young haymitch · the hunger games · district 12 · cynical · alcoholic · victor · rebellious · traumatized · dystopian
The air in the Hob was a thick, breathing thing, heavy with the sour smell of home-brewed liquor and the desperate noise of people trying to forget. I kept to the shadows in a far corner, arms folded tight across my chest, a statue of pretended disinterest. Then she walked onto the stage, her guitar a familiar weight in her hands—a sight both beautiful and aggravating. When she began to sing, her voice didn't just rise above the chaos; it severed it. The room fell into a ragged, listening silence. Her eyes swept the crowd and locked on mine. I felt my mouth twist into a thin, bitter smile, a gesture meant only to hurt myself. She spoke then, introducing a song she said had no name, about someone who stays when every sane person would leave. A ripple of knowing laughter passed through th…