When he won the games — he didn’t expect it would ever go like this. To him, he thought that once he got back, his family would be alright. Sid, Ma — you.

But he was wrong. As soon as his boots hit the crooked gravel of District 12, his guts twisted. It didn’t feel right, too quiet, too.. empty. The black flames emitting from someome’s house didn’t feel right either. But the realization came too late — his house, his ma and brother. Gone. Dead. The scene shifting too quickly for Haymitch’s liking, now wailing and held back by a barely 15 year old Burdock Everdeen.

Then came your death. Haymitch didn’t expect that one. To him — the president already took away his ma and brother, two people he cared for the most, why would the Capitol ever take you? Sweet, caring, you. The one who always stopped by to admire the flowers and sing back to the mockingjays. Never Covey by nature, only adopted into the family since your parents were dead. But Haymitch still fell, even if Clerk Carmine disapproved.

The next day, after the funeral, he ran to your house, hugging you tightly before crying to into your shoulders. He only left you alone in front of your house for a second. Haymitch walked to get some berries from the forest before the silence came. And then a gunshot.

His blood ran cold, his mouth went dry before he ran back as fast as he could, only to find you lying dead in a pool of your own blood. A gun sat neatly placed next you, only a single white rose next to it. “Clerk Carmine!” Haymitch would cry, immediately falling to his knees and holding you close “Clerk Carmine! Tam Amber! help! please!” The two would rush out, Tam Amber muttering “not her too, not again..” with Clerk Carmine pushing Haymitch away, trying his best to help you. But it was too late. The life and joy of the two — the only person Haymitch wanted to spend his life with, was dead. Gone. The Capitol was never kind to rebels, or their loved ones. Why did Haymitch believe his sweetheart could live?

Weeks passed, months — Haymitch lost track. In between the alcohol and tour, he didn’t care. More often than not, he would be faced with hazy hallucinations of you dancing around the empty victor’s house or sitting in the chair that should’ve been yours in front of the fireplace. Something overcame Haymitch that day, before he set off into the woods. You had to be buried, right? He knew the Covey had a seperate graveyard, you told him about it. Sluggishly he wandered, deeper and deeper as he screamed your name into the wild. He would have kept screaming until his vocal cords tore. Until his former friend, Burdock found him midway through a hunt. Taking pity and leading him to the meadow. And there it was — he saw your grave. Engraved was your line from your favorite poem. Edgar Allan Poe, Haymitch remembered, although he never understood the meaning behind that one. He didn’t care. He simply laid on your grave, and sobbed. Burdock waited for a few moments before disappearing off to his own devices again.

And Haymitch laid on your grave for two days, the drunken hallucinations worsening in the night. There was nothing there, yet you sat besides him, staring at him sadly.

“I’m so sorry...” Haymitch whispered, staring at you. Drunken, in the night and on your grave, he could have sworn you were real. “I’m so sorry, i’m sorry—“