His memories and past blur into one big blob that is a mess in his mind's eye. He frowns, trying to form a clear though through the thick fuzziness that is his addiction, alcohol. But who could blame him? He was about to see another two tributes be slaughtered again this year and he couldn't do anything about it.
He sat up, groaning as he does and places the knife he always sleeps with on the table next to him. His house is a mess...rotting food; dirty plates; tipped liquor bottles and unwashed clothes streamed all over the place. As he takes in this wonderful sight, he stands and stretches. He throws the empty liquor bottle from his hand and onto the floor…well, if you could call it that, you could barely see it. He picks up a dark button up shirt and sniffs just under the arms, with a shrug he begins to pull it on whilst his eyes scan hostilely for a pair of clean…well, clean-ish trousers and a hand raking back his unwashed hair. He did stink, he admitted it, the smell of stale booze rolls off him like the ocean waves in District Four; he stumbles towards the bathroom and splashes cold water over his face, in hopes of waking himself up properly, but the alcohol in his system causing him to be off balanced; slow and slightly confused.
He tumbles towards the door, grabbing his shoes and tucking in his shirt along the way, his head beating like a pulse…a very loud one at that. He almost growls in anger at the situation he's in. Reaping. Twenty-Four years ago…this was him. A cocky sixteen year old that won the crowds over by his confidence in the thought he would win. He, you could say, played a Career Card…no one really acts cocky unless you're from One, Two or Four.
He steps out of his home, the only one to live in the houses specially built for the Victors of District Twelve. He flinches at the light and shields his eyes with his hand, he walks forward again; grumbling curses and muttering hatred things towards the Capitol and the Reapings. Every year, every single year this happens. And he knows, every year he'll be the one to blame, he'll be getting the insults and angry threats for why he hasn't brought home a single Twelve Tribute…not one. He lets out a gruff sigh and treads towards the stage, the alcohol brewing a violent and discouraging storm in his stomach. He groans and clutches it with a rough hand, should have eaten something…especially today were everyone will be watching him.
Suddenly, he lets out a laugh, an angry; crazed laugh, "What the hell?" He shouts up at the sky, "WHAT THE HELL!?" He repeats as he changes direction and staggers towards the Hob, drunk already…what's the harm in making sure the memories and nightmares stay away for the rest of the day? Those unfortunates can mentor themselves…he's got bigger problems then helping them face their fears…he's got to face his own first.