Long time, no fanfiction. Okay, so this is my first HG fanfic. Usually I stick with writing for Animorphs, but I decided to give this fandom a shot. The lyrics are taken from the song My Skin by Natalie Merchant. I wouldn't really call it a songfic, though, since the lyrics are all spread out and jumbled up. This fic contains gruesome death. That is a Warning! This starts off before the epilogue in MJ, about two years after the war.
Also, this was meant to be a two-shot. I may or may not post the other half up. That depends on reviews and my laziness. If, in any case, I don't post the ending... Well, you'll see. You'll just have to come up with your own conclusion, or leave it at how it 'ends'.
A special thanks goes to my best friend who helped with the editing of this story. (No, you will not have the ending you want. =.=)
Disclaimor: I don't own The Hunger Games trilogy, or the song My Skin.
Enjoy and Review!
Deep in the Shadows
I've been treated so wrong,
I've been treated so long.
As if I'm becoming untouchable.
Gale noticed how in books, and movies, and make-believe stories, that kind of day when everything seemed to go downhill was always ominous and gloomy and full of bad spirits. The sky was usually pitch-black, and the atmosphere was tense, crawling with depression. It always rained or was a winter-cold day, and the protagonist had this intuition, this gut-feeling that something was going to go wrong.
He, however, didn't notice anything wrong that particular cool, autumn day when he grabbed his sweater and headed off to work. The morning had come and gone smoothly, the routine progressing as usual. He would be abruptly awakened by his mom's overly early, incredibly annoying alarm clock (the stupid machine rung at 5:00 AM even though his shift didn't start until 7:30 AM), groan and complain for five minutes, cover his head with a pillow, doze off for twenty more minutes, get re-awakened by a screaming 7 year-old Posy who apparently thought she was a professional gymnast and kept somersaulting on his stomach, get up, brush his teeth, shower, have breakfast, have a short one-on-one sparring session with Rory (the kid was looking like a man now at 15), earn an eye-roll from his mother, get dressed, impress his family with some new sarcastic comments, kiss his mom and Posy good-bye, ruffle Vick's hair, and leave.
Since moving to District 2, things had calmed down a bit. He still woke up in a cold sweat some nights after seeing visions of a certain blue eyed burning blond and wallowed in guilt and self-pity a few days, but it was somewhat bearable. It wasn't in any way perfect, but it was okay.
Either way, that fateful day decided to finally set the ball in motion when he received a phone call later that day. His home had been attacked.
Some would argue that Gale successfully composed himself and got to his home fast. They were wrong. He was in hysterics. Thoughts and emotions were coursing through his mind and his seemingly rehearsed behavior was instinct playing its part. After all, who would act so calmly in such a situation?
However, arriving at his house was a different matter. Trucks and cars and big white vans were parked everywhere and Gale had to leave his automobile a few houses down the road. A crowd had gathered around his two-story home and whispers were heard when Gale arrived at the scene of crime. It wasn't until he came into view of his front yard though, that he truly lost it.
Red contrasted white and the letters seemed to blur and mix on the household wall. Revenge is sweet.
He didn't fully comprehend the meaning of the words at first, but when he did, his gray eyes widened and officers try to stop the black-haired man (to no avail) as he ran and literally crashed through the door.
He couldn't stop the blood-piercing scream that escaped his throat as he took in the gruesome sight. It appeared his family was having dinner like they did every day and was taken by surprise when the attackers barged in.
Hazelle was still leaning against her chair but her body slumped, her eyes were closed, and she had a crimson stain across her chest, blood staining her dress and the nearby floor. Her face had lost all color, and she felt cold. She had suffered the least.
His eyes focused on Rory next. Well, it was more like he tripped over Rory next. The boy was sprawled on the floor; frozen eyes wide open in fear, his for supine. A slash with blood still fresh traveled from his abdomen to his left thigh. A bullet was embedded in his right shoulder.
Vick wasn't so lucky. The twelve year old held bruises on his face, and down his arm, and oh God his head... His head has been smashed in. Gale could see the white of his skull under the thick red of his blood. The scent nearly knocked him off his feet. He resisted the urge to throw up.
And Posy...oh sweet Posy. Her once adorable and innocent face was decorated with bruises of all colors. Her silky, pink dress had been ripped to shreds and Gale could see the lashes and cuts on her skin. Her left eye was now purple, and her tears had still not totally dried up.
And then Gale, big, strong, battle scarred Gale. The same Gale who had fought side-by-side with the Mockingjay, who never cried, unbreakable Gale, fell to his knees, a sob escaping his lips. He held Posy's limp, dead body to his chest and let tears freely stream down his face.
What kind of monster would be capable of harming, of torturing, such a precious human being?
A man in a black uniform came up to him, asking if he could please leave. Gale didn't budge, holding Posy even tighter. The man sighed and attempted to grab the little girl from Gale's grasp, but Gale lashed out and attacked the man. He kicked and screamed at him not to ever touch his little sister, all the while yelling obscenities and curses. The man made the mistake of pointing out that the girl was already dead, and Gale lunged at him.
Three more men in black rushed in and pulled Gale away from the now blood-stained man with a broken nose. Gale, in turn, continued raging, and screaming, and crying, and asking 'how the hell did this happen?'
A fourth man sneaked up behind him, (not a hard thing to do considering he wasn't even sane at the moment) this time in a white uniform, and Gale felt a sharp needle pierce his arm, and he instantly went limp. The sudden silence was almost as scary as his screams.
The next time he woke up was in a white hospital bed in a straight jacket. There wasn't anything physically wrong with him, of course, but the medics were afraid he'd go into a fit again and hurt somebody, including him.
He didn't care. The doctors doubted he even knew where he was. After all he was sedated with morphling. His only actions were a gaze into oblivion.
He didn't talk. He didn't eat. Nurses had to come and inject nutrients into his body, and even then he would puke sometimes.
Nightmares were his daily visitors now. Horrors were his guests. Guilt his companion. Unconsciousness his friend.
But Gale, being Gale, couldn't stand being trapped inside four walls for too long. Of course he knew where he was. Of course he was perfectly aware of his surroundings. He just chose to ignore them, to not make his sanity be known. Why would he? The doctors certainly didn't care what he was up to. He was just a victim. Another patient. Another occupant of their room.
Besides, what was there to talk about? "Yes, doctor. I am perfectly fine after seeing my family's massacred bodies. I am sorry for attacking that police officer. Sooo... How was your day?"
Nevertheless, a week and a half after the incident, Gale found his voice. He looked at the nurse attending him, with the deadest pair of eyes she had ever seen.
"When can I leave?" His voice was raspy, rough, like if it'd been months since he used it. It might have. He didn't know. It seemed like an eternity since the day.
The nurse gaped at him, flabbergasted. He spoke! Gale looked at her, slightly annoyed. Yes lady. I do have a tongue.
"Well?" The young woman, she seemed to be in her 20's, closed her mouth and attempted to compose herself. Gale didn't know if he should be annoyed or amused. Maybe both. He felt nothing, though. Only emptiness.
"Yes, well... I'd have to consult the doctor about that. I'm sure you'll get out in no time."
Surprisingly, the story didn't make the news. There were rumors all over District 2 about the assassination, and whispers were heard in the streets about Gorgeous Gale's breakdown (the nickname had caught on during the war after watching all the propos), but the tragedy never made it to the screens.
Paylor's orders.
Apparently, the killing had been done by a pro-Capital terrorist group that the new government had been trying to get rid of for months. No need to let the citizens know that, though. Why get them worried?
Anyway, with this new incident, Paylor was one step closer to finding out who these people were and what they wanted.
So far, the group had only sabotaged government issues and stolen a few documents. This was the first time they had openly attacked people.
Paylor smirked. Idiots. With this new stunt that they pulled they might as well have drawn a big red "X" on their foreheads. Now the government and anybody who knew the kid were going to be looking twice as hard for them.
She sighed, time to make a few calls.
Haymitch grunted and rolled over on his bed when he heard the phone ring. Ugh... Ignore it and it'll go away. That was too much to ask for, though, and the phone kept on with its incessant song. On the tenth ring, (Who the hell was that stubborn?) Haymitch tired of the annoying tune and got up to answer the goddamn thing. Why would someone call so -oh. His eyes met the clock, 12:00 PM.
"What do you want?" It might not have been so early, but they still woke him up.
"My, aren't we a charmer?" A female voice came on through the receiver. Haymitch rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, well, most of us don't appreciate being woken up to the sound of such a lovely melody." The voice in the other line chuckled, and then grew serious.
"You hear about Hawthorne?" Pause.
"Yeah." And he had. Two days prior Paylor had called him and informed him of the incident in 2. He would never admit it, but he felt sorry for the kid. Gale hadn't really done anything that bad to deserve it. Then again, he hadn't done anything that horrible for it to be taken out on his family, either. Maybe that's why he was so sympathetic; he had gone through the same thing. "Guess he officially joined our club."
"Club No Life," muttered the girl.
"No, Princess, I do have a life. I raise animals."
"Raising stupid ducks isn't having a life Mitch. It's just a pathetic way of losing your time."
"I was talking about Mellark and Sweetheart, and they're geese," Haymitch smirked.
"Speaking of Flame Girl, have you told her?" Another pause. This time more awkward and lasting longer. A sigh. "She has a right to know Haymitch." He shook his head, then realized she couldn't see him.
"No. It's too soon. She's still... mourning."
"It's been two years. She still hasn't gotten over it?"
"Have you gotten over it, Johanna?" he asked harshly. None of them had. It would haunt them forever.
"No, but I don't go shutting off everybody from my life."
"Johanna..."
"Fine, fine. Either way, he's still her best friend."
"And he's still the guy who created the bombs that killed the little girl." He didn't really blame him, though. After all, he didn't know they were going to use his creation against children and it was war.
"Whatever. If it hadn't killed her, she wouldn't care." The thought made him uncomfortable. It was probably true, but it sounded so cold.
"You go ahead and tell her that," he countered.
"Maybe I will. Somebody needs to wake her up. Either way, if you don't tell her, Hawthorne is going to go nuts attempting to face it alone."
"Why don't you go comfort him, Mason?"
"I have Annie to take care of, Haymitch." And with that, she hung up the phone.
Haymitch paused. Should he tell her? He shook his head. No. He had heard her rants about what a monster Gale had become. Besides, he knew it would hurt her to know the kid's family had died. They were like her second family. The news would also make her nightmares worse... No. Katniss wouldn't find out. Not yet, anyway. The kid would just have to toughen up and deal with it alone. They all had.
Gale walked around aimlessly through the streets of 2. It had been a week since he had been let out of the hospital, and three weeks since the assassination. Twenty-four days to be exact.
He was unrecognizable in the crowds with his black hoodie, tousled hair, and puffy red eyes. His hoodie cast a shadow on his pale face, his original olive skin drained of any color, and there were bags under his eyes, his gray irises deep, void of any emotion. His jeans were baggy and stained with all kinds of food. It was amazing how much weight he had lost over the past weeks. He looked more like a ruffian than a war veteran.
Not like he cared either way. He didn't give a damn about a lot of things these days.
He had been renting a hotel room for the past week. He couldn't bring himself to go back to his house. Not where the rotting smell of corpses still lingered in the air, and the sight of blood was enough to drive him up the wall. Who knew if their bodies were still in there? Their dead, cold, motionless bodies.
Tears threatened his vision and he choked back a sob. He stopped for a few seconds and leaned against a brick wall, trying to compose himself. What was wrong with him? He had done more crying these past weeks than he had in years. Wasn't he stronger than this? Didn't he lose a father at age 13 without shedding a tear? Didn't he take full responsibility of his family without flinching? Didn't he get rejected by the love of his life without a word? Didn't he win a war without bawling his eyes out? He was unbreakable. Untouchable. Nothing could hurt him.
But then, his family had been there the whole way. If he ever felt lost or unstable, he would look at them for support. He would think of them and remember that it was all for them. That all he ever did was for their safety, a promise of a better future for them. They were his everything. They were his life. And now...
They were gone. Everything he had been through for the last seven years to protect them was now for nothing. Winning the war meant nothing to him, if his family wasn't safe. In the end, they were massacred. Assassinated. Dead.
Revenge is sweet. The words haunted him almost as much as the dead carcasses did. Revenge is sweet. But revenge for what?
Gale was no saint. Far from it. He had killed people, destroyed lives, ripped apart families, but it was war. He didn't want to do those things. He didn't want to be a murderer, a killer, a merciless psychopath. Sure, at first he wanted it. He wanted the feel of Capital blood on his hands. But afterwards...
He sank to the ground, burying his head between his knees, not able to stop the sobs racketing his body. It was his fault. Everything was his fault. Every scratch, and bruise, and cut, and bullet wound was his fault. How, how could someone deal with that?
A few minutes passed, hours, days, he couldn't be sure. Eventually his sobs subsided, his tears ran out. He remained still, in fetal position. He wearily looked up, vision slightly blurry. He needed to keep going. Keep walking. Walking was good. Walking was exercise. Walking kept him occupied. Posy liked walking with him...
Eventually, he stumbled across a bar. Oblivion, the sign said. Strange name for a place to get wasted. But it somehow seemed…fitting. He definitely needed to forget. Yes, forgetting would be good. Maybe, if only for a little while.
I need the darkness, the sweetness, the sadness,
the weakness.
Oh, I need this.
The funeral was almost a month after their deaths. It couldn't have been any time sooner because the government was too busy investigating. Gale didn't like the idea of a bunch of strangers dissecting his family's corpse, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Besides, he kind of wanted to know who the bastards that had murdered them were.
Them. That was how he referred to them now. He couldn't call them by their names, or 'his family'. It was too painful.
Not many people attended. They had only lived there for approximately two years, after all. They had a couple of friends (well, Hazelle had a couple of friends, Gale wasn't exactly Mr. Friendly), and a few students from Rory's, Vick's, and Posy's classes attended, but overall the place wasn't crowded.
It was... a pretty unusual funeral. Instead of one casket, there were four. They had asked Gale if he wanted them cremated. He refused. After Prim's death and the bombing of 12, the Hawthornes were terrified of fire. He wouldn't let his family end up the same. Rather six feet underground then in ashes.
In D2, the tradition was that a family member would get up and speak a few words about the family. Gale refused to cry in front of people that he had no real contact with, so he didn't do it. However, when his mom's casket was lowered into the deep hole (he demanded them buried together), he pressed his three middle fingers to his lips, and raised them out to her. The people around him, realizing the meaning behind the action, did the same for each and every single casket. Surprisingly, this didn't annoy Gale. Apparently, even the Capital's lapdogs had hearts.
He didn't bother to keep track of how many people came up to him and apologized for the incident. He didn't need their pity or their concerns. You know what he did need, though? Some time, however brief, to escape his ghosts. Gale Hawthorne left early that day.
Gale never giggled. Ever. The annoying sound reminded him of those teenage girls that stared and batted their eyelashes whenever he passed by. However, at that moment he didn't even realize the sound was coming from him.
Oblivion had become his favorite place to go in the past month. He went at least four times a week and stayed there for hours at a time. He got back to his place drunk and past midnight most nights.
They had kicked him out of the hotel he was staying in. Apparently, most guests didn't appreciate him stumbling around wasted and knocking on their doors at various hours of the night asking where his room was. Yes, the fact surprised him, too.
So, now he was renting a crappy run-down apartment. The great Gale Hawthorne had been reduced to living in a shit-hole. It didn't matter, though. He wasn't there enough time to bring himself to actually care. Not that he would either way.
Surprisingly, he had made a few "friends" in the bar. Renee was a good flirt with a nice body. All blonde curls, and blue eyes and big curves. He could lose himself with her whenever he felt like it. She didn't judge. She just licked her lips, twirled her hair in her fingers, and moved. Flinn was care-free and reckless. You only live once, after all. Rox was quiet, and rarely smiled. However, the guy was sarcastic to no end. Maybe that's why Gale liked him.
That day Flinn arrived late, carrying a briefcase, smirking like if he just won the lottery. The moment Renee saw him her eyes lit up and her smile grew. "Our package arrived?"
"Indeed. The orders are here," Flinn stated in a business-like way that sounded foreign on him.
"Alright!" Renee cheered and even Rox cracked a smile. Gale was confused. What package? They certainly didn't look like the type to order cooking magazines or anything.
Flinn opened the briefcase slowly, trying to build tension, humming a tune that sounded familiar to Gale. Renee rolled her eyes, pushed him aside, and opened the case.
Gale stood there for a second, trying to place where he had seen that before, the alcohol preventing him to remember. Then suddenly, his eyes widened and he stared in shock.
He was no stranger to illegal activities. He and Katniss used to do it on a daily basis a life-time ago. Underage drinking was familiar in the Hob and even he did it a few more times than he would like to admit. However, morphling was unknown to District 12. No one but the Undersees, not even the Victors, had any real contact with the drug. And even then, they weren't supposed to have it.
Flinn smirked at him. "So... Gale. Would you like to be our first customer?"
The phone rang at approximately 6:00 PM in the Everdeen household. Katniss had just gotten home from visiting Haymitch and was muttering curses at his stupid geese. Weren't geese supposed to like water? It wasn't her fault that particular goose was defective. Now her hunting boots were ruined.
Annoyed, she almost ripped the phone off from its place in the wall. "Hello?" There was a pause in the other line. "Hello?" Nobody answered. She rolled her eyes. Stupid people with no lives that pass their time by annoying others. She was about to hang up when a man's voice answered in the other line.
"Katniss?" The voice was rough, deep. Like if the person hadn't drunk water in a long time. She couldn't help but think the voice sounded familiar.
"Yeah, who's this?" Another pause. She didn't have time for this.
"... It's Gale." Her blood froze, all color drained from her face. It was only momentarily though, because the anger that followed next was enough to remind her who the girl on fire was. This time she did rip the phone from the wall.
The morphling was far better than he could have imagined. It had the same effect as alcohol without the hangover in the morning. Sometimes, it even knocked him out for a day or two. The money wasn't even a problem since all soldiers had received a fund that could keep him living comfortably for the next twenty years or so. And with the money he had saved from working as an architect in 2, he had enough to keep him funded with morphling for the next three years at the least. He didn't know what else to do with the money anyway, since helping his siblings with their schooling wasn't an option.
In a way, he knew that what he was doing was wrong, and that his family would have wanted him to move on, but at the moment he didn't care. His family was dead, and it wasn't like if they were watching him someplace else from a far. He didn't believe in an after-life or in God. They were gone, six-feet underground, and weren't coming back.
Besides, they weren't dealing with the aftermath. They didn't know what it felt like to have everything you ever cared about ripped from his grasp. His dad. His childhood. His district. His morality. Prim. Katniss. Hazelle. Rory. Vick. Posy. His sanity. The only thing that was left was his life, but he didn't even care about that, anyway. The only thing that stopped him from taking it himself was a constant nagging in the back of his head telling him that wasn't a good idea. His conscience? He scoffed. Please, he lost that a long time ago. Or at the very least, he stopped listening to it.
He dug the syringe deeper into his veins. A sigh escaped his throat as the familiar weightless feeling appeared.
No, he wouldn't commit suicide. That was the coward's way out, and he wasn't coward. Was he? His thoughts became foggy and he let out a giggle.
Oh well, it didn't matter. It wasn't like anybody cared anyway. The only person that might've been able to help him practically slammed the door on his face. She didn't care anymore. She hated him. Before the incident he would have felt guilty and self-loathing. Now however, he couldn't bring himself to sympathize. He needed her. He needed her and she wasn't there, just another excuse to bury himself in self-pity.
Whatever. He needed this. He needed to escape. To forget. While the memories were all he had now, it pained him to think about them. They weren't coming back, so why remember?
Better to feel numb than to hurt.
Paylor drummed her fingers on her desk. It'd been three months. Three months since the anti-Capital group had attacked the soldier's home and they still hadn't captured them.
Worse, last week they had attacked the President's mansion. Luckily the bomb had been found and deactivated before it could go off, but what worried her most was how it had gotten there. Security was tight and only certain people were let in and even then those people had to be thoroughly checked for weapons.
So how the hell did they manage to get it in there? And even if for some reason they managed to get the bomb in, they had programmed for it to go off in two hours and they found the bomb an hour and a half before it was supposed to go off. Why?
Surely they knew that somebody would find the bomb in the meeting room, so that meant that they didn't plan to destroy the manor and kill her off. And it wasn't like they could, since she was in District 8 at that time and they must've known that. So, where they just trying to scare them or where they just stupid enough to attempt and blow up the grand house?
And they weren't stupid. She knew that. They had gotten away with installing a bomb in one of the most secure places in Panem and leave no clues what-so-ever. But why scare them? Why not just blow the place up?
Her thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Annoyed, she picked it up and then dropped it in shock moments later. Plutarch Heavensbee had been killed.
I'm the slow dying flower, the frost killing hour.
Sweet turning sour, and untouchable.
Gale paced through the apartment restlessly. It was gone, it was gone. There was no more. Over. Empty. "Damnit, I need more!"
He was desperate. Shaking. He'd already tried calling Renee. He only had her number, and the bitch wouldn't pick up. Why did she want a phone if she didn't answer? A waste of money, really.
Flinn only did monthly deliveries and Gale'd already wasted his share. It'd only been two weeks. He'd gone to Oblivion the night before, but the drug-dealer was no where to be found. He'd mysteriously disappeared about a week before. Probably got himself arrested, he tought bitterly.
A wave of nausea hit him, and he didn't have time to make it to the toilet before kneeling down and puking all over the kitchen floor. How attractive. Trembling, he picked himself up and wiped himself with a nearby napkin.
He needed morphling, and he needed it now. Grabbing a jacket on his way out, he slammed the door making the number 107 on his door jingle. He'd get his addiction himself.
He ran. Ran as far away as he could from the psychopath, currently known as Rory, trying to murder him with a chainsaw. Oh, how cliche. The fifteen year old was fast, though. Faster than Gale in his drug-induced state, and he knew he was gaining on him.
Gale tripped. Fell. Seriously? And he honestly wondered where the branch had come from before looking up and letting out a shriek.
Posy. Posy, in a pink fairy dress with a "princess crown'' on top of her cute head. Her hair was tied up in pig tails and beautiful butterfly wings adorned her back. A wand in her hand. "Don't I look pretty Gale?" And if her face wasn't rotting, she might've, too. Upon seeing her eldest brother's disgusted face she looked hurt for a second, before exploding in anger. "YOU THINK I LOOK UGLY, HUH!?"
"I-I... N-no. I think you look beautiful."
"LIAR!" And suddenly her expression turned into one of sadness. "You said lying was bad Gale. You said lying would get me in trouble. I never lied, Gale. You did. You said everything would be okay."
Before the accused could defend himself, a loud screech was heard from behind. "Daddy!" The little girl's face lit up in happiness. Bipolar, huh? Wait, Daddy? Upon turning around he found not his brother, but his father holding up the chainsaw. Besides half his face being burnt off, he was just like Gale remembered.
"I guess little Gale needs to be punished, huh?" The diabolical smirk adorning his father's face was so unfamiliar that Gale had to resist the urge to throw up. And then his dad attacked.
Gale awoke. Drenched in sweat, he sat up. A dream. Just a dream. Dreams weren't real, right?
Nightmares weren't really a new thing for him, but they were happening more and more, and more vividly, too. His mom. His dad. The kids. Prim. The dead couldn't stay dead, could they?
His hands shaking, Gale attempted to pour some milk in his coffe. He missed, the milk spilling all over the counter and kitchen floor. He cursed. It'd barely been two days since he had a dose of morphling, but he was already presenting symptoms of withdrawal. Or, at least, he tought they were symptoms since he hadn't exactly searched up how the lack of his addiction would affect him. Appearently not in a good way.
"What are you doing Gale?" He froze. Shook his head. "What are you doing?" He closed his eyes shut. No, no this wasn't real. "Gale?" This wasn't happening. He was dreaming. Yes, yes. He was dreaming. "Look at me when I'm talking to you Gale."
Ever so carefully, he turned his head slowly to the direction of the voice. And there she was. Just like he remembered. Hair tied back in a bun. An old, green dress stained with various foods from when she cooked (she wasn't quite used to the stove). Grey, Seam eyes. But instead of the usually tired, warm vibe they gave off, they were now cold. Deadly , almost. His mother.
He took a step back. "Y-you're..." But he saw it! Them. Dead. Lifeless. Bloody, and murdered. DEAD. "How can this be?" He whispered.
"What are you doing Gale?" She repeated. "What are you doing?" He took a shaky step forward.
"Mom?" His voice was quivering, scared. Yet, somehow, with a hopeful edge towards it. He reached out to his mother. She was alive! He didn't know how. He didn't know why, but she was here! But as his hand reached out to touch her...
Her skin. Her, rough skin, hardened from all the hard work and cold, winter nights, yet soft. Comforting. They melted. It was like fast forward leprosy. Falling. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her hair fell off at rapid speed and he could suddenly see her skull. And, oh gosh, the stench.
His screams continued until his throat wouldn't let him.
"Stay away from me... Please." Tears rolling down his cheeks, voice hoarse, Gale looked up at his brother. "Stop. I didn't do anything. Leave me alone."
But Vick didn't back away. Instead, he approached his older brother with a look of hatred, bat raised over his head. Blood seeping from the visible open wound in his head, bone sticking out of his arm. "You killed me."
"No! No, I didn't! I wanted to.. I wanted to... You guys should've..." His voice broke off. Strangled sobs coming from the back of his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Vick open his mouth to speak. Instead, he let out a long, strangled, pitiful scream. The kind one would make while being tortured. "Vick!"
"You should've died. You should have died. YOU SHOULD HAVE DIED!" Voices. From everywhere at once. Familiar voices. Voices from people he loved.
"I HATE YOU!"
"You killed her... You killed her!"
"How could you, Gale? I loved you. I trusted you."
"Liars should rot in hell."
"I'M SORRY!" He cried out. Hands covering his head. It was true. Everything they said was true. "I didn't mean to! I swear! I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me... I'M SORRY!"
And finally, Prim's voice. "It should have been you Gale. You should have died instead of us. That was what you lived by, wasn't it? 'Free or Dead'? Tell me, are you free now?" He wasn't. No, he wasn't.
Gale scambled up. Eyes puffy, a wild, crazed look on his face. I'm not free... I'm not free! He found the knife. A deep slash appeared on his wrist. I'm not free.. I'm not free... Another slash. Blood now seeped through his fingers, staining the floor. A red puddle contrasting the white of the tile. Another slash.
I DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE! And one final slash. He slumped to the ground. Toughts and darkness clouding his mind. Maybe... Maybe death is better.
And then darkness engulfed him.