Pain seeped through his body through his fingernails, but even that wasn't enough to remind him that he was living. He screamed, head to the heavens, begging for death. Of course that wouldn't work. Who was to hear him? If God existed, that little girl would never have died. But she did. And Gale killed her. There was no confirmation, but he knew. How could he not? Explosions and snares and bombs were his specialty. He could never redeem himself. Katniss, the girl who he loved, the girl who moved on, would never forgive him. Never. That was probably best, he figured, for her to be in that Mellark boy's arms instead of his own.

Screamed again. Still pleading with whatever divine, holy spirit that would listen to kill him. To slit his throat or hit him with lightning. Anything. Anything at all. Anything to rid himself of this torturous life. "Kill me! Just kill me now! Do it, go on!" he howled. "You've never hesitated to put me through pain before! Kill me!"

But still nothing.

Throat raw, he clambered to his feet. If god wasn't going to kill him, then he would just do the job himself. In the kitchen now, his fingers working of their own accord as they push the unwanted cutlery out of the way. Now they've clasped around a knife, so tight in his trembling hand, and it's just a matter of a simple swipe..

"Gale!"

He knew that voice. That soft and silvery, gentle-toned voice of someone from back at District 12. But it wasn't enough for him to turn back, to drop his weapon and stop this.

"Gale, please! Stop!"

Something warm wrapped around his hands, prying at his fingers to try and make him drop the knife. Only now was he conscious of how violently he was shaking. "No.. no.. I have to.. I killed her.."

"It isn't your fault, Gale! Please!"

It was something about he way she said that. That one word at the end of her sentence. Please. The tone so much like Katniss's. Only it wasn't Katniss. Because Katniss didn't care for him. She has back at 12, wrapped in Mellark's arms.. gone and unreachable..

His grip loosened, and the knife fell from his fingers. Something delicate has wrapped around him, but everything is a blur and the only thing he's capable of making out is long blonde hair. "I killed her.. I killed her.." he kept chanting, because it was true. And undeniable fact. An act that lost the person he had loved for so long.

"No, Gale," came the soft vioce as she slowly helped him into a sitting position, her arms still tightly clasped around his trembling body. "You didn't kill her. Prim. It's not your fault. Trust me."

These soft, gentle words soothed him. And, eventully, helped him through it. When she became of age, and the two had been on several dates, he asked her to marry him. Yes. That was what she had said. So many times as she happily jumped and cried. That moment would be forever plastered in his mind. That and the moment when she accepted the name of Delly Hawthorne.