Tortured Wisteria

3

Haymitch Abernathy was one of the most vile human beings Wisteria Everdeen had ever crossed paths with. He may have been a victor, practically district royalty, but he was nothing special to the people of 12. Wis had seen him many times stumbling drunkenly around the hob. He was well known for falling into pools of his own vomit. Charming, I know.

District 12 hadn't seen a victor since his games twenty four years ago, and many blamed that on his incoherence. The tributes may have been better off having no mentor at all with the help Haymitch gave them. This knowledge sat like a pit in Wisteria's stomach as she, Prim, and their mother sat around the old staticky television in what they considered their living room.

Prim raved on about Haymitch, about the stories she'd heard in school about him heroically winning his games, a Quarter Quell. It was written in the charter of the games that the Quarter Quells are to come about about every 25 years. A "celebration" the capital called them. The arenas were even more horrifying, the deaths more gruesome, and every quell had a special twist. Wis found a small amount gratitude within herself that it had been the 74th, and not the 75th, hunger games they would be suffering through.

But at the ripe age of 16, the same age as Katniss, Haymitch was reaped into a pool of not 24, but 48 victors. Wis had been too young to watch, but her father had told her the stories, having been close in age to Haymitch at the time. Haymitch had discovered a force field on the edge of the arena, one that bounced objects off of it and killed any living thing it touched. He used it to his advantage, and won his games by luring the tributes to it. The capital hated him for it, and Haymitch soon turned to drink to cope with their punishments.

But Wisteria held this information in as she slowly raked her fingers through Prim's hair, separating the braids. Her tears had long since stopped, and she and Gale had parted ways to watch the tribute parade with their families. She missed his comforting words, but knew she couldn't rely on him to hold her together. It wasn't fair.

"Oh! It's starting," Prim hollers.

Prim was experiencing a momentary lull in her grief, having to look forward to the excitement of the tribute parade and the interviews. For her young mind, it allowed her a moment to forget the reality of what was happening. Wis knew it would hit her soon, she didn't want to ruin her sister's calm before the storm.

Wis focused on her fingers threaded through Prims honey blonde locks more than she did the intro to the tribute parade. The dull commentary made by Cesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith had her brow knotted in frustration, but she held her tongue. What an exciting event it was, watching all the soon to be dead children riding around in chariots.

But when the music started, she couldn't help but look up. One by one she watched the chariots enter the long stretch to the balcony that their very own President Snow was perched upon. The tributes from District 1 dressed in pink feathery garments made her scoff. Happy smiles adorned their faces, a contrast to the kids from District 2. Their faces were stone cold, glowering at the crowed dangerously. Even the female tribute, short as she was, looked deadly.