In those small moments of sober thinking, in between bottles of strong alcohol, Haymitch dreams and sees faces of those he once knew. They stand around him, untouchable as he reached forward, faces drowning over with blood, dripping down his fingers, soaking his memory.

But even beyond his dreams, Haymitch found himself unable to escape the faces of those he had let down. When he still had the courage to walk the streets of District 12, in every passing family and person he saw a person that had died because of him. The mother of a child he had mentored, the boyfriend of another, it seemed like he could never run away from his guilt. It was easy enough to decide to board up in the empty house that was his 'home', keeping himself numb with a steady supply of alcohol. He'd rather live like this, forever in a state of drunkenness, then have to deal with the ghosts that haunted him of his every waking hour.

Through that haze, he heard the sound of a fist banging at his door, the sound ricocheting in his brain. As there seemed to be no intention to stop, with a deep sigh Haymitch moved, hand gripping at a wall as he stumbled forward. He grudgingly opened the door, before slamming it shut when he saw who it was. Nope, not dealing with this again.

He glared down when he saw the foot that had inched it's way between the door and doorframe. The urge to slam it down harder to force the foot away crossed his mind, but he wasn't sure if he could handle the memories that would come with the no doubt grunt of pain that'd escape them. So with a surly expression over his face, he opened the door once more, voice rough and slurred.

"I told you already. Don't disturb me, I don't care if she told you to check on me." He stared down the little teen sibling of last year's female tribute, just another relative of a child he had led to the slaughter. Though he had to admit, they were a lot more persistent then he expected, having not given up no matter how much he rejected their attempts at care. Of which he didn't deserve.