piercing flesh. he had let cold water run over it, but ended up outside— numbed by strong alcohol.
tired blue optics glared at the ground,
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a dark, yet very real possibility came to her mind. could he have done this to himself? she had considered doing it several times. why couldn't he? "come on. i have some bandages at home" was all katniss could say at first. "it'll probably need a few stitches, too"
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"i see how that's going" she replied, a harsh expression at first, then a sigh. she couldn't really leave him. taking a quiet look at his hand, whoever did this knew what they were doing and were skilled enough with a blade to do it. [...]
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there was nothing. only the argument at the train station— insults, accusations thrown at each other’s heads. he didn’t want to fight with her, but she left because of 𝐡𝐢𝐦. it was his fault. glancing at the crimson dripping from his hand, a clean cut.
“very sure,” he
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standing again with him, holding his hand so he wouldn't fall on the ground. something still seemed off-putting in her head. "are you sure? what about your hand? haymitch, i need you to be honest with me" she warned him, as she was starting to lose temper.
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his last memory: blurred, clouded by alcohol— trains, rain, pink skirt. oh, he remembered. and he wished he hadn’t. nonetheless, he couldn’t explain how he ended up sleeping on his front porch. the whiskey must’ve been too rough on him.
brushing his wet straight hair
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"what's the last memory you have? we had dinner last night. do you remember that? you seemed sober." she explained, helping him sit on the grass. "this morning, around six, i went to the woods, but you weren't here. now that i'm back, you are. i thought you were home."
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both blue eyes widened, stared at her in pure horror as his body rose to sit, taking in his surroundings: wet grass, chirping birds, blue sky. his front yard. his head pounded in waves, hand pressed against his temple.
“what the fuck— how’d I get here ? ugh, ma head. I can’t
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"bed? what bed, haymitch?" she asks, stealing his bottle in order to stop his drinking. at least today. "you're on your yard. we're in the grass. your hand is covered in blood and your face is bruised. can you tell me anything about last night?"
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so i suppose poisoning myself with them at my wedding while they watch it wouldn't be a good idea. at least i would be leaving this nightmare forever.
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@dcwnthesea ͏ ͏ ͏
"breast surgery" she replies, a nod in disbelief. maybe it was better to die in the games. merciful. "why, though? i'm still a teenager. it's disgusting. it's outrageous!"
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