**TRIGGER WARNING** Direct reflection and thoughts associated with suicide in scene 1. Stay safe.
My hands both grip Peeta's forearm as we slowly walk towards the grave site. My limp head droops onto his shoulder. Our synchronized steps mark the dense dirt with our clunky footprints. Rocks tumble around beneath our toes. Everything is gloomy and silent, like all sound has been sucked out of the air.
A large group of people circles around one grave, their heads bowed low and their faces pale from the cold and grief. It seems as though the dark hues that cover their bodies go on for miles.
My eyes cloud with tears and the crowd vanished from my eyes. Peeta tries to guide me foreword, his hand in the crook of my back, but I can't move. My breath races in and out of my lungs like it can't decide where to be. That feeling in my heart that I have been trying to avoid hits me like a stab in the stomach. I can't handle the pain.
My father's laugh fills my ears. The screams from crying mothers and wives replace it. The streets before the mines are in complete chaos. His body is thrown into a hole in the cemetery, his name labeled above him, like he was never really here, with us. Rue collapses to the ground like an injured lamb after slaughter. Cato screams out for mercy, his eye growing big with a plea for help as a pack of hounds tear his flesh apart. I am pulled back by the peace keepers as the man from District 11 is shot in the head, my cries meaning nothing to them. Parachutes rain down on the helpless children of the Capital. Prim leaps foreword to help. I call her name, begging for her to flea. I see her eyes as her body is torched in the name of war, in the name of death.
A broken string of words cracks from within my throat. It's painful, like poison.
"He's one of them," I cry. "He's gone."
Peeta hold me. My chest shakes as my silent wails release in his arms. His grip tightens slightly and he kisses my forehead, protecting me from all that I've endured and showing his love.
He doesn't say that he understands. He doesn't tell me I'll be okay. He doesn't tell me it will get better. He doesn't tell me to stop. He doesn't do anything. He just holds me and lets me breath in the loss that is my oldest friend.
"I know," he whispers, not as a point of showing his own loss, but showing that he's with me, beside me, and will be thereafter. He acknowledges my pain without scooping out from it; knowing that I need to make the climb on my own.
Gale is dead. My best friend is dead. He should be here next to me, us against the world. He was too young. His life wasn't meant to end like this. It shouldn't have. Not now. Not ever. Gale wasn't supposed to die, I was.
He takes my hand and helps me maneuver into the crowd. Everyone turns my way as I enter, parting ways like the sea in an old forbidden story my father used to tell.
Some recognize me from before the games, some from after. Neither is a decent depiction.
I was the tribute. I was the source of the rebellion. Snow came after me. All the odds were stacked against me. He wasn't supposed to die. Not like this. He should be here next to me, us against the world.
Why now? How am I supposed to go on without him?
Hazel hugs me tight as I reach the hollow plot. Her womanly frame envelops me with all she has. I can feel her pain, her sorrow, her love. It's as if for a moment we are the same person. Her hands grasp my chin like a delicate baby as we pull apart, her eyes filled with tears, some of them slipping down her cheeks. The words Thank you, spoken silently from her mouth leave me to question why.
Posy clings to her leg, her childish cheeks wet pink like a dewy rose. Rory and Vick stand behind them. They both look so much older. Not only physically, but mentally.
Their faces look like stone, so stunned that you can barely see any emotion, but I know it's there, buried deep inside. They are the little boys that skinned their knees and cried more than someone getting their leg amputated, the ones who didn't calm down until Gale got home to tell them that everything was going to be alright, the scared little boys that clung to there mother's legs when their father died. They stand there almost frozen with pain as they stare blankly into the crowd.
"Broken souls," I call them. Although the connotation of the word broken isn't good, in a way the phrase is. The word broken implies that there was something there in the first place, something whole, something so important that even the strongest love in the world couldn't hold onto it. I guess, in a way, we are all broken souls, or at least for today.
The new mayor clears his throat before beginning to speak. "Friends and Family, we have gathered here today to celebrate the life of Gale Hawthorne. Gale was born on a cold December night as the first son to Roan and Hazelle Hawthorn. Growing up, like most of the other boys in the district, he worked to help the family get by on what little they had. The thing that made him different was his voice and ability to get people to listen, to feel like they had a voice in a world with none.
"When his father, Roan, was killed in a mining accident he stepped up to support his mother, two younger brothers, and unborn sister. At only thirteen years old he started signing up for twice the amount of tesserae, hunting in the woods, and trading whatever he could find so his family wouldn't starve. When times got tough he was there for the cause, ready for the fight with everything he had, and when trouble struck he was there to help all in need. He led hundreds from the ashes of our district to safety and later on added many of his ideas to the revolution that has since shaped our country into something many never thought was possible.
"After that, only few can tell what really happened, so we take comfort in the knowledge that he left by his own choice and by his own hand. May he live a long life in all of our hearts and through the stories of his actions for generations to come. May he rest in peace."
He pauses and everyone bows their heads, in unison, their minds occupying the same thought.
Gale.
People cling to their loved ones, their heads hanging low, as they part from the cemetery. A dreary lull of silence sets among them. I sigh deeply and begin to make my way across the dull dead grass. My arm lays interlocked with Haymitch's. Peeta has gone to Victors Village to set up a small gathering of mourners to reminisce within my house, so Hazelle wouldn't have to prepare or clean up the mess.
Hazelle, Rory, Vick, and Posy begin to trudge through the prickling ground, with us. Posy holds onto Vick. Her glassy eyes sit in a perfectly innocent pout. Her little hairs are all brought together in a small braid over her forehead. The rest hangs wildly down her back, the brown twisting with the black of her worn out dress. Rory follows behind them.
I swap Haymitch's arm for Rory's when I see his face. It's broken. A single tear begs to be released from his eye, but he holds his head up, numb. He has grown to almost my height. I wish Gale were here to see him. He reminds me so much of him. I lean my lead onto his shoulder and he doesn't protest against it. Instead, he sighs slightly, relinquishes the tear from its holdings. My heart aches within my ribs at the sight.
"Maybe I can show you how to hunt, again," I suggest, sniffling a bit on the last word.
I remember when I first tried to take him out. Gale had been working the mines and didn't have enough time, though he wanted to. I had too much time after the games. After everything started up with the Quarter Quell, we didn't get out. It was too dangerous with Thread around. Although it wasn't a happy time, I still ache with melancholy. It's hard to remember what it was like to have him with us, with me.
I can feel Rory's small intake of breath.
"I think he would've liked that," I add, hopeful.
"Yeah, I think he would," he replies, quietly, trying to hold in his bitterness, trying to be strong. It's the same thing that Gale went through when we met. He's the man of the house now.
I hug his arm a little bit tighter as he leads me out of the cemetery. As I cross out of the hollow ground, I feel like a piece of me is yanked out of my body, unable to leave, yet I still feel numb. I still feel empty. Maybe this is what Gale felt like when I left, I think. Just the thought of that brings tears to my eyes, but I continue down the cobblestone path, leaving my best friend behind.
A/N: Please review. It's good to know that readers are still with me by this point.
Sodom, South Georgia by Iron & Wine / Each Coming Night by Iron & Wine / Polyhymnia by Keaton Henson