He walks on skeletons in a land plagued by fog, but the skeletons are not men or women instead they are children. Brittle bones creak and crack beneath his feet, crushed with the memories of their lives unlived, starved, worked, and murdered. The fog begins to lift and he takes another drink to fade the pain, but the children stare because he's a spectacle; a broken man who wants to lie with the dead, lay down beside them with no more dread.
He doesn't look down because he can't see the faces, but the darkness closes in and the skeletons begin to rise, fingers grasping at him as he walks slowly by. They begin to scream to shriek and cry, blood pouring from their eyes, a knife in one, a spear, an axe, they crawl to their feet, calling his name and he picks up a bottle to force them away.
The Skeletons fall one by one, the knife in his hand blackened by blood he walks toward the edge where the skeletons are still, and the world is calm and quiet. The fog begins to part, a light in the distance, devouring everything in its path. The skeletons begin to rustle beneath his feet, calling his name as he walks away.
Flames lick the edges of the fog, redemption and hope floating on the hope. The Mockingjays sing as the flames come closer and he closes his eyes, engulfed by the fire.
