I DO NOT own the characters, plot, setting, etc. As much as I wish I did. It's all Suzanne Collins.

When I wake up, my head pounds incessantly and I groan involuntarily as I try to determine where I am. As I open a bleary eye I'm able to establish that I'm still in my house in Victor's Village at the kitchen table with my knife securely in one hand and a bottle of spirits in the other. I also conclude that the pounding isn't inside my head. It's coming from the front door, and that can only mean one thing.

"Hurry up Haymitch. You're late and it'd be a shame for me to have to knock down the door and drag you out by your feet," one of the Peacekeepers calls at the top of his lungs. I stand up, take a swig of liquid courage to help straighten me out, and work my way towards the door on unsteady feet.

"Yes?" I ask as I open the door to see two annoyed-looking Peacekeepers staring me down.

"We've come to escort you to the Reaping," Cray says as formally as he can, but I can see he's cracking a smile in spite of himself. Those words are the Capitol speaking, and Cray just doesn't seem to be up to the formal delivery. He's never taken his job as seriously as he should.

"Oh, it's that time of year is it?" I say with a sniff, as though I've completely forgotten the date. I might be drunk as a skunk but I've discovered that no amount of booze is going to erase the day of the Reaping from my brain. As nice as that would be. "Right, well, escort away," I reply sardonically, taking another swig from my bottle as I stagger out the door.

They wrap their arms around mine, more for support than restraint. It's a good thing, too, since I don't think I'd make it to the square without them. There's no conversation as we work our way through the streets. My head is so fuzzy I don't think I'm up to it anyway, and I end up staring at the dirt and trying to block out the unpleasant thoughts about what today will bring.

Next thing I know Cray is pushing me toward the stage, but not before taking away my bottle. I want to turn around and wrestle it back from him. My body, on the other hand, seems to have already decided it is going forward and doesn't seem capable of going back the way it came. I settle for hollering at Cray as loudly as possible to give me my damn bottle back, the bastard, but the words come out slurred and I can tell I don't make much sense. By the look on his face he knows perfectly well what I'm on about, but he doesn't look like he's about to give it back.

I collapse on the first chair I come to on the stage, not really able to muster up the coordination to do much else. A haze sets around my mind as the crowd applauds and I spot Effie beside me. I make an impulsive move towards her to hug her. I'm not sure if I'm doing it because I haven't seen her for awhile or doing it because I think it'll stop her from drawing names out of the big glass bowls if I'm restraining her, but she fends it off as she moves toward the microphone.

"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favour!" My head throbs painfully at the cheer in her tone. I cross my arms and stare at my knees, teetering dangerously on the chair as Effie moves toward the two glass balls full of children's names. I don't want to look. I won't look. I know what's going to happen, and I know that staring at my knees like a sullen child won't change what's about to happen, but I'm not being rational. After watching well over 40 kids being slaughtered because I sucked as a mentor and they sucked as tributes, I think I'm entitled to be irrational.

"Ladies first!" In spite of my inebriation my stomach clenches uncomfortably as Effie's hand lowers itself into the glass bowl and I look up, sweeping the crowed for Cray so I can glare at him for taking my bottle. I wanted to be drunk enough by now that I would have no memory of the day's events. Damn Cray. He couldn't leave well enough alone.

"Primrose Everdeen." In spite of myself, I shift my eyes to the pretty little girl in the crowd, whose name has just been called. It's always easy to find the kid whose name's been picked; the crowd backs away like she's a Pariah and she stands alone in the center.

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