Tell me something sweet to get me by!

Katniss suggested he’d come too, but she soon dropped it. Was never one to press an issue when people had made up their minds.

Really, the only thing he wanted right now was for the sun to return and for spring to come quickly. Light and warmth that would melt the ice. Turn the snow into brooks.

While they were all still safe and sound.

It didn’t make any sense, but there was something about this particular winter that didn’t sit right with him. It was too dark. Too bleak. Too cold. He had a terrible feeling. Like something bad was going to happen.

Then again, maybe I feel that way every year, he thought, but I’m just too liquored up to remember it after.

He turned around, leaning back against the counter as he tipped the bottle up for a third round. Or really four or five. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down with each swallow, when his eyes suddenly caught a movement in the doorway.

And the little person standing there.

“Oh!”

The liquor sloshed upward, staining his nose and upper lip. Stifling a cough, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“H-hi, sweetheart”, he greeted his daughter standing there in her footy pajamas with dinosaurs on them. “What’re you doin’ up?” he asked with a shaky smile while he twisted the bottle cap back on and slipped it into his cardigan pocket. “It’s past your bedtime.”

Amy didn’t respond. Head tilted slightly to the side, she just looked at him. Her precious little face, serious. Unsmiling.

Haymitch swallowed.

“I was only getting some water”, he said, fighting to keep his voice both low and light-hearted. “You know, daddy gets so thirsty sometimes. Just gimme a sec.”

He turned for the sink, cheeks burning, heart pounding as he got the water running.

How on earth did the girl get out of bed, walk down the stairs and into the kitchen without him noticing? Fuck! He splashed some water on his face with rushed, clumsy motions. No one snuck up on Haymitch Abernathy and yet his daughter had somehow succeeded. Goddamn it!

“Did you have a bad dream, precious?” he asked over his shoulder, out of breath. He gulped some water from the tap. Sloshed it around, before spitting. To try and rinse away the foul liquor breath. “Huh?” Facing her again, he wiped his cheeks and throat on a dish towel.

Amy had not moved from her spot. With her hands at her sides, her strawberry hair stood every which way, like she’d been tossing and turning a lot.

“You want another bedtime story?” Haymitch hung the towel back up, seized a few crackers from the breadbasket and stuffed his face. “Wanna cuddle?” he asked, mouth full.

Still nothing.

“Baby?”

Swallowing with difficulty, Haymitch crinkled his brow.

“You OK?”

The three-year-old blinked slowly. Looked at him with a blank expression. Looked through him.

“Sweetheart?” Haymitch took a tentative step forward. “Amy girl? Can you hear me?”

He waved a slow hand before her face.

No reaction.

And he suddenly realized.

She’s dreaming. Sleepwalking.

A wave of relief surged through him.

He’d heard of these things. Effie, she was a sleepwalker. Well, had been. When she was about the twins’ age. Maybe a few years older.

Kid’s asleep, he thought. She didn’t see any of it. Not really. And even if she did, she probably won’t remember it tomorrow. Fuck … Bullet dodged.

He reached a hand out.

“Come here, sweetie. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Amy crossed over toward him. Eyes somewhere in the distance. A smile, a real one this time, just formed on Haymitch’s lips – when she shoved his hand away and went straight for the bottle, through the cardigan.

“Oh! N-no baby. Don’t do that.” He clutched his hand over the pocket. The other one around her small wrist. Amy’s lips tightened into a stubborn pout, face growing redder by the second. She doubled her efforts to seize the bottle, using both hands this time, and she stomped her foot against the floor when he wouldn’t let her have it.

“Don’t do that, sweetheart. Please. That’s daddy’s”, Haymitch said, unhappily. An angry little growl came from her lips. She kicked him in the shin, with about as much force as Buttercup’s tail brushing your leg. Holding the feral girl at arm’s length, Haymitch had just enough time to get the bottle out, stuff it inside a top cupboard and close the door.

In a flash, Amy let go of him. Before he knew it, she darted underneath the kitchen table, hiding there.

“Baby …” Heart aching, throat laced up, he approached her. Careful, so as not to scare her further, he pulled at a chair soundlessly, moved it out of the way. Peered at her through the fringes of the tablecloth.

The girl sat with her back against the wall. She had pulled her knees up, hugging them tightly. She stared at him now. Right at him. Frozen. Gray eyes big and unblinking. Too big for her small face.

Looking at her he was acutely, painfully reminded of all those 12-year-olds he’d seen during the Games. From his district, and others. Hiding in the bushes. Or behind rubble.

“It’s OK. It’s OK, sweetheart. It’s just me. It’s daddy.”

He sat down on the floor, keeping a distance. But even then, it drew a whimper from her.

What’s she seeing right now? he wondered. Me or the monster from her closet?

“You’re safe, baby girl”, he whispered. “You’re home. With mama and dada and your brother. You’re safe here.”

He held out a tentative hand and Amy instantly smacked hers over her eyes. A puddle slowly spread across the floorboards, darkening the wood beneath her.

Haymitch didn’t know how long he sat there, speaking soft words to her. Felt like hours. Outside, the storm raged on, hurling itself against the windows and walls, looking for a way in. Like that big bad wolf from the picture book, huffing and puffing. With a mind to that if he couldn’t blow the house down, at least he’d bury them alive.

Finally, when Haymitch’s touch didn’t make her recoil, he slid his hands under her arms and pulled his daughter out, ever so gently.

Her little body was stiff and rigid, as he struggled to his feet with her in his arms. The child’s eyes were still glazed over and she restlessly patted her hands all over his pajama-clad chest. Like someone checking their pockets for keys. She clapped up his throat, his chin, his stubble and then, as if suddenly recognizing him, she collapsed against him, clinging to him. Relieved and shaking. Breaths quick against his collarbone.

“You’re OK, you’re OK …” Cradling his soaked daughter, he rocked her, like when she was a baby. “You’re OK. I won’t let anything bad happen to you”, he murmured in her damp hair. Holding onto her, just as much as she did him, wishing he could undo this moment. And all moments when he ever held a bottle in his hand. “I got you. I got you now.”

He carried his child into the bathroom. Drew her a bath, keeping the stream as quiet as possible as he peeled off the wet layers and settled her in the tub.

She and her brother both had been out of their night diaper for almost a month now. A decision made with too much optimism. Obviously. He had to bring it up, somehow. But if he stayed up until morning, got the kids dressed before Effie woke … maybe she needn’t know about this particular accident?

He kept the light down low, just a faint glow so as not to startle the girl again, while he gently washed her, with warm water and soap. She didn’t resist this time. Just sat there with a dreamy, absent gaze.

Lou Lou. That’s who she reminded him of. In the arena. Right before she breathed in the bee balm and died in his arms.

Blinking back tears, he hummed a little melody to keep her calm. One he used to play on the piano, while carrying the twins in the stretchy wrap across his chest. A great way to keep them both secure, happy and quiet, especially when Effie was in desperate need of a nap.

Black clouds are behind me

I now can see ahead

often I wonder why I try

hoping for an end.

Soothed by his voice and the warm water, Amy’s eyelids got heavier and heavier. Her head sagged forward in a sleepy nod, slowly, all the way down to her chest, then jerked back up, blinking sluggishly. Confused. Annoyed and then it dipped over again just moments later.

Good, he thought. Good. Maybe that means she’s cycling into a more normal sleep, so I can carry her upstairs and tuck her into bed.

That’d be breaking yet another promise to Effie, but what else could he do? Not leave her. And they were so many now – his tapestry of broken promises – one more hardly mattered. Right?

Sorrow weighs my shoulders down

and trouble haunts my mind

but I know the present will not last

and tomorrow will be kinder

He dared not sing the words out loud, fearing Effie might swoop down on him. The lyrics were too scary and confusing anyway, for little ears like Amy’s.

But they came alive in his head anyway. Whether he liked it or not.

Tomorrow will be kinder

it's true I've seen it before

a brighter day is coming my way

yes, tomorrow will be kinder

Unlikely. And again, just like Lou Lou, an old memory resurfaced. Words this time. A truth that twisted the knife in his heart another painful turn.

“I can't help thinking that all the little ones seem to end up with me. I can't keep a one of them safe …”

I have this little hobby of mine where I do scrapbooking sticker paintings in planners where I ”illustrate” the current storyline of my hayffie fic Taste of Strawberries (new chapter’s up by the way! 😉 Chapter 80 where it’s currently midwinter.)