(no subject)
Title: It's not over
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: Haymitch
Prompt: LEAH - Surrounded
Rating: M
Word Count: 415
Written for: Undefined
Dead. They were all dead. Everyone that ever mattered to him was gone, cold and frozen like the mass grave their bodies were thrown in by the Capitol. Hadn't he just done what he was supposed to do? Survive. That was the point wasn't it? To win? If you could even call it winning. Killing others to increase his lifespan by a few hours, or even minutes. Going into the arena he had no great adamancy that he would ever be coming out again; accept of course by hovercraft.
When he'd killed that last tribute he thought it was over. He would go home - to his girlfriend, to his family - and he would attempt the long road back to normal, and he would forget all about the horrors of the arena. But how could he when President Snow had other ideas; ideas that involved the planned torture and slaughter of his whole family? The house was eerily quiet and he felt himself being driven to distraction by their absence.
He was being punished, because even as a victor - even after playing their game and surviving - they had to prove he was still under their control. They had to prove that they could still hurt him. Even after his family was gone, ever after everyone who'd ever been important had been snatched away from him without warning, they could still hurt him.
Now that he was a victor, he'd have to mentor the kids reaped from District 12 in the future. He was the only surviving District 12 victor, so unless there was another - and let's face it they were rare in the first place - this would be his job for the rest of his life. The tributes might be older than him or worse, younger. His age did nothing to shield him from the horrors or the arena, and it would do nothing to shield him from the horrors or watching someone you've come to care about - even just a little - slaughtered again and again and again.
He had to get out of here, he had to separate himself from the hurt. To suffocate the pain that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell to the floor; the splash it made on the tiles seemed monumental. He picked up the bottle and walked out, leaving everything he'd ever loved behind. It wasn't over; it would never be over.
Fandom: The Hunger Games
Characters: Haymitch
Prompt: LEAH - Surrounded
Rating: M
Word Count: 415
Written for: Undefined
Dead. They were all dead. Everyone that ever mattered to him was gone, cold and frozen like the mass grave their bodies were thrown in by the Capitol. Hadn't he just done what he was supposed to do? Survive. That was the point wasn't it? To win? If you could even call it winning. Killing others to increase his lifespan by a few hours, or even minutes. Going into the arena he had no great adamancy that he would ever be coming out again; accept of course by hovercraft.
When he'd killed that last tribute he thought it was over. He would go home - to his girlfriend, to his family - and he would attempt the long road back to normal, and he would forget all about the horrors of the arena. But how could he when President Snow had other ideas; ideas that involved the planned torture and slaughter of his whole family? The house was eerily quiet and he felt himself being driven to distraction by their absence.
He was being punished, because even as a victor - even after playing their game and surviving - they had to prove he was still under their control. They had to prove that they could still hurt him. Even after his family was gone, ever after everyone who'd ever been important had been snatched away from him without warning, they could still hurt him.
Now that he was a victor, he'd have to mentor the kids reaped from District 12 in the future. He was the only surviving District 12 victor, so unless there was another - and let's face it they were rare in the first place - this would be his job for the rest of his life. The tributes might be older than him or worse, younger. His age did nothing to shield him from the horrors or the arena, and it would do nothing to shield him from the horrors or watching someone you've come to care about - even just a little - slaughtered again and again and again.
He had to get out of here, he had to separate himself from the hurt. To suffocate the pain that threatened to overwhelm him at any moment. A tear rolled down his cheek and fell to the floor; the splash it made on the tiles seemed monumental. He picked up the bottle and walked out, leaving everything he'd ever loved behind. It wasn't over; it would never be over.