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Maysilee was the one who haunted him the most.
He’d been left with nothing.
His entire family and his girlfriend were gone, simply wiped out as if they were nothing more than pesky bugs to be squashed down, all because he’d found a clever way to survive the games and the capitol didn’t like that. He had no one and nothing anymore, only ghosts, and yet—
He could not escape Maysilee, her presence was unmoving and unyielding.
She was burned to his memory. Blonde straw-like hair that flowed all the way to the small of her back; determined blue eyes; thin brows that often let you know what she was thinking without saying a word; lanky limbs that weren’t quite agile but that held themselves up with confidence—and blood, so much blood, that ran from the open wound at her throat and flowed to her face and to her hands, and his hands as he held hers as she died.
Just as Maysilee would not leave him, neither would her blood on his hands. No matter how many times he’d scrub them raw, it stuck to his skin and settled there, like a scar.
Every time he looked down at his hands, he was sure he could still see her blood on them.
—
“If I die first,” she’d started one night, whispering as she laid her head on his shoulder and stared up at the breathtaking artificial night-sky full of hundreds of shimmering stars. “Don’t mourn me. Don’t feel guilty. Just let me go. Only one person can survive, take that chance.”
As he held her bloodied hand and watched the life flicker out of her eyes, he found it hard to keep that promise.
How could he not mourn Maysilee Donner? She’d saved his life, she’d become his ally and friend as everybody was on the hunt for one another. And he mourned not just what she was to him, but who she was as a person. Determined, courageous, clever, and full of life Maysilee.
He had always known only one could survive, but he never thought it’d be him. Maysilee had deserved it more than he did.
She’d been the one who had saved him by shooting the poisoned dart at his attacker, she’d been the one with the idea to partner up and the one who told him what tasks to do to survive. And he knew Maysilee would be mourned by many more than he would be, she had a way of leaving a mark on people; she was the type of person one would admire and look up to.
As Maysilee’s hand went limp in his, he knew deep in his bones that the one who should’ve been bleeding out to death on the arena’s bright green grass should’ve been him—not her.
—
Maybe if he’d gone with her.
Maybe if he hadn’t let her leave at all.
Maybe if they’d been at a different part of the arena.
Maybe if they’d never partnered up at all.
Maybe if she had never saved him.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
—
Victor’s Village was perfect for haunting.
There was no one but him, not just in his house but in the whole village. Rows and rows of empty houses, a big house with no one to share it with.
He figured ghosts found it easier to maneuver themselves with all these empty spaces.
He saw all the tributes he killed and those he saw Maysilee kill with her poisoned darts, with blood pouring out of them or writhing and moaning in pain or simply just dead and limp.
He saw his girlfriend, who would tell him cruelly that she would’ve never died if she had never laid eyes on him. That she was dead because of him. That she would’ve been better off if he’d just died, or if he’d never loved her at all.
He saw his family. His Ma, sobbing and wailing ‘why? why? why?” over and over. His Pa, staring at him solemnly and full of shame, telling him what a disappointment he was and that the valiant thing to do would’ve been to just die. His little brother, asking why they had to die and if he’d done something wrong.
He saw Maysilee.
Unlike all his other ghosts, she didn’t sob at the injustice of it all or spew hurtful words that would cut like a knife.
Instead, she was just there.
Sometimes, he saw her as she’d been throughout their time at the arena. Sometimes, he saw her with a skewered throat and her blood running all over. Both sights were equally horrifying to him.
Just the sight of her reminded him that he shouldn’t be there—alive and breathing—that he had no right to be.
Her ghost was a benevolent one, yet she was the one who shook him the most.
—
He took up drinking half as a way to cope and half as a hobby to pass the time.
He had endless time and nothing but ghosts and wretched memories for company.
He’d never been one to fit in easily in society, one to converse freely with people and make friendships or even acquaintances, but now he felt even further from society. Everywhere he went, everybody knew who he was and every detail of what he had done. Everybody admired him at best and feared him at worst, no matter what, he stood out in society; he was not like any of them and nobody could truly understand him after what’d been through, what he’d done.
So he drank to pass his time and to quiet the voices in his head and blur out the ghosts in his peripheral view.
At first, he drank anything he could get his hands on—liquor was liquor.
But then, the yellowish spirits reminded him too much of Maysilee’s hair.
And then wine reminded him too much of her blood.
He stuck to only drinking white liquor after that.
—
Everybody always said that victors were the lucky ones—winners, shiny and dazzling; loved by the capitol and envied by those in the districts; with more money than they could ever know what to do with.
Winning the games. That was the best life someone born in the districts could end up having.
Haymitch had grown up believing that and truly, for a fraction of a second after he won the games, he’d still held onto that belief.
The novelty of it all wore off pretty quickly.
He knew now—with absolute certainty—that the lucky ones were the dead tributes. Victors had to pay the consequences, to live with everything they had done.
He wished he’d died in that arena.
He wished the axe the District One girl swung at him had never missed.
He wished Maysilee had never stopped that tribute from slitting his throat, wished that the blood that flowed so freely would’ve been his.
Sometimes, at his worst, he hated Maysilee for saving his life.
—
The worst way Maysilee haunted him was through no actual haunting at all.
Sometimes, he would see Maysilee’s twin sister in town.
They weren’t quite identical, but from a quick glance, one could easily confuse the two.
When he would see her, he’d forget to breathe. He didn’t know if it was fear of her haunting him or hope that she somehow managed to come back from the dead, or if it was just deep sorrow at the reminder of the friend he lost, but his breath would be pushed out of his lungs at the sight of her.
Even when he’d come back to himself and realized it was not Maysilee but her twin sister, his breath would not come back easily to his lungs.
As the years passed, it was easier to differentiate the two as Maysilee’s sister grew up and time made its mark on her, while Maysilee would forever remain the lanky-limbed fresh-faced young girl she had gone into that arena as.
As the years passed, the sight of Maysilee’s sister became harder to bear.
—
Birds reminded him of her.
Her token had been a gold mockingjay pin, a little trinket that was probably worth more than all his family’s possessions put together.
He’d asked her about it once, during the quiet of the night where they could pretend they could hide from the millions of eyes watching them.
“I admire birds,” she’d said. “They are free to go wherever they want, whenever they want. They don’t abide by anyone. I wish I was as free as a bird.”
As she ran through the arena with her long blonde hair fanning out and swinging behind her, he thought that birds fit her nicely.
Ironic, that she met her death with a beak through her throat.
—
He felt it a failure to Maysilee’s memory that he did not even try to be a good mentor.
If Maysilee was in his place, she’d be a much better mentor than him. He knew she would’ve been able to put those kids in shape and at least give them a fighting chance, one bigger than either of them had going into that arena.
It was a betrayal to Maysilee, who had told him to take the chance at survival.
It was another reason why it should’ve been Maysilee who survived and not him; he was wasting away his second chance at life and wasting away his tributes’s lives.
Still, it wasn’t enough to make him put down the bottle.
—
He didn’t remember much about the reaping for the 74th games.
He’d been drunk and he’d fallen off the stage and at some point, there was some great commotion but that was about it.
He also didn’t remember the night afterward or the first time meeting his tributes—he’d been even drunker for that.
But he remembered the morning afterwards, when both his tributes showed up for breakfast.
He was only tipsy at this point, if even that, and he was clear-minded enough to know his male tribute was the baker’s son and his female tribute was a girl from the Seam who had volunteered for her sister. At least his tributes this year seemed interesting enough.
And then the girl—Katniss—had walked in and Haymitch thought he might actually be sick.
Pinned to the girl’s shirt was a golden pin of a mockingjay.
Maysilee’s pin.
He felt so sick he didn’t think he could stomach any liquor.
This was the worst way Maysilee could’ve haunted him. Not with her face burned to his eyelids or with her blood staining his hands, but with her soul.
—
It was clear his tributes—and he was sure Effie too—had noticed his clear preference for Katniss.
No, that was not quite right. Most days he liked Peeta a hell of a lot more than he liked Katniss so it wasn’t really preference.
If he was being honest, it was that he was rooting for Katniss to win more.
He wanted to say it was her clear agility with a bow and arrow, something that could provide her protection but also a way to find food in the arena, but even so, Katniss wasn’t clever like Peeta was and cleverness was almost as important as any deadly skill in the arena.
His choice to favor Katniss wasn’t a choice at all, it wasn’t a conscious effort he made. Rather, the second he saw that pin on her, it felt as if for whatever reason, Maysilee was telling him to try his damn hardest to save this girl.
Katniss bore no resemblance to Maysilee, but it was like seeing her go into that arena all over again.
And he’d be damned if she didn’t make it out this time.
—
He could see it in his face before he made the announcement; before he’d told him.
Peeta Mellark was in love with Katniss Everdeen.
It wasn’t something for the cameras or the games; he could see it spelled out in that poor kid’s face, he loved that girl and it was killing him—it would kill him in that arena.
The tributes he had this year made him believe that there really was something after death, that Maysilee was trying to reach him from the other side. Because this all reminded him so much of them.
He had never loved Maysilee in the way Peeta loved Katniss, but he had loved her nonetheless.
He had loved Maysilee, as a true friend from the deepest burrows in his heart, and he had known her—the games were when each person was at their worst and they couldn’t be blamed for such, but Maysilee was courageous and bright and clever. He had seen her at her worst and loved her at such.
Once again, two tributes from District Twelve would be star-crossed as they cared for each other in that arena. Once again, they were doomed by tragedy.
As he watched them in the arena, he thought about how history always seemed to repeat itself.
—
He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t seen the two-player rule being rescinded coming—in fact, he would’ve genuinely been shocked if it hadn’t been.
And he wasn’t surprised by Peeta offering to be the one who died.
He was surprised by Katniss’s plan, he had never seen any other tribute who had been as stupid (or courageous, he supposed) as she was.
And he was even more surprised by the fact it worked.
He had no doubt that all of them—including himself—would pay greatly over their little stunt with the berries but for now, all he could feel was relief and well…hope.
Two tributes survived this year’s games, a historic feat and for once, some tragedy was spared from the games.
He thought of him and Maysilee, wondered if they’d have thought of this if they had the chance.
He wondered if Maysilee, from someplace above made this small miracle happen.
A sign of hope; a sign that she was still there.
“Thank you Maysilee,” he whispered as he looked up at the sky.