Trigger warning: Alcoholism, attempted suicide, PTSD, and a heck of a lot of language.
Leif Darrell, District 7
"I can't explain the state I am in,
The state of my heart, he was my best friend,"
Sufjan Stevens, The Predatory Wasp of the Palisades
Seven weeks before the 55th Hunger Games
Something's wrong. There are two men watching me, and I don't know who they are. One looks vaguely familiar, like I might have helped him once, a long time ago. He's taller than the other one, but much paler. His hair is short, and he wears glasses. The other is pretty short, and has very dark skin. A black beard covers his chin. It's hard to pick out features, though. The room is sort of swimming.
"Leif," says the tall one. "Leif, look at me."
I try to focus on him, but it's hard. He keeps swaying, swaying like the rest of the room. I try to tell him I can't, but all that comes out of my mouth is a low groan. The dark one shakes his head.
"Leave him, Heath," he says. "He'll be up and about in twelve hours."
"But what if he's not?" the tall one asks.
"Man, he's been drinking like this ever since his Games. Everyone's got their drugs. You've got science, he has that. None of them have killed anyone yet."
The tall one makes a cough that sounds oddly like 'Barker.' The dark one shakes his head.
"Barker was a power maniac. Hawthorn was the same way. You see any of that in him?"
Heath sighs, defeated. The other one turns to walk away. Both of them look, not happy, but at least at peace. Not me, though. Something about the two names the dark one said stir up memories inside of me. Memories of a large man, a man with a small hippie beard. A man who wanted nothing more than to protect his son. And I failed him. I let him die, die at the hands of that monster that he mentored, and the monster who killed his son. I struggle to my feet.
"Barker," I slur out. "Barker."
The tall one, Heath, turns to see me. "Uh, Oaken?" he calls out. The dark one walks in, an expression of distaste on his face.
"Sit back down, Leif. Sleep it off."
"No. Barker. I failed him. I let him blow his damn brains out. I'm a killer."
"You're damn right you're a killer, Leif," says Oaken. "You killed seven people in the Hunger Games. But guess what? I beat your record. I got nine. Heath here killed three. Don't sweat it."
"No. Hawthorn. I let him kill Barker. I ruined both of them."
"Barker killed himself, Leif," says Heath patiently. "Hawthorn may have blackmailed him and led to the death of his son, but Barker's death is entirely his own fault."
"NO!" I cry. Why won't they listen to me? "Javier. Javier gave Barker that gun, knowing that he'd blow his brains out. Javier might as well have put a fucking bullet in Barker's head. And he did it because of me."
"I still don't see how this is your fault." Heath is fast losing patience.
"I told her to. I told her to tell Javier. Tell him about the baby."
"What baby?" asks Oaken.
"Jack's. His kid. I told his girl to tell Javier. Javier told Barker, and Barker blew his mind to shit! Don't you get it? It's my fault!"
Heath and Oaken look shocked. "Jack had a kid? How?" asks Heath.
Oaken glances at his friend. "Man, do you need me to spell it out?"
I shake my head. "It's my fault. It's all my fault."
Suddenly an idea occurs to me. A life for a life. Isn't that right? I glance around the room and see an empty beer bottle. I grab it and slam it on the edge of the nearby table. The bottle breaks into several shards, and I grab the nearest one, raising it to my throat. Oaken sees what I'm about to do and lunges for my hand, wrenching the glass out of my hand. I fight to get it back, but Oaken is in fantastic shape, and he's not drunk. Heath wraps his long arms around my middle, holding me to my chair. I struggle against him, fighting as though my life is in danger. In one last desperate move, I slam the back of my head against Heath's nose and slide out of his grip. I jump up, running at Oaken, but he sidesteps and I pitch forward, suddenly my head on a collision course with the table. My forehead cracks against the edge, and I slump to the ground. The darkness is already closing in. Oaken and Heath whisper anxiously, but I know there's nothing they can do. All I can do is prepare what I'll say when I see Barker again.
Leif Darrell wasn't a major, major player in 40th Hunger Games (all the really big ones died), but he was one of my personal favorites, so killing him off was a challenge. He very heavily reminded me of Haymitch, who's a serious contender for my favorite character in the Hunger Games, and his everlasting presence and helpfulness to Willow and Jack even when he didn't have to made him such a good guy. I knew he would beat himself up about Barker's death, and that would probably find it's way into this chapter, but never to the degree I thought it would. It all sort of blew out of proportion. That, combined with his alcohol, was a recipe for disaster. This was still a super hard chapter to write, though. Oaken and Heath will be covered in later chapters, of course.