A/N: I guess I should include a warning that this one has drug use, but it's a bit laughable because I've already had one about a guy that ate people. I'll let you decide which is worse. Please review and tell me what you like or don't like, it only takes a few seconds and it helps me as the writer tremendously.
I don't own the Hunger Games or its characters.
Foster Jobes
Dory shows up on my doorsteps, tears carving out her already hollowed cheeks, crying about the nightmares. I know them well, but Dory, who just won her Games a mere four weeks ago, is new to this, new to the fears and agonies that come with realizing blood never truly washes off a Victor's hands.
I decide to let her in on my secret, my method of coping. I hand her a syringe and show her the perfect spot on the arm, how to angle the needle so that the morphling shoots directly into the bloodstream. Her fingers are all nerves. She misses the first time, but tries again and sighs in relief as she pushes the plunger down, emptying the clear liquid from the tube.
We lie side by side and watch the patterns on the ceiling shift around and morph into pretty pictures. I hold up a finger and stumble up the stairs to grab my paints. Together, we paint my living room. Blue blobs trail along the floor. A green shooting star streaks across the wall and the back of my couch. Red handprints are everywhere, but this time it doesn't make me run to the sink, scrub my hands until they're raw.
We collapse onto the floor, panting. The colors comfort me, wrapping their dancing arms around us both and refusing to ease an inch. It is beautiful and right. She hums a little tune while her hands guide the colors.
I've been a mentor for five years, lost nine tributes before her, seen so many horrors. But having her here, lying next to me, humming and smiling, it almost makes up for it.