Hyper Verbal

She had been there during his Games – the last face he saw before the arena and the first to greet him after he woke up. She had turned up again during his Victory Tour and been by his side. Her presence was familiar and comforting.

He had been told it was temporary – that it was only for the Tour – and that she would be joining an up-and-coming new fashion label once the Victory Tour concluded.

Twelve would be appointed a new Escort for the 51st Games and Haymitch blanched at the idea of having to deal with someone like Drusilla Sickle.

“Get Effie,” he blurted, almost with a hint of desperation.

“For Escort?” Plutarch frowned.

“Yeah,” Haymitch said. “You got her for the Tour.”

“Yes – a temporary position as I’ve mentioned.”

“Fine. If she agrees, does she get to stay?” Haymitch queried. “I want Effie Trinket.”

He hated the fact that it came off as though he was begging to the Capitol and maybe he was, but Effie was one of the only remaining friends he had. In an attempt to keep them safe, he had driven away almost everyone in Twelve and he would be lying if he said he didn’t miss having Burdock around. He figured Effie, who bought into every propaganda fed her way was harmless and safe, and Snow wouldn’t touch her given how she played by the rules.

Plutarch matched his gaze. “If she agrees then I will see what I can do.”

Haymitch asked and he could see she was not prepared for the offer.

“Come on, Effie, you love the glamour and the glitz. Listen,” he said, “could be a great opportunity for your sister to have someone already working in the games. Probably need some connections once she graduates.”

She didn’t give an answer straightaway but on the last night of the Victory Tour in the Capitol, she found him in his bedroom gripped in the middle of a violent nightmare, drenched in sweat, muttering about “gumdrops” and “cistern”.

“Haymitch,” she shook his shoulders. “Wake up. Please, you’re scaring me. Haymitch!”

He jolted awake, breathing heavily and stared at her. Haymitch raised his hand to touch her cheek and then her hair, almost tenderly.

“Maysilee?”

“Wh – “ She touched his hand that was twirling a strand of her hair. “No, it’s just me. Effie.”

An unreadable expression crossed his face. “I – For a moment I thought you were Maysilee. Same hair colour – sorry,” he mumbled. He had no idea what came over him but in the soft glow of night light, he admitted, “She’s like a … was like a sister I never had. We didn’t split up, you know. It wasn’t how they showed it. She… She wanted to check on the potatoes and the Gamemakers targeted – fuck,” he took a deep breath. “You should have seen her with Drusilla on the train. They never got along,” he smiled wistfully. “Wished we had you – you would have treated us like we’re … people.”

Haymitch didn’t see her again until he was at the train station the next morning and even then, he nearly walked past her. She was dressed in a swirl of colour, as usual, but this time, she had on a wig – bright pink with splashes of blue. It was ridiculous.

“Now you’ll never mistake me for Maysilee,” she said cheerfully. “She’s special to you so let’s honour her memory that way. Besides,” she added when she saw him opening his mouth to get a word in, “if I’m going to be Twelve’s escort, I should have a new look.”

A movement to his right jolted him back to the present. An Avox had entered the room and was standing silently, waiting for them to leave so she could clean the shards on the floor.

It was their tenth year in the Games together. Ten long years of losing tributes and drifting further away from each other. Their relationship which had started out civil, almost friendly, had been eroded and strained by despair and misery, and in Effie’s case, desperation.

She was desperate to save him but each year he drank more, he pushed her farther. His insults grew more corrosive and hurtful.

She thought if they could save at least one tribute he would be better. He had snorted, called her delusional and asked if her sleeping around with sponsors had been worth it, and that was how Haymitch had narrowly avoided having his head cracked open by a flying vase.

“Having regrets, are we?” he sneered in her direction. “Can’t quit now, sweetheart.”

“Says who?” she challenged, narrowing her eyes at him. “If I want to, I can get employment elsewhere.”

He snorted and plopped down on the sofa. “Go to bed, sweetheart. Another year, another loss. I’ll see you next year.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her taking a step forward, moving closer to him. He ignored her and poured himself a drink, a clear sign that the conversation was over. He wasn’t worried about her leaving and getting a job elsewhere. He knew she can’t.

Snow would never let her leave - her job was to keep the unruly District Twelve victor in line. And he had to behave, Snow had implied to him that Proserpina Trinket with her love for oysters could suddenly... disappear. Haymitch knew Effie love her sister more than anyone, and even if he found Effie annoying lately, he wouldn’t wish the pain of losing a sibling on her. He knew the pain. Let him alone live with it.

He hated the fact that he had trapped Effie in this life, in these Games, but he hated it even more that Snow had something else to dangle in front of him.