Personal Problems

Small Victories

Disclaimer; I still don't own the Hunger Games, but I wish!

I was curled into myself on the couch finally thinking Haymitch had given up on me just as everyone else had. I smiled idly at the thought. Maybe I'd get my wish after all. It wasn't so much to ask of this world. I'd done more than enough for them; couldn't they do me this one little thing?

I sighed softly huddling into the little warmth my torso provided when my body was folded in half. It was a soft warmth that I could feel slowly draining from my weakened body. I'd been healed the best I could while in the Capitol, but all of it went to waste as soon as I reached District 12. I didn't do more than that of which Haymitch forced upon me. I didn't feel the need too. I don't want too.

I let my eyes slip closed. My lids were tired and heavy. But my mind wouldn't give me any rest. It was in pure chaos and so I simply lie there. My breathing even and my mind painfully active. I was reliving everything as I often did in moments like these. Every scar that should've been there stung. My whole body felt like it was on fire. I live in my own personal hell. I refuse to self-medicate. I'd rather die and I'm so close…

My door hit the wall with a sickening crack, but I was too tortured and weak to even care. I didn't even bother to open my eyes. I saw no need to. It was just Haymitch, everyone else had long given up on me. The phone that once rang off the hook slowly died off and now I barely even remember I have such a thing. My TV has long since been muted only the colors flashing into my numbed mind. The house, that in another life might've been spotless, looked a lot like Haymitch's. It reeked of body odor and soured food. The counters were cluttered and stained with various substances. It was a total mess, just like me, just like Haymitch…

I was vaguely aware of his hardened stare. I choose to ignore him like I usually do. I know he probably thinks I'm asleep which he figures is some form of improvement, but I haven't slept in days. My body and mind are in constant pain. I have no way to relieve it so I just deal with it the best I can.

I feel a dip where my frail and sad excuse of a body doesn't reside. I limply roll into him, it takes too much effort to stay in one place, I simply don't weigh enough anymore. He sighs heavily, for what reason I have no idea. I've told him many times to just give up on me and let me die, but he always has that glint in his eyes. I can't describe it or pinpoint a certain emotion, but whatever it is he always comes back swinging harder and more motivated. I don't know what compels him to bother with a waste of space like me, but it really is troublesome, though I've given up on arguing. I don't think I could anymore. I haven't much a voice or the will.

I feel him shift moving me with him. My legs are curled into his right side and my arms, of which cradle my head, are brushing into his other side. I smell the alcohol on him, it's turned into a certain air of cologne for him, without it I'd question if I were hallucinating or not, but this smell proves he's real. Nothing I can quite conger in my imagination smells like it. So I know it's real when he gingerly touches my hair his hands shaking as he does so. But I begin to question myself again when I feel wet droplets plopping onto my waxy face.

Is he crying or am I crazy? The latter seems to be the truth at the moment. Why would he bother enough to cry over me? I'm nothing special. A tool used, but everyone's done with me, so why are you sticking around…? A soft sigh escaped me and I curled into him. He didn't seem to question my actions though. He probably chalked it up to sleeping.

He seemed content to stroke my hair and for some reason I found myself calming down. The pain in my body lessened slowly until I felt virtually nothing at all. My mind slowed at the same pace. I was rather enjoying the feel of his fingers gingerly working through the greasy knots and tangles. My scalp tingled and my body once ridged with pain relaxed. It was becoming increasingly harder and harder to hang onto the fringes of reality. When it finally became too much for my feeble mind to handle I let go. He'd won again; my personal problem would live to see me barely function through a few more weeks.