A/N: Sorry for the long delay! I was moving so I haven't had time to really focus on this story. I also decided that I don't think I like the way this is developing so I'm not sure if I'm going to scrap this story or not. I may just go back and rewrite a few chaters, maybe add some more in the beginning. Anyway, hope you like this one! I know it's short, but alas I had an itch to get it out after unpacking all day!

Disclaimer: I don't own the HUNGER GAMES or any of the recognizable characters you see in this fanfic.

Haymitch

I hold on the image of Katniss blushing and embarrassed and manage my way out her front door before the monster catches up with me and my feeling of safety is ripped away into the night. The darkness of the open night sky presses on me, forcing me down to my knees. I'm half way to my front door when I begin to crawl. The weight of the darkness makes it impossible to move, but I need to get to the only salvation I have left. I need to get my hands on a bottle. I make it up my porch and fall through the front door. It's worse in here, inside the monster's den, but I need to keep moving before it claims me completely. I need to get my hands on a goddamn bottle before it rips me open. I half stumble, half crawl my way to the kitchen, slicing my hands, knees, arms, and face on the trash and broken glass that litters the floor on my way there. My mind doesn't register the pain of these lacerations. My body is being pumped with adrenaline, my nerves are going haywire, and my breath is coming in short gasps. Things start to emerge from the darkness; shadows intent on taking me with them, intent on filling my heart and mind with hopelessness and despair. I can feel the shadows seeping into me; into my pores, my lungs dragging them in with each ragged, horrible breath.

With a panicked yell I crash into the kitchen and find my way to the half empty bottle of liquor on the table, leftover from my earlier indulgence. I grab it and shakily fumble with the screw top, panic making it hard to open. Finally, finally, I manage to rip the top of and I hastily guzzle down the reminder of the bottle. I can feel the pure bliss of the alcohol burning through my veins, chasing away the shadows that have tried to settle. When my hands stop trembling I search my cabinets for another bottle of liquor, preferably some of Ripper's hash to numb me before the next round of assaults occur.

The horrible feeling of raw, burning flesh was the reason I stared drinking in the first place, it was tearing me apart. Little by little, with every Games, every new death, every "appointment", I was being torn apart. The drink was the only thing I could think of to keep myself together, and the more I was torn apart, the more I drank. Now, thirty odd years later, hundreds of deaths later, dozens of "appointments" later, I'm in more pieces than I can count, and the alcohol was all that kept me from falling apart. Without it, things start to slip into the cracks; I start to feel every tear, the stitches being ripped out one by one without anything to numb the pain. The pain, the fear, is paralyzing; like a white hot rod is being shoved into your very soul.

I'm half way into my thirds bottle of Ripper's hash when the alcohol does its job and numbs me enough so that all I feel is a dull throbbing around the edges of my pieces; bearable, manageable, familiar. For the most part, my mind is still clear enough to remember, something I try my hardest not to do. Images and memories of Annabelle and Teddy begin floating behind my lids. Not my usual nightmares, actual happy memories, which are worse. I don't want to remember the feel of Annabelle's lips on mine the way her hand felt in my hair. I don't want to remember the sound of Teddy's laugh or the way he'd bounce in his seat whenever we had meat for dinner. I can't remember, but the memories come flooding through until I drown beneath alcohol like all the other nightmares before I lose consciousness in the early morning. But even in my unconscious state I can't escape the painful realization that I killed each and every one of those people I see in my living hell, and I can't escape the sickening guilt I feel for being alive when they aren't. I don't deserve to live, but I deserve the torments that haunt each and every moment of my waking life more than I deserve death, and I won't cheat the monster of its plaything.