This is the final chapter. I didn't want to stop writing the story until I'd written the ending for the time skip, so here it is. For anyone interested, I'm starting a new SYOT, and everyone is welcome to submit a tribute. I'll be updating at least once a month, so I won't let this new one get away from me the way this one did. I'll be going back to the present, no more time skips, and the story will take place at the same time this one began, so the year after Abe's Games (Still I Rise). I've also decided to keep Monk and Avenaye in the story, so they'll be Mentors in the new story.
The tribute application is on my profile, please PM me with your tribute if you're interested! Thanks for reading!
"We stopped checking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us." – Unknown
Rafael Rivera, 34, in District 12
"He told me," Weston says from where he stands in the entranceway. "He told me everything."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lie.
"Ben told me. Your son told me what he did."
"West-"
"He said he cut Hope's body, just sliced her all over."
"She could've been dead when he found her," I say hoarsely.
"You let your son watch his mother's Games!" Weston screams at me. "You let him watch her get raped, and then he did it to Hope! He raped her, and he killed her!"
"Weston, let me explain!"
"Turn him in tomorrow, or I will."
Before I can stop him, he slips back into the dark night.
"Fuck!" I shout. I am now completely tangled in my web of lies.
"Daddy?"
I turn to see Ben standing at the bottom of the stairs in blue space pajamas.
"…What did you do to Hope?" I ask quietly.
"I did it for you."
"What did you do?"
"I cut her so she looked like Mommy. I cut her so they wouldn't take you away."
A veil lifts in my head, and I finally see.
"You saw what I did?" I ask quietly. Ben nods.
My son saw me kill Hope. And then he made her bleed so she would look like she had been raped, just like his mother. He was smart enough to know that this would make the Peacekeepers look for a certain type of suspect. They would look right past me.
"You weren't supposed to see that," I whisper. He walks down the stairs to stand in front of me. I kneel down to his height and take him in my arms. For the first time, I feel a connection to this boy. For the first time, I realize that I love him, whether he's my son or not.
"I did it for you," I tell him. "I did it for you, Benji. Please remember that."
I've always come to District 12 to score drugs. And sometimes I'd bring my son with me. Two days after Abe's funeral, the drug ring in District 12 had a talk with me. They are bad people. They wanted to start a revolution, and they thought the easiest way to do that would be to kill Hope, the apple of everyone's eye. Take away Hope, and chaos will ensue.
Kill Hope, they told me, or we'll kill Benny boy.
If I didn't do it, they would kill my son. So I talked Hope into going into the woods during the wedding, when no one was watching. And I wrapped my hands around her throat. And I squeezed.
For what it's worth, I did try to save her. Once I saw what I'd done, I begged her to wake up. I gave her CPR. I cried. But she wouldn't move. I had killed her.
What I didn't realize was that Ben and Anka had followed me into the woods. As I stumbled away, Ben went to work trying to throw suspicion off of me. He tried to save me.
I took the life of Luke's child. And now I've ruined the life of my own child.
"I'm gonna fix it, Benny," I tell my son. "I'm gonna make it right."
Weston Shepp, 30, in District 12
I hear the soft click of a door being closed.
I reach over to the other side of the bed and shake Kallie awake.
"What is it?" she asks groggily.
"Shhh," I tell her. Before I can listen for more movement, the phone rings.
"Hello?" I answer warily. It must be three in the morning.
"Mr. Shepp, it's Detective Avenaye Darwin. We know who killed Hope."
"It was Ben. Ben did it. I was going to tell you-"
"What? No, listen to me. We know who did it, and we think he's on his way to your house right now. Weston, it was-"
I hang up the phone as I hear a noise in the hall. Footsteps. Footsteps near Anka's room.
Kallie throws the comforter off of her body and launches out of bed. I grab her arm with one hand, grabbing my sword with the other.
"Stay here," I whisper.
They killed Luke's daughter. Now they've come to kill mine.
I think of all the ways that I've failed Anka, my special needs daughter. All of the ways I should have been a better father. And I tighten my grip on my sword. As long as I live, I will never let anyone hurt her.
Carefully stepping into the hallway, I listen for more footsteps. There's a pause. The intruder is lost. He takes a step in my direction, and I thrust my sword into his body. Deep.
A gurgling groan emanates from the man's mouth. "Weston," he breathes. And in that instant, my whole world shatters.
I would know my friend's voice anywhere.
"Rafael, what… how-how bad is it?" I drop to the floor and feel for his body. My hand slides through slick blood. "Shit! Rafael, I… oh, God, I'm so sorry."
But he doesn't seem to hear me. In fact, he seems to be talking to someone else.
"Abe?" he whispers.
"No! No, you're not going with Abe!" I tell him. "Kallie! Get Help!"
"I didn't think… you would wait for me," he says between heavy breaths. He's speaking to his dead wife.
And I swear I can hear the smile in his voice.
Kallie Shepp, 30, in District 12
The hospital waiting room: that horrible place where tenuous hope turns into endless despair. Watching him sit in a puke-green plastic chair, his black hair disheveled and his blind eyes closed in prayer or, more likely, some last minute attempt at bargaining, I come to understand that Weston is waving the white flag of surrender. He did all that he could; he can do no more; he is done fighting, forever.
"Mr. Shepp?"
Squeezing Anka's hand, I lift my head and stare pleadingly at the doctor. He holds his clipboard tightly in front of his chest, as if to shield himself from the anguish that surrounds him.
"Are you the family of Rafael Rivera?" the doctor asks us.
"We're his-"
"Yes," Weston answers hoarsely, cutting me off before I can say that Rafael is just our friend. "We're his family." The pain in his voice lets me know that Weston means this with all his heart.
The doctor clears his throat and I feel my breath catch.
"Rafael died several minutes ago. We did everything we could, but the internal bleeding was just too severe. I'm sorry."
There are no words, so Weston says nothing. In a miserable, painful silence, he covers his eyes with his hands as his entire body slumps forward until his head rests on his knees. And then he shakes. With silent, uncontrollable sobs, he shakes.
We will never move past this.
"We're going to need someone to identify the body," the doctor continues apologetically.
At this, Weston can no longer hold his silence. A small cry of pain escapes his throat, and his ragged breathing becomes audible. This final act of love; this taking ownership of another human being; of declaring once and for all that yes, this body belonged to his best friend of thirteen years.
This he cannot do.
"It has to be, um… a visual identification," the doctor adds awkwardly, staring uncomfortably at Weston's dead eyes.
"I can identify the body." Findley's voice is quiet, but strong. I turn to the tiny, bespectacled man, and am filled with gratitude.
As Findley stands to follow the doctor, he quietly hands me his thick blue binder. He readjusts his glasses, and I notice that his eyes are dry. As his footsteps echo down the hallway, I come to understand a very sad fact.
Weston is the only one who will cry for Rafael Rivera.
"He was alone," I murmur as I rub my hand over the binder cover. Three names label the binder, each one under the other.
Rafael Rivera.
Aibileen Rivera.
Benjamin Rivera.
What a sad, broken little family.
"Rafael was so alone," I repeat, louder this time. "And we all pretended not to notice."
"Where's Ben?" Weston asks hoarsely.
"Probably at Rafael's place."
"I need to go get him." There is a frantic urgency in Weston's voice that I've never heard before.
"Weston, no. No. You just… you just killed his father. You can't… you need to leave that boy alone." My own voice is hard, my words harsh. But this is a harsh situation, and what we need now, more than anything else, is to face reality.
"…Do you understand… who I just lost?" Weston asks me quietly, his voice shaking with anger. "Can you even… that body in the morgue right now… that's Raf. That's Raf." The anger drains from his body and chokes on his words. "And I need to go get his son now."
He's out of his chair before I can stop him. Turning to Anka, I realize that she hasn't made a sound all night. She watches her father in confusion and fear before turning to me, pure terror in her eyes. Her world has collapsed in on itself in less than two hours. She understands that not even screaming can fix this now.
"Anka, we're okay," I soothe, pulling my daughter close to me. "We're all gonna be okay." Taking her hand, I gently tug her to her feet and pull her toward the exit, after Weston. Turning a corner, I find Findley leaning against the wall, looking as though he can barely hold himself up. Releasing Anka's hand, I wrap my arms around Findley.
"Abe loved you," I tell him. It's all I can think to say. An obvious truth, but I hope that it's comforting for him to hear anyway. Pulling away, I offer him his binder back.
"You should keep it," he murmurs sadly.
"What is it?"
"Things you'll need. Abe's will. Rafael's will. Ben's medical history. He's allergic to peanuts."
"…Why would I need any of that?" Even as I ask, I know the answer. But I pray that I'm wrong.
"Because of Rafael's will. In the event of his death, he named you and Weston as Ben's legal guardians."
"No," I whisper tearfully. Ben can't be raised by his father's murderer. And I can't raise a boy who sliced up an innocent girl to look like she was raped, even if she was already dead when he did it. "We can't… I can't… Weston killed him."
"Rafael would be the first person to forgive Weston. He was like that, you know? If he had to get killed, I don't think… I don't think he would've wanted it to be by anyone else but Weston."
It's an utterly ridiculous thought. And yet Rafael was an utterly ridiculous human being.
"…I think you're right," I say, surprising myself. "…Well, I should probably… I mean, it's late, and…"
"Ben doesn't, um… he doesn't always remember to check things for peanuts before he eats them. Like cookies, or snack bars. So sometimes you have to remind him. Because he's really allergic." Pain leaks through Findley's voice, and I understand that he's saying goodbye to Ben. When he lost Abe, his best friend, he steadied himself by watching after Rafael and Ben from a distance, just as he'd promised Abe he would. Rafael is gone. And now Findley is letting Ben go, so that the little boy can leave all of this behind.
"Okay," I say gently.
"And his glasses." Findley smiles sadly. "He forgets to take them off when he goes to bed. So you have to check on him at night, because he usually falls asleep with them on. So you have to take them off for him. And he likes you to put them on the nightstand, so he can reach them when he wakes up."
"Is Ben your son?" I ask bluntly, desperately.
Findley stares at me, a deep sadness in his eyes.
"I wish he was my son. Abe and Rafael… their marriage was toxic. I would've taken Ben out of that house years ago if I could've."
"…For what it's worth, I always hoped that you were his dad. Not Raf."
"Thanks," Findley whispers, wiping at his eyes. "On Rafael's really bad days, Abe used to tell me the same thing."
The hospital's automatic doors swoosh open and Weston comes stumbling in, his hands reaching frantically for the wall.
"Weston!" I call. He freezes where he stands.
"Ben's not at Rafael's place," Weston says urgently. "I can't find him. I need help. Please."
Weston never asks for help. His willingness to do so now lets me know just how badly he needs to find his dead friend's son. Weston would do anything for Rafael. So Ben will come home with us. End of discussion.
A wave of anger floods through me. Then I see little eight-year-old Ben looking for his father in a seedy bar on the bad side of District 12. Worry overtakes me as I imagine Weston and Findley solemnly carrying a child-sized coffin through the cemetery.
Rafael was scared and alone. He had to clear his son's name; to do so, he needed to come clean. To explain to Weston, the only friend he had left, the terrible thing he had done. Where would he leave Ben? Who did he have left in his life that he could trust to protect Ben no matter what; even if they found out what Ben had done, or worse, what Rafael had done?
At the end of the road, with no one else to turn to, he would have gone to the two people he hated. The ones who were paid to protect people. If I needed someone to protect my daughter, I would choose them, too.
"I know where Ben is," I breathe.
Detective Avenaye Darwin, 33, District 12
I thought he'd come to kill us.
After all, he had been courteous enough to let us know, on numerous occasions, that it would bring him great pleasure to do so. But Rafael Rivera, who likes to visit my nightmares, was knocking on my door at three in the morning to beg for help. Distraught, eyes red from crying, he gripped his son's shoulders protectively.
"I have no one," Rafael told me firmly. "There's no one else I can take him to."
"Where are you going at three in the morning?" I asked in confusion.
"I did something. And now I have to explain myself to someone."
And right then I knew. Rafael did it. He killed Hope. And now he wants to confess his sins to Weston. If I'd had any proof at all, I would have arrested him. But I had none, so I let him go.
Now it's going on five in the morning, and he still hasn't come back. Ben sits at my kitchen table, playing checkers with my daughter Scottie. Monk stares daggers at them as she leans against the refrigerator.
"He's not staying," she says.
"Of course he's not staying," I sigh. "We're just, like, babysitting him or something."
"Because I'm not sharing my room."
"You sleep on my couch, Monk."
"Why do you always argue with me?"
We're interrupted by the blaring TV set.
"We're reporting to you live from the hospital where Hunger Games Victor Rafael Rivera died after being stabbed earlier this morning."
Ben's head snaps up like a shot. I rush to turn the TV off. Just as the screen flickers to black, my front door opens like a shot, and Weston is suddenly standing in my kitchen.
"Ben," he says breathlessly. "Ben, are you here?"
"Where's my dad?" Ben asks.
"Ben…" Weston uses his hands to guide himself to the living room. Ben stands in front of him. Weston bends down to the little boy's height and places his hands on Ben's shoulders. "Do you remember when I took you to your mom's funeral?"
"Yes."
"Well, your dad… he went to be with your mom. Do you understand?"
Ben's breathing gets quick and loud. "Yes," he whimpers.
Weston pulls Ben into a tight hug, and the boy cries into his shirt. Rubbing Ben's back, Weston picks the little boy up into his arms and holds him like a long-lost son.
Eight years later
Kallie Shepp, 38, in District 6
We cannot outrun the past. It walks beside us everyday. Sometimes so silently that we forget its very existence; other times its heavy tread reminds us of our pain with every step. And then there are the times when it reaches out and grabs us.
During these times we can allow the past to drag us back to our most painful moments. We can try to run, and forget who we were, who we are. Or we can acknowledge the things that happened, the things that we did, and we can humbly pay the piper.
Bad things were done to us; bad things were done by us. They happened, and they cannot be undone. They simply have to be dealt with.
Eight years ago I made a decision: the past will not destroy us. It will be a part of us. We will not run from it, we will face it. Because it is true that the past has damaged us, but that damage has made us beautiful.
"He's been quiet lately," I note from the floor as I tie Weston's left shoelace. There was a time when Weston refused help from everyone, especially me, out of angry pride, but he's grown. We all have.
"Of course he's quiet," Weston says with a smile. "He's Ben."
"He's talking even less than usual. And you know what today is.
A shadow passes over Weston's face. Rafael died eight years ago today.
"He's growing up. He's sixteen, West. And the older he gets, the more he understands. Pretty soon he's gonna start asking questions that are going to be very difficult to answer."
"I'll never lie to Ben," Weston says with conviction. "No matter what he asks."
"I just think you should talk to him." I stand up, kiss Weston, and walk to the stairs. What I see makes me freeze on the second step.
Ben sits at the kitchen table in a hoodie and jeans. If it weren't for Ben's thick black glasses, I would have thought he was Rafael.
Weston bumps into me on his way down the stairs. I take hold of his arm to stop him.
"What?" he asks curiously.
"I wish Rafael had lived to see Ben grow up. Because if Raf got one look at Ben now, he would never wonder if he was really Ben's father again. That's Rafael Rivera's son."
Weston bristles.
"Biologically," he murmurs.
Weston Shepp, 38, District 6
"Benny," I say as I use my hands to guide myself around the kitchen table. "Got a minute?"
"Sure," he says in his usual soft tone, gently taking my arm and guiding me to the chair next to him.
"You okay?" I ask casually.
"People only ask that question when they think the answer is no."
"…Is it?"
Ben is silent for a moment. When he does speak, his voice is quiet and laced with sadness. "You think there's something wrong with me."
"You're always looking for hidden meanings that aren't there, Ben. You'll drive yourself crazy doing that." Like Rafael and Abe. "Do you remember what today is?"
Time seems to freeze; the entire house is swallowed in silence.
"…Today is-"
"Do you think I could ever forget?" Ben cuts me off, his voice icy cold. "Do you know how many times I've tried to forget?"
"I know you've been pretending that it didn't happen," I answer quietly.
"Why won't you just let me forget it?"
"Because your life didn't start when you were eight years old. There were people before that who loved you a lot, and you can't forget them."
"The last person in the world that I want to talk about is Rafael Rivera."
"Leave my brother alone," Anka says sternly.
Anka, my daughter, now eighteen. She graduated from high school last week. Kallie worried for weeks about how bringing Ben into our family would effect Anka, and then something amazing happened. They brought out the best in each other. Ben didn't speak a word the first year he lived here. He'd communicate only in sign language. It put a strain on our relationship, what with my inability to see him sign. We couldn't communicate with each other. It was like meeting Abe all over again. And then one day I forgot him at the store. I walked out the door without him. Before I got two feet, his little hand grabbed onto mine, and I heard him whisper: "Don't leave me, Dad." Last year we even went down to the Mayor's office and changed his last name from Rivera to Shepp. Benjamin Shepp.
He taught Kallie sign language, and now she works with deaf people in the District. She used to walk Ben to school everyday, holding his hand tightly and introducing him to everyone as my brother Ben. And she spoke for him. She told us about his day, what he wanted for dinner, and who was picking on him at school. And he seems to make her calm.
I could tell you plenty of stories. I could tell you how he used to wake me up at night when he was ten to whisper in embarrassment about how he'd wet the bed again. How we'd work together to strip the bed and wash the sheets without waking the girls. How I'd sit him on my lap and tell him bedtime stories while we waited for the sheets to dry.
I could also tell you about Luke, and how he came by seven years ago on the anniversary of Hope's death. He talked about how she would've been celebrating her eleventh birthday soon, had she lived. And he asked me how I could raise the boy whose father murdered his daughter.
"He's my son," I told him.
We haven't spoken since.
I could tell you a million things that have happened in the last eight years, but you don't need to hear them. Ben's now lived without his parents longer than he lived with them. All you need to know is that he's fine now. We all are.
"Ben," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Rafael and Abe aren't here. And that's their fault. They missed out. 'Cause you're the best son anyone could ask for."
Without a word, my son leans over and hugs me.