When the dress fits like it should, I take a look in the mirror. The woman there looks strange. The dress is a little too long without high heels, but it works. But that's not what catches my attention. Pale skin, big blue eyes, and blonde hair that falls over her shoulders in ruffled waves. She looks awful. The face always must be the eye-catcher and right now there is nothing that would draw anyone's attention. Ugly and boring. The troubled look in her eyes doesn't make it any better either.

I put my hair up, go back into the bedroom and sit down at the dressing table. I need twelve pins to keep my wig from slipping. The wig is blonde and forms soft curls. One of my favorite pieces. Today I only take the wig without adding any further accessories.

Then I do the make-up. Black is an interesting color. It's dark and sad, but somehow still strong and angry. I smile involuntarily at the thought. When I look at myself in the mirror, I am more than satisfied. The woman finally turned into me. Raven black eyeshadow and mascara with tiny little glitter particles in it that literally make my eyes shine. At first I wanted to use gold lipstick, but then I changed my mind and went for black. It just fits better.

I look at myself in the mirror and can hardly tear my eyes away. This will be my night. My high heels actually have no heels, but they are so phenomenal that I just have to put them on. They're all black, with gold rings that go all the way around the shoe. And while it's exhausting standing on the balls of your feet all night, I don't care. Because I look amazing and that's the only thing that matters.

Shortly thereafter, I leave my room without even taking a handbag because I can't find one that would match my dress. Before I leave the penthouse, I write a note for Katniss and Peeta saying that Haymitch and I think they can behave appropriately enough in public after Victory Tour. I just cancel the prep sessions. It's selfish and I know it, but it's true that they're well prepared. Then I write a note for Haymitch saying the same thing, so he knows. I give both slips of paper to the red-haired Avox girl, who gives me a somewhat bewildered look when she sees me roaming the hallways in a party outfit in the middle of the night. Then I leave the training center.

I find my way to an unofficial for Jubilee party. Avoxes are everywhere with delicacies on trays and alcohol flows in streams. People dance and chat happily. It doesn't take long before the first man asks me to dance. He talks a lot and listening to him gives me distraction enough. As we dance, he tells me about his career as a lawyer. In a city like this, where greed, arrogance and selfishness are part of society's normal behavior patterns, they are badly needed. All of them wealthy people who exactly know how to pull money out of their clients' pockets.

The night quickly blurs before my eyes. I drain the glasses faster than I can count, as the Avoxes ensure a freshly filled glass in my hands as soon as the last sip of the old one is down my throat. It doesn't take long until I completely forget why I came here in the first place. To forget. And now I'm doing just that.

We hold each other tightly as we glide across the dance floor. He leads. I couldn't lead with these shoes; I remember and give him a big grin. He's a handsome man. Tanned skin, bright blue eyes and a sympathetic face. His smile is really adorable! His hair is dyed dark red, the same shade as his suit tie, but he tells me his hair is actually blond.

When we recover from dancing, we stand at the edge of the dance floor, watch other couples dance, drink, or try some of the small bites that I can't remember the taste of. He has his arm wrapped around my waist the whole time and gives me support, because as the hours go by, I realized that I should have put on different shoes. Without heels at the back of my foot and a lot of alcohol in my blood, running around gets harder and harder over time. I gratefully lean against him and he tells me crazy stories about some of his clients. Aside from definitely seeming to exploit some of them, he's a very down to earth man. Not as aloof as many of the others.

As the sun slowly rises over the city, I can no longer walk. Staggering and swaying, I hold on to him. My head is completely fuzzy, but he finds the whole story more amusing than embarrassing. So I just laugh along, which is surprisingly not difficult for me. Although I assure him that I will return safely to the Training Center alone, he grabs my hand, calls a taxi and escorts me. When we get off in front of the Training Center, he picks me up and carries me the rest of the way on foot. I can't remember anyone ever doing that for me. Most men would just leave me at the party and walk away.

I'm sick halfway through. The constant rocking back and forth really upsets my stomach. To distract myself, I wrap my arms around his neck and dig my fingernails into its crook. He doesn't even gasp. I feel like a little kid being carried to bed by my father. When I think about my childhood now, I simply laugh. I have no idea what upset me all those hours ago. The memories distort into confused images of bright colors and funny noises.

When he asks me which District I serve, I truthfully answer 12 and he freaks out. It's funny that he doesn't know me from TV. "You are the escort for Twelve? Wow, that must be incredibly exciting! I once had a couple who wanted a divorce because they bet on different Districts. Really strange people!"

I start giggling. "You have really weird clients," I remark, releasing my grip on his neck and pointing down the hall. "This way, but nice and quiet. After all, we don't want to wake my victors." Wearily, I rest my chin in his hair. His shampoo smells like chewing gum. I start laughing again and have to cover my mouth with a hand.

"Who of us two should be quiet again?" he asks and grins broadly as he comes into the living room. It's dark, only the sun's rays from outside illuminate the room.

"Wait," I mumble into his hair. "You can put me down now." When my feet hit the ground, he grabs my arms to keep me from falling backwards.

"These shoes must be totally uncomfortable," he says, nodding slightly towards the floor. "But also damn hot."

"Touching costs extra," I joke, looking up at him. "It's really nice that you escorted me."

"He must be a true gentleman," a voice remarks at that moment. Startled, I turn to see Haymitch sitting in the shade of his chair. If our noise didn't wake him up, he probably heard everything.

"Haymitch," I say happily and wave at him. "You're up early. Did you sleep well?"

Haymitch returns my smile with a fierce look before his eyes study the man next to me. He doesn't look happy, which I can't understand. "Didn't sleep long," he replies, and I don't like the tone of his voice at all. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," he adds, but we both know he means the exact opposite. "Go ahead."

And so do I. I turn back to my companion with an apologetic smile. "Thank you," I say loud enough for Haymitch to hear and lean forward. At the same moment he leans towards me, about to say something, because his mouth is already slightly open. Then his eyes suddenly fall on my lips. They are no more than a few inches from his. Feeling my cheeks flaming hot despite the alcohol, I turn my head and plant a kiss on his cheek.

He seems disappointed. "I hope we'll see each other again soon," he says as we say goodbye, touches my cheek and leaves.

I just stand there and stare at the spot where he was just seconds before. Shaking my head, I turn to Haymitch and realize I've completely forgotten about him. I laugh at myself. Haymitch raises an eyebrow and eyes me warily. He has to catch me because at that moment I suddenly start to stagger and almost fall backwards because I forgot that my shoes have no heels. I laugh again as I feel his arms behind me.

"Someone seems to have a drinking problem," Haymitch observes, effortlessly lifting me up. My stomach begins to protest again and I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder. I may be running wild with my fantasies, but I feel his grip tightening a little.

As he picks me up, my dress falls back, exposing my feet. When he sees the shoes he sighs loudly. "Did you want to kill yourself, sweetheart?"

"They are amazing," I defend them immediately. "He thought they were hot."

"Who is he exactly?" asks Haymitch, unable to hide his curiosity. He probably thinks that because of the alcohol I'll have forgotten everything by tomorrow anyway. I think hard and push my nails into the crook of his neck in disappointment. He gasps and turns his head towards me. My face is inches from his. I headbutt him angrily. "What was that for? For carrying you into your bedroom? You're more than welcome to go yourself if you prefer," he growls, offended.

"I forgot to ask for his name," I exclaim, stunned.

Haymitch bursts out laughing and I can feel his body shaking. When he reaches my room, he closes the door with his foot and carefully sets me down on my bed. "Then he can't have been that great after all," he says and sits down on the edge of the bed. To me it seems that he likes that idea very much.

I shrug and then grin. "It was more than great for one night, " I reply dreamily, smiling at the ceiling.

"You're really weird when you're drunk," Haymitch remarks skeptically as I close my eyes to sleep. "You don't want to sleep like that, do you?"

"Who cares?" The bed rocks and I grab the edge to keep from falling. I squint at him as he takes off my shoes and looks at them suspiciously.

"You'll wake up later with a migraine and probably chase me through the Training Center if I leave you here like this. Your dress will wrinkle, and it will be all my fault", he explains and puts my high heels next to my other shoes.

Smiling, I watch him and roll over the bed with outstretched arms. "That will be fun."

"You're thinking that now," he murmurs with effort as he tries to pull me back to the edge again, God knows why.

"How am I supposed to get that off your head?" he sighs, overwhelmed.

"Twelve pins," I whisper under Haymitchs arm, closing my eyes again as he bends over me to get to work. "You smell good."

"I'll remind you when you're sober," I hear him say and I know he's smirking.

But I shake my head and laugh. "You smell good when you're sober. I don't like the smell of alcohol."

"Then let's hope you don't have to puke. It stinks," Haymitch interjects and brushes back his hair, which is constantly falling in his face.

I give him a bleary smile and stroke his hair. "I like your hair."

"Are you trying to hit on me right now?" I look at him and see the amusement light up his face. To my surprise, he doesn't look disapproving or repellent like I expected him to. For a moment, the hint of a gentle smile steals across his face.

"I don't think so," I say, but continue to run my fingers over his face at the same time. He's not looking at me, his eyes are fixed on my wig. I trace his features, touching the lines around his mouth in a feathery touch.

Haymitch pauses as my fingertips touch his lips. He looks down and our eyes meet. I can see the sudden desire in his. He has beautiful eyes. Gray with a tinge of silver that seems to be glowing. "Effie," he warns, his voice weak though. I can hear the effort in his voice. Like he's struggling to keep that barrier between us.

"What?" I ask softly, sighing as I wrap my arms around his neck.

"Don't." Haymitch, hovering just inches above me, gently pushes away from me. He can't meet my gaze and I can't contain the pain of his rejection.

"Why?" I hear myself whispering, the word barely audible. "Did I misread the signals?" Now, under the influence of alcohol, I don't care if the signals mean nothing more than a short-term craving on his part. A voice, too quiet and too far from my paralyzed brain, wants to warn me that once I'm sober, I will care.

"No," Haymitch finally admits after a long pause. "But you're drunk. I highly doubt you'd do that without the alcohol."

"But I want to."

"Let me know if you still want it tomorrow, princess." Haymitch grins and winks at me to cover the seriousness of his words. He probably thinks I'll forget about the conversation tomorrow.

Without another word, he continues to unclip the wig from my head. Every time he pulls my hair, I dig my nails into his forearm in warning. Then he curses angrily and proceeds to get the pins out of my wig. When he's finally done it, he sighs with relief and annoyance at the same time and softly takes the blond curly wig off my head.

"You might want to take your makeup off," Haymitch instructs, glancing at my real hair and getting up to put my wig in the closet.

My cheeks start to glow and I look away in embarrassment. For a moment I wonder how that can actually be in my current state. Some of my fears don't even seem to be able to be overcome by alcohol. "And when I'm gone, you have to take off your dress, otherwise you'll bitterly regret it later."

"I don't want to transform," I murmur, pressing my face into a pillow so he can't see the blush.

I hear him laugh. "Transform?"

"I want to be pretty when falling asleep."

"But you're pretty."

I smile with my eyes closed. "That's why I don't want to take my make-up off, you fool."

"Seriously Effie, you look a lot better without all that stuff."

As I drift off to sleep, I notice that Haymitch rarely says my name. "You're only saying that because you have to. I'm not pretty, Haymitch, or I wouldn't be wearing all that stuff."

"Who told you you weren't pretty?" he asks, suddenly sounding annoyed.

"Nobody has to tell me that. I see myself in the mirror every day."

"You're crazy," he explains, pulling the pillow away from me.

"Damn it, Haymitch, what's this about?" I open my eyes angrily and sit up. "Can't you see that I want to sleep?" I get dizzy and hold my head.

Haymitch disappears into the bathroom and comes back a moment later with a glass of water and a washcloth. He hands me the glass and sits next to me. I drink it gratefully. His hand shoots up so fast I don't even get a chance to blink. The next moment he grabs my arm and presses the ice-cold washcloth into my face. I cry out in shock and want to back away, but he grabs me and wipes my face with the rag. "You'll pay for that," I hiss angrily, scratching his forearm with my fingernails.

"Look, Effie Trinket can defend herself!" Haymitch smirks and I hear the triumph in his voice. "I'm actually not used to headbutts from ladies either."

"You're an idiot," I murmur out of breath, letting him wipe my face. As he leans back and studies my face, he bites his lip to keep from laughing.

It remains silent until he finds the right words. "Maybe you should use your make-up removal kit ... just in case, of course."

I jump off the bed and stagger to my mirror. The room spins and as my hands rest on the dressing table, there's a loud clatter. I probably knocked over some perfumes. I don't care. Because when I see my face in the mirror, I burst out laughing. My eyes are surrounded by black circles that extend to my forehead. My lipstick was violently smeared across my cheeks. I look grotesque and undignified. "Oh no, where's my make-up remover?" I ask myself and search the table. My head doesn't work anymore. I'm dead tired and the alcohol in my blood doesn't make things any better.

At some point I crouch on the floor because I accidentally dropped my makeup. "Sweetheart, your stuff sure isn't down there," Haymitch remarks amusedly, watching me from the bed with pleasure. Next thing, I kick Haymitch out of my room. He's not much help and just makes fun of me. I've forgotten where my makeup remover is, instead I keep cleaning my face with the rag, laughing at myself in the mirror. Split personality.

I don't know when exactly the turning point comes. But when it comes, I realize that alcohol has a bad side, too. I vaguely remember Caesar Flickerman explaining the process of the Trackerjacker's venom last year. First come the hallucinations and when they eventually subside, if you haven't removed the stinger, the puncture will become infected. Alcohol is not very different. First comes the crazy phase when the liquor burns through your veins and into your brain and makes you go wild. Then, when the effect has worn off, comes the aftermath. And it's terrible.

The rag has dried up and I throw it in the laundry. I hardly dare to look down at myself. The dress is completely wrinkled. A shame. I hear Haymitch's words in my head and regret not listening. Still, I'm angry with him. Angry because he laughed at me instead of helping me. But most of all, I am ashamed of my behavior. Just bringing some strange man I don't even know the name of back here. He really can't have been that great, because I can hardly remember his face. Every time I try to think of him, I see Haymitch's face in my mind's eye. And then I remember how inappropriate I behaved yesterday. Impossible that I said such things to him!

It's already afternoon when I dare to leave my room. Nobody is present. Relieved, I stumble through the living room into the dining room and find myself something to eat there. I have no idea who left it for me. It's only when I see the painkiller next to the glass that I shudder.

Neither Katniss nor Peeta are there, which surprises me. They are not allowed to leave the Training Center and I sincerely hope that they abide by the rules. Maybe they're just in their rooms, I don't know. Stop mothering her them that, I think to myself. They are not little children, and they know there are rules to follow. But do they really know?

Silently, I sit at the table and only get the water down with difficulty. I look at the food in agony and my stomach jumps at the sight. I just leave it and go to my room.

This evening, I don't leave my room. Nobody calls me either, for which I am grateful, because I am still feeling sick. I just lie in bed and doze off. Every few hours my stomach wakes me up and I need to empty it. As I hang over the toilet bowl at four in the morning, I briefly ask myself what I must have eaten yesterday. I do not remember anymore. Maybe it's better that way.