Tragic but Convenient

Hey, everybody!  Here is my not-so-great Hunger-Games-inspired attempt at this prompt.  I tried to make it so it would mostly make sense even if you haven't read the books, but, that being said, if you haven't read the books, it also gives some stuff away (nothing major though, I think) from Part I of the first book, so if you care about spoilers, just be forewarned.  Anyway, please feel free to critique if you are so inclined and I can't wait to see what you all post!

            My hands fold and unfold restlessly in my lap, my pulse throbbing in my fingertips.  For a moment, my head feels cold and numb, and I can't tell if I'm on the verge of passing out from anxiety, or if it's just the Capitol climate control.  I decide on the latter, tell myself that I am not panicking because this is not a big deal.  I just need to tell a near-stranger the details of my long-standing, unrequited love for a girl who may already be plotting my murder.  Compared with what awaits me at tomorrow's interview—and then, of course, in the Games after that—this should be nothing.

            Haymitch should be here by now, counseling me on the best methods to win over the crowd during my interview so that they will be more inclined to send me food if I find myself starving in the arena, or a weapon if they are deluded enough to think that I'm capable of using it.  He is late, unsurprisingly.  As I wait for him to decide whether trying to save my life is worth the effort, my eyes bounce around the sitting room on the twelfth floor of the Training Center, trying to find something even mildly comforting in the stark blue-white lighting and the perfectly polished lines of the sleek, neon-hued furniture.  Under the fluorescent lights, even my own hands have become eerily pale and unfamiliar, and the futon beneath me, with its lavender leather and strange golden sheen, exudes an air of irritation over my marring its beauty by sitting on it.  I find myself calculating idly how many dead people have sat here before me.  Seventy-three Games times two District 12 tributes, plus two extra from the second Quarter Quell, minus one Haymitch, leaves one hundred forty-seven.  I wonder how often they change the furniture.

            Only now does it occur to me that my anxieties may be misplaced.  In less than a week, most likely, I'll have made that number one hundred forty-eight, and I'm sitting here nearly faint over the prospect of discussing my feelings.  Then again, we all know my death is inevitable—unless I happen to be provided the opportunity to bake the other tributes to death—so it's probably best that I'm not dwelling on it anyway.

            A cough from the doorway behind me.  Haymitch has apparently determined that my life may have some worth.  "Well, then..." he says, easing onto the couch opposite me, leaning back casually.  "Not feeling the love for your District 12 buddy anymore, hmm?"

            It had occurred to me that my request for individual training for the interview might be interpreted this way, as an acknowledgement of Katniss as my enemy, so I had been prepared for this kind of reception, but the irony of Haymitch's wording snags unexpectedly in my brain and makes me falter anyway.  "Actually, I—I have a plan.  For both of us, I mean."

            Haymitch's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as he waits for me to explain why, in that case, only one of us is here.  He gives off the impression of having just quietly decided that I may be insane.

            "I didn't think she would... agree with it."  To state things mildly.

            He laughs wryly, as if her disagreement was a given.  "Okay, well, try me.  What've you got?"

            My heart is in my fingertips again, and the harsh lighting makes Haymitch look harsher than usual, and unsympathetic.  Not the kind of person I'd normally turn to with my innermost secrets and emotions.  On the upside, I'll be dead within the week, and that at least has some liberating consequences.

            "I tell them I'm in love with her," I say.  "That I've had a crush on her for years, but she never noticed me, and now that she has..."  I trail off, staring at the pristine white floor and trying futilely to distance myself from the situation.  "You know.  All this.  It should drum up some sympathy for both of us."

            A smile has slipped onto Haymitch's face, and it makes me feel like a conspirator in a particularly crafty plot.  It is decidedly unsettling.  "It should?" he asks.  "It will!  You will be all everyone's talking about.  And with your interview last"—a brief laugh interrupts—"you'll knock the other tributes right out of all the tiny Capitol brains.  It's perfect.  You'll both have sponsors before you even clear the Cornucopia."

            His enthusiasm, verging on giddiness, puts a sickening feeling in the core of my stomach.  Of course I had known that my plan was perfect.  Of course I had known that he would be overjoyed with it.  But as he rambles about the best timing for my bombshell and the various types of small talk I should engage in before it, I can't help but feel that he is happy for my tragedy.  It will make his job much easier.

            "So, details," he says.  "Let's get your story straight."  As if I am making this up.

            I think of the things that I can't tell all of Panem.  I can't talk about that day in the rain, how she looked then, independent but desperately alone.  I can't talk about burning the bread so I could throw it out in her sight, give her something without raising my mother's suspicions, choosing our most expensive kind, with the golden raisins and walnuts, because it had the most energy to give a starving family.  I can't talk about all the years after that, watching from the kitchen when she would come to the door to sell my father an illegally hunted squirrel or an illegally gathered bunch of berries, looking like she had just conquered the world and was carrying it around in her game sack.

            "We're in the same class at school," I say finally.  "I always wanted to talk to her, get to know her better, but I never had the nerve."

            "Good," Haymitch nods thoughtfully.  "Simple and unglamorous, but relatable.  I like the approach."

            He moves on, discussing my supposed sense of humor and natural charm.  His matter-of-fact compliments would make me uncomfortable if I were paying any attention, but I'm still stuck in front of the kitchen stove back home, with two loaves of bread in my hands and a girl starving outside.  It was so easy then, protecting her.

            When the four hours of training for the interview are over, Haymitch leads the way to lunch, but pauses in the doorway of the dining room, a thought just now occurring to him.  He turns to face me and lowers his voice.  "Hey, umm... you're not actually in love with her, are you?"

            I can't say anything.

            He looks pale and weary in the fluorescent light.  "Damn."