Song inspiration for this chapter: Like An Animal – RÜFÜS DU SOL

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Like An Animal

The sun is already rising behind the city buildings. The morning is colder than expected. I didn't bring a jacket and now I'm freezing. I stand on the penthouse roof and look down at the golden city. The sun bathes them in a bright light. The sight takes my breath away. Ever since I discovered how beautiful it is up here, I've been coming here more often. It is mesmerizing, secluded and quiet, allowing you to indulge in your thoughts without being disturbed. And last night gave me enough to think about.

The relationship between Haymitch and me has improved massively since last year. We don't fight that often anymore. We get along better. You could say we finally found a way to be friends. The thought gives me a pang. I don't even know why. It confuses me. He confuses me.

I want to vent my feelings. I wish I could just yell them out. Here and now. So that they finally disappear and don't come back. So that I can go back to my everyday life. So that I can finally be the woman I was before. Of course I know that the world doesn't work like that. Some things you experience shape you too deeply to undo the outcome. Like cutting your finger with a rusty knife. The wound is closing on the outside as if nothing happened, while an infection is spreading on the inside. Some things cannot be undone.

My shoes are dangling in my left hand. I took them off when I entered the roof. Up here I don't need to hide my true size. I'm taller than any other person in this city. You don't need high heels for that. My mother would certainly have something to say about this way of thinking. The fact that I'm meeting her at lunchtime only makes my mood worse. But eluding Lyssandra Trinket would only make things worse in the long run.

Frustrated, I push myself off the railing and take a step back. I feel a desire in my veins. A desire to destroy something. I don't understand why I'm angry. Maybe at Haymitch for seeing the real Effie. But probably at myself, because I don't know who the real Effie is. I've been acting for so long that I've lost myself somewhere along the way. I have to play my part. Everyone here in the Capitol has a role to play. Without them we wouldn't survive long here.

A mix of anger, nervousness and fear creeps through my veins and makes it impossible for me to think clearly. Dangerous. I don't know what's wrong with me. My feelings are so fervent that I have little control over them. It's like my brain can't remember how I even hold the emotions up until last year. As if I had forgotten it. As if my mask had cracked.

My feet carry me back to the railing. I stagger rather than walk. My muscles feel heavy like I've drunk copious amounts of alcohol. I don't know where this weakness comes from. Nowadays I don't know anything anymore.

"Effie."

I flinch, but don't turn around. I don't have the instincts to hear when he's sneaking up. Now that he's standing behind me, I want to laugh. About myself. About my stupidity. I'm starting to get the feeling that I'm no longer safe from him anywhere in the penthouse. Maybe my fate really isn't kind to me.

The first thing I see when I turn around are Haymitch's gray eyes reflecting the sun. The light makes the omnipresent dissatisfaction disappear from his face. He looks so calm all of a sudden. If it wasn't for that expression in his pupils. Lately a reticent worry has crept in when they're pointed at me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, my voice sounding distant.

"The question should be what you are doing here," he replies with a touch of amusement. I can feel him eyeing me. "I am almost always up here at this time."

I shrug. The truth is I couldn't stay in my room any longer. And because I bumped into him in the dining room last time, I opted for a more secluded area this time.

When I owe Haymitch an answer, his eyes go to the shoes dangling in my fingers. A smile creeps onto his face. "No need to feel big anymore?"

I avoid his eyes. My stomach is tightening and I'm having trouble controlling my moves. I have no strength for these superficial conversations. Just because we've crossed paths doesn't mean he has to feel obligated to talk to me. It drains me.

Haymitch walks over to me, casual on the outside, but I see his jaw clench. I expect him to stop a few meters in front of me, but he doesn't. Instead, he enters my private space and grasps the railings on either side of my waist. I'm trapped between his body and the railing pressing against my back. Haymitch lowers his head and as close as he is, our eyes are now only inches apart. A gasp escapes my throat, but even if I could, I wouldn't flinch.

"You're suffering," Haymitch says softly, and the wind carries his words away. "I see that you're suffering, even if you don't want to tell me about it. And that's okay. But I see it and the kids see it, too."

The defiant attitude I try to adopt doesn't last three seconds. "Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't know what to tell you," I murmur, still avoiding his eyes. The steady silver that makes my heart beat faster. "I am overwhelmed. I used to be able to push the fear away, just ignore it."

"Sounds familiar," Haymitch admits, and now I look up. His stubble is unkempt and uneven, as is his hair. They cover his attractive face. As if he hadn't bothered to take care of anything after getting up. But the well-known smell of alcohol that usually surrounds him is missing. "Liquor has its perks," he continues, as if reading my face.

"I'm not there yet." The alcohol helps Haymitch keep his own demons at bay. If he reduces the amount now, he must feel like me. Surrendered to his fears. It would explain his own bags under his eyes.

"Hopefully it stays that way." Haymitch manages a grin, for my sake I realize in amazement. His fingers, which have just closed around the railing, wander to my back. I allow it, letting my body relax in his arms. As if what he's doing is nothing unusual. "One drunkard is enough."

"Are you drunk?" I ask quietly. I already know the answer. His fingers tremble against my body. He's sober and trying to fight the urge to drink. I raise my arms, which have been hanging uselessly down to me, and press them to Haymitch's chest. His eyes widen slightly for a moment, but he's good at hiding it. When I start drawing invisible patterns on his shirt, he relaxes; even leans towards me.

Our eyes meet again and Haymitch isn't quick enough to force indifference onto his moves. We both have our facades. I hide behind enthusiasm and he hides behind arrogance.

"The lack of alcohol makes it worse," says Haymitch finally, only indirectly answering my question. He sounds hoarse and breathless and distant at the same time. His hands travel up my body. The trembling fingers of his left hand slide to my cheek. My own fingers pause on his chest. "I feel so . . . awake. As if I've slept for years. I look at you and I feel like the past few years have been nothing but a dream."

Something freezes inside my chest. I push him away and Haymitch backs away from me without hesitation. As if he had half expected such a reaction. "No dream, just reality," I reply coldly.

Haymitch sighs behind me, but I don't wait to see if he has more to say. I'm retreating. His heavy steps reveal that he is following me. It's almost time for breakfast anyway.

As I descend the stairs to our floor, I wonder how I've let him lull me into a false sense of security for the second time in 24 hours. I'm making myself vulnerable by opening up to him. He's still the same sneering Haymitch, who enjoys seeing me suffer, who throws insults at me, who leaves me alone with the tributes, knowing they will die. Who leaves me alone with their deaths. How I'd like to throw all this at his face.

My head is so full of thoughts that I only realize what I've helped myself to from the buffet when I've sat down at the table in the dining room. A round bun, not from the Capitol, which I must have fished out of the districts' basket, strawberry jam and some fruit salad.

I lift my head and realize that Haymitch hasn't followed me to breakfast. Better this way. While the red-haired Avox brings me orange juice and a coffee, I skeptically stare at the bun. I murmur an absent Thanks as the Avox wants to disappear behind the kitchen door. It takes a moment for me to notice his body out of the corner of my eyes, suddenly frozen in place.

I raise my head questioningly as it suddenly dawns on me. My eyes widen for a moment before I regain control of my facial muscles. The redhead gives me a thin smile and disappears. I thanked him. I've never done that before. My mother would immediately scold me for it if she had witnessed. You are forbidden to talk to them. They are here to do their duty, just as you are here to do yours.

Something about me is changing, I've definitely noticed that in the last few days. I'm not sure why though. What should surprise me the most though is that I like it. But I'm not surprised. As if my brain was already aware of what was happening to me. When I get a headache, I let the topic sink in. Sighing, I turn back to my odd bun and cut it open. The flour is different, darker and grainier than that of the Capitol.

"It's coming from Twelve," I hear a warm, pleasant voice say behind me, and I turn. Peeta is standing at the buffet, looking at me with amusement. "Better than the bread here, in my opinion," he adds, sitting down across from me.

I nod gratefully at his knowledge and smear jam on one side, though I'm still not sure if it'll really taste better. My gaze wanders to his plate and I recognize the same bun on it. At the same time, my stomach sinks as I ponder his words. Of course it tastes better for him, it comes from home after all. Probably baked by his parents or siblings.

"The bread won't bite, Effie," Peeta remarks after taking the first bite while I still haven't started eating.

His comment is so absurd that I start laughing before I can stop myself. Then I bring the bread to my mouth and taste it. Peeta is right. It tastes really good. But whether it tastes better is debatable. They use more salt than the Capitol bakers, adding their own flavor to the bread that contrasts nicely with the jam.

"You're right," I say, nodding to him. "The taste is good. Different, but interesting."

His smile stretches from ear to ear. "Many thanks."

It seems to do him good to talk about his family. When I ask him about his job at the bakery, he starts talking his head off. And any blind man would have seen how he starts to wrap up in the memories. Katniss is the exact opposite of him. When she enters the room and hears Peeta talk about home, she turns on her heel and flees. Everyone deals with memories differently.

I sometimes wonder if Katniss hates me for reaping her sister's name back then, thereby entraining her in a chain of events that she'd otherwise never have had anything to do with. For a moment I wrestle with the idea of just asking Peeta about it, but as kind as he is, I'm sure he'd only say what I want to hear. He's really good at that.

Peeta is a wonderful companion. He tells his story, jumps to another topic and whenever he realizes that I don't want to share certain things about my past, he always manages to draw me in without addressing it.

We talk a lot about 12. What has changed since I was there the last time, since they have a new Head Peacekeeper. But we never mention the reason behind all the events, how Katniss's action in the arena put them all in this position. That would be far too dangerous. Not that I'm blaming for Katniss, it isn't her fault that the people in the districts don't see it as an act of love, but as an act of disobedience. And the Capitol would never allow that.

Then Haymitch appears in the doorway. He nods to Peeta, but his eyes are on me. I avoid him as much as possible. My head hurts too much to argue with him now. He doesn't seem too bothered by the risk of an outburst on my part because, to my regret, he sits down next to Peeta. Across me. Sometimes it's really easy to hate him. Unfortunately, I can't ignore him that well.

"Hasn't Katniss shown up yet?" The question was aimed at both of us, but his gray eyes fix on me only.

I tilt my head in his direction and am immediately met with Haymitch's gaze. His eyes offer me a silent apology. Although I have no clue what he is apologizing for. He looks serious and believable enough, so different from usual, that my anger at him evaporates as quickly as it came. My feelings betray me once again. How easy it would be to be able to hate him ...

I nod to him so he understands I'm not mad at him anymore. But deep down, I still feel exposed to him. I don't like the feeling.

"Since when do you eat bread from Twelve, sweetheart?" Haymitch's eyebrows have risen and he's eyeing me with interest. Shivering, my hands travel up my upper arms. He's acting like he's not talking to Effie Trinket, but to someone else. All of a sudden, I feel cornered by his curiosity.

I've been acting so strange lately that I'm bringing my identity to the surface, which I've hidden under a perfect mask for all these years. To protect me. And now this man who is responsible for part of this dilemma is trying to dig it up. God knows why he's doing it. My eyes move back and forth frantically and get stuck at the exit. Like an animal running away from its hunter.

I don't understand myself. I'm Effie Trinket. A woman who doesn't mince matters to put Haymitch or any other man in his place, who is courageous and does not run away from her problems. Like an animal. Hunter or prey?

"Really, Haymitch, you're interested in my bread taste now?," I reply arrogantly, lowering my gaze. I remember last night enjoying his strong arms enclosing me like a cocoon. Looking at him now, I feel no such desire. Maybe it's because I'm still mad at him. Maybe it's because he saw you. Without makeup and without a wig or other stuff the Capitol pushed on you. But did it push me, or did I volunteer?

I'm not ready for this yet. Today it gnaws at me more than yesterday. I had other concerns yesterday. As I finish the rest of the bread, I realize that the table has gone completely silent. I look up in wonder and realize what I was missing. Haymitch didn't reply to my dismissal. I look at him across the table, but he's staring down at his plate, his face tense, like something's gnawing on him. He may simply be holding back an unkind comment.

In my mind I go over my plan for today. Today, on the last day of training together, I will meet my mother in the city on request. Until Katniss and Peeta are released, of course. Before Peeta leaves the room, I wish them both the best of luck and request that he tell Katniss as well. Have fun would hardly do the job. May odds be always in your favor.

Now Haymitch and I are alone. He seems to have just been waiting for Peeta to leave. Because as soon as the boy disappears around the corner, Haymitch lifts his head, lets the last remains of his coffee disappear down his throat and his eyes meet mine. There is silence for a few minutes. He seems to be looking for the right words. Finally he clears his throat. "What happened last night ...", he begins and tries not to give me a pitying look, after all he doesn't want to be pityed himself. "Does that happen often?"

I really shouldn't tell Haymitch the truth. He's already caused enough havoc and would probably only make things worse. I don't know what my eyes are telling him. I don't know anything anymore. The facade is crumbling. I also clear my throat because I'm afraid my voice will break otherwise. "Lately," I admit, staring at my untouched orange juice.

Why did I thank the Avox?

I hate headaches. They only show up when it suits you the least. Like right now. I've been wanting to think about it all morning, but my head threw a spanner in the works. And now when I look up, look at Haymitch, I wonder why I'm sitting here. With him. Why do I bother to talk to him. He's a drunkard. The next time he's drunk he'll forget all about it anyway. Sometimes I like the drunk Haymitch better than the sober one. At least you can be sure about his actions. Sober Haymitch is a completely different person. Inscrutable.

"I know I said earlier that you don't have to tell me anything. But maybe talking will help you. I don't think you have many who would understand." Haymitch sounds friendlier than ever, probably thinking of giving me time.

I don't answer. I certainly won't tell Haymitch about it. It's none of his business. What is he thinking? What of his actions towards me justify such an intimate question? Yesterday was just a stupid coincidence, just as this morning. I'm Effie Trinket. I don't need his pity. Wherever I go, men fall to my feet and if I want to find someone to talk to about my problems, I could choose anyone. He shouldn't presume too much.

"No thanks." I quietly push the chair back and want to get up.

"I have them, too." Haymitch's voice is thin, barely more than an agonized whisper. It alone makes me stop moving. I lean on the table and watch him.

"Nightmares?" I ask, a little confused, and the last bit of arrogance I wanted to strut out of the room with disappears into thin air. I see him nod absently and suddenly realize how much strength it must have taken him to tell me the truth. Haymitch looks back at me and I can see how hard he's trying to push back all those horrible memories and stuff them in a deep drawer of his brain.

I carefully lower myself back into my chair. Then he nods slightly. It looks more like he's bobbing his head, but we've known each other long enough to understand each other's language.

"I see them," I finally admit. "Every night." Now that I'm consciously thinking about my dreams, my body starts shaking. Not as much as yesterday, just a little, but it's enough to make my throat tighten. I look at him, helplessly.

Of course, Haymitch knows immediately who I mean. It's not for nothing that we've been working together for ten years. "You draw them, don't you?"

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