It Is All Gone

Haymitch and I follow the hallway that leads back from the ICU to the foyer. We used to walk at a similar pace, so there was no trouble keeping up with the other. Now it's Haymitch who adjusts to my slow steps. It doesn't seem to bother him. The sideways glances he throws at me every few seconds bear witness to an almost anxious concern. He's good at hiding his feelings, but he seems to realize that this habit will be counterproductive towards me. He must know that it could have saved us a lot of trouble in the past too.

Haymitch suggested we retreat to the infirmary canteen. At this time, breakfast is already over, so we shouldn't run into anyone there. I didn't want to go back to my own room. The atmosphere would probably remind me too much of our last conversation and I don't think that will help us. Not knowing any other place in this District, I agreed to go to the canteen.

We're almost to the foyer when Haymitch stops from one step to the other. I've already walked several meters before I notice his abrupt halt. Confused, I turn to him and look him straight in the eye for the first time since we left Johanna's room. The conflict within them makes me flinch, but I force myself to stay calm and not avoid his gaze. You can see that he is lost; that he doesn't know what to do with the situation we're in; that the scenes from Johanna's sickroom disturbed him.

Johanna was right: the station must be understaffed because we are alone in the hallway. So far, we haven't met a soul and the silence that surrounds us makes me shiver. Haymitch is standing in the middle of the aisle, his shoulders slumped, and his lips pressed together as if they're the only thing keeping him from screaming out loud. In all the years we've watched lose child after child in the Games, I've never seen him so affected as he is now. His usual reaction to pain was always anger.

Haymitch forms a fist with his left hand, presses it against his forehead and his eyes travel from me to his fingers. He can't look at me as he puts his thought into words. "What can I do to help you?"

I don't say anything for a while, just stare at his clenched fist, as does he. This Haymitch is a stranger to me. I'm used to a Haymitch who hides behind an impassable wall, doesn't let anyone get near him and simply drinks his sorrows away. Is it the lack of alcohol that has changed him because he now has to face his demons?

"Be honest with me," I whisper into the distance between us, wondering if he can even help me. I consider ending my answer with these four measly words when a small voice in my head rebukes me. If you want his honesty, then you should be just as honest with him. Give him a chance. So I keep talking. "So many things are going through my head at the moment. This world is alien to me and I need time to adjust. The things I've been through prevent me from doing that. My trauma–" A bitter, sad laugh leaves my throat. "I don't even know if any of this is real, or just another Capitol trick. It wouldn't be the first time they changed my perception of reality."

"I'll try to make things right for you. The District is big, much bigger than Twelve ..." Haymitch hesitates, his shoulders sagging. The look in his eyes seems incredibly distant for a split second, as if his soul had left his body for a moment. "Ask me anything you want, I'll be honest. But if you realize that it's too much for you, then you have to say so."

I nod, unable to reply. My fingers are still shaking since my panic attack in Johanna's room. The fingertip I ran over my arm earlier is bloody. The puncture itself has stopped bleeding, so it couldn't have been a deep stitch. The blood has turned into a hard, round crust, which I scrape off in one quick motion. The sight of blood still makes me sick. Not like it makes people sick who just can't see blood. It's an oppressive nausea where, if I can't get my thoughts to focus on something positive, I very easily slide into another panic attack. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, although it's still early morning. Ever since my conversation with Johanna, I've been trying to push the thought of the end of the war away, because thinking about it doesn't change anything. They are future events that I can't influence.

We start moving again, almost at the same time, and I try not to end the fragile conversation between us. It's something old Effie would have done, albeit for different reasons. Old Effie couldn't stand silence because it made her feel like she had done something wrong. This Effie, however ...

"Why were you looking for me?" I ask without looking at Haymitch. In fact, he hasn't told me yet what he actually wants from me.

"I promised to come back," is all he says.

As we reach the foyer, I become aware of Haymitch's effect on the residents of District 13 for the first time. A low murmur can be heard passing through the crowd, heads turn in our direction and meaningful glances are directed at him; and on me. What do these people see when they look at Haymitch? Like most in Panem, they probably only know him from TV, although it's been 25 years since his Games. But he is the Mockingjay's mentor. If they've been following the Hunger Games for as long as Dr. Jennings has hinted, they've been watching Haymitch and District 12 for eleven years now. Haymitch can be quite intimidating to strangers when he chooses to. Finally seeing him in person after all this time still seems to impress the residents of 13. There's no other way I can explain why some people stare as we cross their paths and pass by. Some even stop and clear the way for us to pass without obstacles. It's the recurring look of admiration and hope in the eyes of many around us that makes me realize they look up to him.

It confuses me for a moment because I don't immediately grasp what people see in Haymitch to respect him in such a high way. If you put yourself in the shoes of the residents of 13, it's actually almost obvious: Without Haymitch, Katniss would probably have died in the 74th Hunger Games. Even if she had survived both arenas, working with the girl would have been much more difficult, if not impossible, without him. Except for Peeta, nobody knows her as well as he does. And after what's happened and knowing her, she probably doesn't trust anyone but the two of them by now. Furthermore, he's a general now, and he seems to take that job pretty seriously.

As those around us realize that Haymitch is not alone, the general attention of the crowd shifts to me. I can feel their eyes all over me; on my back, on my face, also on my headscarf. I can't help my lungs to hold their breath and my limbs to stiffen. Suddenly I realize: this is dangerous. To my relief, their looks remain meaningless. They don't recognize me. They don't know that the thin woman with the gray headscarf over her hair is actually Effie Trinket. And yet, over the years, they've always found me where Haymitch was; where there is a high probability that I didn't make a good impression. How could I?

"I hear you're a General now," I throw in as casually as I can, without taking my eyes off the ground in front of my feet. I'm really interested in the story behind it. I want to know how his involvement in this rebellion came to be and why it had to be him and not Finnick or some other experienced victor.

Haymitch shrugs as if his status is nothing special. "Almost all the residents of Thirteen are soldiers. Anyone who is of legal age is either drafted into the army or chooses another social profession that they want to pursue. In addition to the soldiers, there are other areas such as health and food supply where many work. Otherwise, there are smaller groups like research and IT. Within the army, everyone has a rank based on expendability. The inner circle of the rebels who weren't already part of Thirteen were automatically promoted to higher ranks after Katniss was freed. I don't really care, but people here seem to value that kind of thing."

I nod slowly as we walk past Annie's room, trying not to shiver. "And what does a General do?"

"Planning the war. Devising strategies and tactics and reviewing them with the highest-ranking soldiers who take them to the battlefield. But mostly I take care of Katniss and try to maintain her relationship with Coin. It can be quite ... demanding," Haymitch explains with a sigh. Then he points to the hallway that runs to the left behind my room. We meet a few hospital staffs who give us a friendly nod. Nobody seems to find it funny that Haymitch visits me.

"Coin or Katniss?"

"Coin. She's difficult. Sometimes I wonder how someone with so little knowledge of human nature made it to the top here," he admits, running his fingers through his blond hair, which hangs from his head in limp, sticky strands. And yet the day has only just begun. "But you know Katniss. Until the rescue operation of the victors, she got on my nerves with her sniveling."

"How can you say something like that?" I almost hiss in a well-known reproachful tone, and it makes him look up. He must have seen that I noticed it too because a grin spreads across his lips. Of course, he doesn't mean his words seriously. I know how much Katniss means to him, but I can't help but scold him for his vulgar choice of words.

The canteen is a bare white room with lots of benches and tables and reminds me of a number of prison movies. I can't hold back the question in my head if the canteen in the Capitol prison looks like this. There probably aren't any in the area I was kept. It wouldn't surprise me. The room is deserted and where the food is served at peak times, someone has pulled down gray shutters so you can't see into the kitchen. In times of war, wounded soldiers will probably be the most common patient group here.

Haymitch leads me to a table that is directly on the opposite wall from the entrance and sits on the other side so that the table acts as a barrier between us. "Will you also fight in the war then?" I ask and let myself fall unsteadily onto the cold bench. District 13 seems to be trying to save space even in the canteens. The surface of the table is just wide enough that exactly two trays can be placed next to each other. So we're sitting closer together than expected.

The thought of Haymitch fighting in the war makes me uneasy. He's a victor and strong without question, but you can't compare that to a real soldier. Although it sounds harsh, the fact is that the fights in the Hunger Games take place in a primitive way. I don't recall there ever being guns in the arena. Firearms do their job perfectly, and all you have to do is pull the trigger. Too fast, too boring, too simple to please the Capitol.

Haymitch shakes his head and gives me a look through his blond hair. It's so long that it already falls over his forehead. Instead of meeting his gaze, I stare down at my hands, which rest on the table, clasped together. "I don't fight. Even if I wanted to, they wouldn't let me. To serve on the battlefield, one must go through lengthy training that ends with a final exam. And in my condition, I wouldn't pass it."

"But why are you so high up the hierarchy that you have meetings with the President?", it comes out of me like a gun. These and a lot of other questions scratch under my skin and I would like to demand an immediate answer to each of them. For me, the office of president is characterized by an insurmountable distance to the people. President Snow would never approve of someone like Haymitch in his inner circle. Of course, I can't say for sure, I've never met him, but this very fact reinforces my point: Presidents run the country without being the main focus. Although they make decisions for the general public, they usually have nothing to do with it. Citizens of the common people have no place in government conference rooms. So what characterizes Haymitch to advise President Coin?

"Rescuing Katniss from the arena was my idea and I helped organize the plan's execution," Haymitch continues, but suddenly with more deliberation than before. He lowers his head, and his silvery eyes fix on my hands, giving me a chance to get a closer look at him. "Coin liked the plan and after we got to Thirteen she initially invited me to many strategic meetings." I raise an eyebrow questioningly at the word at initially. Haymitch answers the unasked question and snorts mirthlessly. "The worse the girl's condition got, the more I started to annoy her with my instructions."

I don't know what to think of all this. The thought that he engineered the rescue action that nearly cost me my life sends a hot cold feeling through my body. What Haymitch revealed about District 13 fits my own impressions, which I was able to collect in the short time. Everything is strictly ordered; everyone pursues their own task. They have all waited decades for the right opportunity for this rebellion and have therefore been prepared for it for just as long. Haymitch's telling of the District's rigid division into different labor sectors makes me wonder if people here don't long for more. How many generations have dully done their labor without regaining their freedom in return? Or is it exactly this idea that drives the District to keep going? This system, this way of working is alien to me, but that's probably not because of 13, but because of my very personal past: Everyone has to work here to make their contribution. Like a gear in the skeleton of a clock.

I, on the other hand, grew up in the privileged upper-middle class of the Capitol. I always got exactly what I wanted. That is not the case here. It seems to me that everything is being carefully observed and calculated. In return, everyone gets a piece of the pie. Is this what they want? Equal rights? That everyone has something of the whole and not just a small elite? I never felt part of the elite in the Capitol. My mother would have laughed at the thought alone. I and probably every other human soul always wanted to belong to it. Maybe it was one of the reasons I decided to be part of the Hunger Games back then. Nowhere else is it so easy to meet wealthy and influential men. Quite a few escorts say goodbye to their professional careers with an engagement that ends in a marriage with a powerful sponsor.

"Tell me more about Coin," I demand, interrupting my thoughts, which have drifted far away again. I still find it difficult to focus my attention on one thing or topic for long. Though I have a lot going on in my head about this as well. "Who exactly is this woman and what does she do?"

"You know she's the president," Haymitch replies with a shrug, leaning back in his bench. His voice takes on an unhappy tone and from the way he squints and bites the inside of his cheek I can tell he doesn't seem happy with her. "There's not much more to tell."

"Yes, she's the president," I emphasize, trying to imitate his dissatisfied expression. "You've always hated this hierarchy, so don't tell me you don't find anything wrong with it. I can see your face when you talk about her."

"Okay," he then murmurs, and the lines that draw his face deepen. He raises his arms in a defensive gesture, as if he doesn't know any better himself. "She rations everything. Food, living space, leisure. Even medicine, although that's more difficult at the moment because they don't have enough doctors. I don't like that, even if I understand why she does it. She doesn't get along well with Katniss. If she had her way, we would have gotten Peeta out of the arena, not the girl. Coin can't control her and that bothers her. She's an imperious woman who wants to command everyone because that's the mentality here in Thirteen."

For a while there is silence between us. Rationing is a word I have rarely encountered in my life. Food was plentiful in the Capitol, as were clothing, housing, and access to medical care. I now know a life without these basic needs. I know what it's like to be hungry, so I don't think I'll have much trouble conforming to those rules. Sometimes when Dr. Jennings brings me something to eat, I close my eyes and imagine what might be on my plate instead of the lean quark and fruit. But that's wishful thinking I can push away from me. It's just a spark of hope that I'm trying desperately to keep. In case this hell might have a happy ending one day.

"Shall she lead Panem when President Snow is executed?" Haymitch actually flinches as the words slip through my lips while keeping a straight face. Did he expect me to have a hard time accepting Snow's demise? I have no sympathy for Coriolanus Snow, not after my time in the lowest levels of the Capitol. Even before that, I never really cared about him. He was just there, we all knew it, but he was never the focus of our perception. Maybe that was always his goal.

"There will be new elections as soon as security is guaranteed across the country. So Coin will be at the top for at least a while after the war is over. She'll certainly want to stay in power," Haymitch finally admits, massaging his temple in a weak gesture. He must have been up a long time to be exhausted this early in the morning.

His reply makes me laugh, and Haymitch opens his eyes in wonder at the sound. It's not a happy, ringing laugh, and for a split second I catch a glimpse of disappointment flashing in his gray pupils. For a moment, we're both so distracted by my weary laughter that I'm replaying my fuzzy memories and wonder when the last time was that I laughed honestly and happily next to him. Before I can find an answer to the question, which he obviously can't either, a distant call out of the hallway pulls me back to the present. Footsteps echo past the canteen and merge with the otherwise overwhelming silence around us again. "Isn't it strange that you want to overthrow a dictator, only to then maybe put the next one on the throne?"

You can almost see Haymitch choking on every answer he had prepared. He opens his mouth without making a sound, but the astonishment on his face is contained. Then he looks down thoughtfully. He must have asked himself the same question before. I use his speechlessness to take a closer look at him. In addition to the ever-present fatigue that marks him, I notice for the first time the muscles he acquired all those months ago for the Quarter Quell. Withdrawal has shrunk the mass, but they're still visible. He looks broader and stronger than before Katniss and Peeta, younger even. His skin has gained in natural radiance. He reminds me a bit of his appearance in his prime when he had just won his Games. It doesn't change the fact that his overall appearance is downcast and frustrated. As if he had lost his motivation.

At that moment, Haymitch looks up and I'm not fast enough to avoid him. Our eyes meet across the table and I lack the strength to look away. Neither does he. And as we look at each other and blue meets silver, suddenly something stirs deep inside my chest. A hot, alien sense of longing and peace grows within me, like the small light of a flame that swells with the addition of more oxygen. The warmth, which I hardly recognize after so long, is overwhelming and new and throws me off balance. The pain, the weakness, the fear that have been with me for so long and almost feel normal now are gone. For the first time in an indescribably long time, I can walk through the gate that has always been locked and impassable in front of me. Now I'm the one who opens my mouth in astonishment without being able to make a sound. Without the cold, I almost feel like myself again, like Effie Trinket. As if I finally woke up from the nightmare that gave me so many sleepless nights. I have just enough time to breathe in once in Effie's body and take in the air as it would taste if my fears weren't constantly dragging me to the ground, when panic returns to my limbs, reaching for Effie to pull her back into the darkness. An all-encompassing chill replaces the warmth as quickly as it came.

I can't do anything but hold back the tears. My fingers begin to tremble, and I clench my clasped hands so hard that the movement is invisible to him. Effie is alive. I dare not breathe in again. That's when I realize I've averted my gaze from Haymitch and am looking down at the table between us.

Did Haymitch notice anything? His face shows no emotion. In general, he sits there much too rigidly. Like a stone statue. A quick glance to his chest tells me he's holding his breath too. "I overheard parts of your conversation with Johanna earlier," he admits bluntly, but his voice sounds wrong. Unsure. Torn. Then he seeks my eyes again and I allow him to completely occupy my view once more. This time there is no warmth in my chest. I'm almost disappointed, but I was expecting it. "Please don't worry yourself, Effie. In the Panem I'm busting my ass for, there will be a place for you. Where this place will be is up to you to decide when the time comes. That's the point of the rebellion."

I can't stop the snorting and the emotional chaos in my chest recedes into the background for the time being. I raise my eyebrows almost mockingly and feel a little like Johanna. She must have rubbed off on me negatively. "I don't think the point of the rebellion is to create perspective for the people of the Capitol. The rebellion is taking away those perspectives to punish them for their past privileges."

"Are you serious?" Haymitch asks suspiciously, giving me wary eyes.

I sigh and shake my head in confusion. Not to answer his question, but because I don't have an answer to it. I don't even know what the rebellion is supposed to be exactly. Actually, I don't know anything at all. Without thinking about it, I lower my head and bury my face in my hands. The insides are warm and sweaty and I can hardly breathe, but I can't even look into his eyes. What's all this about? I'm overwhelmed by this war, which I've never heard of before, and unlike Johanna or Haymitch, I can't identify with it. I feel like I'm still stuck at the end of the 75th Hunger Games; everything around me is evolving, only I'm still standing in the same place as four months ago.

Warm fingers close around my hands and Haymitch tries to make me look up in a gentle gesture. I flinch from his touch, but still look up from my palms. My fingers are still shaking, but I can't control this damned feeling inside me. "I'm not ready for this," I whisper in his direction, but tears blind me, and I want to just get up and run away because I don't want him to see me like that. "As a Capitol, it's difficult to understand all of this because my world is dying in the process. I don't care about the Hunger Games or Snow personally, but that's not what the Capitol is all about. For us, the Games were always a part that just existed. I knew who I was. I knew my responsibilities, no matter how awful they were. But now I don't have any of it. I lost everything. My identity, my family, my possessions. The rebels will give none of this back to me."

"You should break away from your possessions. It hasn't yet been decided what will happen to those who were part of the Games. Being imprisoned will make them treat you a lot more lenient." Haymitch's voice has dropped to a neutral murmur, but the look in his eyes betrays a sorrow he's trying to hide behind his indifferent facade. A look at his hands, which he dropped on the table after his hesitant touch, shows me that his fingers have also started to tremble. "Katniss and I will testify for you in court, so you really don't have to worry about starting from scratch. What you want to do after the end of the war is up to you. Much reconstruction work will be necessary. A new system must be created in which everyone can participate, whether Capitol or District."

The thought of being put on trial for my job as an escort causes such dizziness that I have to dig my fingers into the sides of the table to keep from falling backwards. I can hardly hear myself speak. "The last time I was in court, I was sentenced to death."

"I swear to you that nothing like this will ever happen to you again. You'll never see the inside of a prison again, and if that's the last promise I keep," Haymitch assures with such grim, almost angry determination that I actually believe him. He raises his hands and stretches them out in my direction, but then changes his mind and stops moving.

"What does that change? I still have the feeling that I've already lost everything", I then say a little louder and come back to his actual argument. "I no longer have a place to belong. I am a refugee and at the mercy of others."

"You're not the only one. There are many refugees in Thirteen. Even some from the Capitol," Haymitch replies, as if he had already expected such a statement from me. He pauses for a moment, lowers his eyes, then adds in a cynical tone, "I'm a refugee too."

I feel like Haymitch doesn't understand what I'm actually trying to tell him. His words are nothing more than that: words. He wants me to feel better, to relate to the community and I'm grateful to him. But comparing his fate to mine makes no sense because our perspectives after the rebellion couldn't be more different. "But you can go back to your District as if nothing has happened. In my eyes, the Capitol will always be a place that I associate with pain and anxiety," I hiss at him, feeling the lump in my throat.

And then the atmosphere between us suddenly changes into a familiar, bygone game. Haymitch catches my anger and throws it back at me with double the force. I know I pissed him off without even looking at him. I just feel it. Still, the look in his silvery eyes makes my heart skip a beat without knowing why. I see his anger turning into a deeper sadness. Haymitch doesn't usually show emotion, let alone grief. But the emotion on his face is so familiar I almost jump up to shake the panic from my limbs.

"I'd like nothing better than that," Haymitch sneers with a bitterness that sends chills down my spine. He raises his head, and his almost dead eyes make me travel back in time. They stare at me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm ... the enemy. "What a shame there's no District Twelve left for me or anyone to return to. Do you know why? The Capitol razed it to the ground after we escaped from the arena. Katniss's family is lucky they made it out. The greater part is now buried under the ruins their bombs caused." His words are a slap in the face, but I deserve it. I can hardly believe them, yet it fits the Capitol's bizarre brutality.

As I try to grasp the actual meaning of his words, an eerie image forms in my mind. I dreamed about it. All those months ago when they still had me tied to the bed in that perpetually dark room, I dreamed of Haymitch and District 12 and how it burst into flames before us. I had almost forgotten the memory of the dream, but now it seems to conjure it up in my mind. A wave of bad conscience washes over me. I didn't know it. How was I supposed to know about this? I force myself to think of Corporal Cullen; of Adrian. Why didn't they tell me about it? They knew I cared about 12. They could have used that information against me so easily ...

Now that the truth about his District, his home, has come out, I understand the raging anger in Haymitch's storm-gray eyes that burns like a blazing fire. I threw things around without knowing the full story and although his life in 12 was never particularly nice, the pain of his loss is visible. I know him well enough to know that he didn't like much there. But the expression on his face reveals that there must have been a few spots that reminded him of moments of harmony. Probably from his childhood, before he was drawn into the Games and swallowed up in the never-ending swirl of horror.

"Haymitch, I'm sorry," I choke out in a weak voice, feeling the hot tears running down my cheeks. What has become of this world? What happened that everything we feel is based on pain?

Haymitch's face changes, I can't see it clearly because my vision blurs and slips out of my control again. "What I meant to say is that you are not alone," he now backtracks in a surprised tone, as if it had not occurred to him that the news could also affect me. "There are many people here who are just like you and who have also lost everything."

The pain pierces a hole in my stomach, and I have trouble breathing. It feels like I'm falling without ever hitting the ground. A sob shakes my body and I look away. Not because I'm uncomfortable with my tears, but because I can't stand the look on his face. I'm ashamed of my ignorance. Haymitch lost everything years ago and learned to live with it.

Without thinking about it, I stretch out my hands to him across the table. Haymitch grabs them without hesitation, and we cling to each other. My hands are so small that they disappear in his grasp. The sight reminds me of the last few days in the Capitol before everything seemed to vanish into thin air. Haymitch's hands are soft and warm, and his touch is gentle, as if he expects me to flinch at any second.

I don't back down. I press my fingers tightly into his palms, because a small part still fears I'll wake up in the Capitol at any moment. I hold on to Haymitch like he's my anchor that keeps me from drowning. And while I'm holding on to him, I'm sobbing about this damn world. About people who oppress other people and inflict injustice on them just for the sake of their own power. About this country that destroyed everything we held dear.

I know Haymitch will say something bad before he even opens his mouth. We've worked side by side for so long that I know his body language inside and out. The way he slowly sighs to himself like he's holding his breath and then squeezes my hands like he's debating one last time whether what he's about to say is really that important before he comes out with the actual news. "There's something else you should know about."

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