I do not own The Hunger Games. I do own this story and it's original characters.
Chapter 19
My screams echo off the interior of the car as I sit curled in a ball in the passenger seat. Tears stream down my face as I remember. The events of the previous hours flash through my mind. I can still smell the scorched skin of the tribute who stepped on the mine and the arm bouncing off the camera and the bitter smell of blood in the room. The leather seat is still damp from the alcohol that Dimitri spilled earlier. A part of me wonders of he keeps any in his car. It's a stupid move on his part, should he ever get pulled over by a Peacekeeper. Though rare, it does happen on occasion.
I need to forget the vision of the tribute who stepped on a mine to stop replaying in my mind. I need a drink to take the edge off. I search around the car. In his side door compartment he has stashed a second flask. Unfortunately, when I shake it, it's empty. There's also a wadded up pair of lacy black panties. I shove them back where I found them. He's probably has a few lovers floating around. That lie about us sleeping together to Contessa was a bad idea.
The glove compartment yields some success. There is another flask and it has something in it. Several condoms also fall out onto the floor and I hastily shove them back where they belong. I unscrew the lid and take a sip of the effervescent liquid. It warms my throat as I swallow. After a few more sips, feel steady enough to drive. I stash the flask in my purse. I'll replace it when I get back to the apartment.
Dimitri's seat is scooted so far back that I cannot touch the steering wheel or the pedals. He also drives a stick, a rare occurrence in the Capitol. One of my grandmother's neighbors in Victor's Village taught me how to drive. His name was Paisley. Funny, I haven't thought about him in a long time. I wonder if he is still alive. He was several years old than I. He had to be in his early twenties when I visited.
Paisley owned an old truck. It was an ugly thing that used to be green, but was now rusted over. One hot day over the summer, he taught me how to drive on the old roads in the graveyard. Balancing the clutch and gas to move forward was the most difficult part. The truck would jolt forward, giving us both whiplash. I find the button that moves the seat closer to the steering wheel. I forget how tall Dimitri is. He's must be six feet, at least.
I press in the clutch with my left foot and break with my right foot, and turn the key in the ignition. The car starts with a loud roar. I take a deep breath. I can do this. Driving a stick is like learning how to swim. You really never forget how to do it. Well, if you do, you have to remember how to really quickly. I will get home, even if it means that I'm going twenty miles an hour on the highway in first gear.
I move the stick into reverse, and carefully release the clutch while pressing down the gas. The car lurches backwards several feet and then stalls. All the lights on the dashboard come on. I push the clutch back in and start the car again. The car stalls twice as I try to get it out of the parking space. My eyes with brim with tears. I just want to go home. I take a few deep breaths and try to calm myself down. If I can drive a stick at sixteen, then I can drive one at twenty-two. The car lurches forward again. This isn't good for my sore head.
Eventually, I figure out how to balance the break and gas. It is only then that I realize that I have no idea how to get out of here. I consider asking the Peacekeepers, but then I risk stalling and embarrassing myself again.
Thankfully, Dimitri has a full tank of gas. I pick a tunnel and hope for the best. I press the gas and shift into second gear, then third. The car handles the shifts easily, gliding into the next gears. So far so good. This car has a lot of power and I wish that I could take it out on the highway. Flying down the tunnel, I feel almost free.
Paisley would be proud, I think. I was his worst student who made his truck lurch and stall on the overgrown paths. I lost control once and narrowly missed a gravestone. Afterwards, we would have a picnic. The tunnel lights fly past me as I navigate the gentle curves of the tunnel. As I drive, I begin to relax. The more distance I put in between the arena the better I feel. Paisley said that driving always got his mind off his troubles. There was something soothing about the road. However, gas was in short supplies in District 8, so he probably wasn't able to drive as much as he wanted. I wonder if he's mentoring these Games and make a mental note to check the mentor list.
I slow down as I approach a booth with a gate. My heart begins to pound. What if I went the wrong way? I worry. Then we'll find a place to turn around. It'll be fine. I reassure myself. Nothing happens, the Peacekeepers wave me by. A bright light appears and Dimitri's car and I are above ground in the Capitol. It takes me a few minutes to adjust to the bright sunlight and get my bearings. There is no rush. No one is behind me. There is no traffic. Almost everything is closed because it is the first day of the Games.
My phone rings making me jump. I dig through my purse for it, thinking it might be Dimitri.
"Hello?" I stammer.
Graham's voice comes clear over the line. "It's about time you answered your phone."
"I've been busy." Not a complete lie.
"That's what what's-his-face, clown boy said," Graham sneers. "Why did he have your phone anyway? Where are you?
I pull into a deserted coffee shop parking lot. I can't talk and drive this thing at the same time.
"I'm driving. I don't see what the big deal is."
"Um…you're my girlfriend, that's why it's a big deal." There is a tinge of jealousy in his voice.
"Can we talk about this later?" I ask. "Now is not a good time."
"Why? Is the bastard with you?"
Actually he might be dead in the bathtub for all I know.
"That 'bastard' you're referring to is my mentor." I shift Dimitri's car into neutral and put it and park.
"Sorry."
"You are not." I spit back. "You're never sorry."
"Look," Graham answers. "Carmen, can we talk about this? In the last couple of days, I've come to a few realizations."
"So have I."
"What are you doing tomorrow or later today?"
"I'll let you know, but right now I've got to go. I've got… to take care of a few things." I'm about five minutes away from the training center. I'm almost to Dimitri. Please be okay, I pray. I know that 'okay' is a relative term when it comes to Victors. I should know. I've spent my life around several.
He sighs. "Okay. I guess I shouldn't be , call me when you get a chance."
I hang up and feel guilty about our entire relationship. Dimitri was right when he said relationships in the Capitol are messy and complicated. Digging around in my purse, I find that flask and take a sip of the liquid. It burns my throat as it goes down. I wait a few moments and turn the key in the ignition.
The parking garage is still fairly empty when I arrive back at the Training Center. After the Games, the building will become leased apartments until the next Games. I'm sure I look terrible since I've been crying. I grab my purse and hurry into the building. The only people I see on my way up are Avoxes and they pay no attention to me.
Dimitri's door is locked, a strange occurrence since he never locks his door when he's home. I ring the doorbell, and after a few moments there is no answer. I bang on the door, hoping to at least some response. My hands are shaking as I insert the key into the lock and turn.
"Dimitri?" I call, shutting the door quietly behind me. Somewhere, water is running. My heart leaps in my throat. The bitter smell of alcohol and vomit lingers in the air. Shattered beer bottles litter the floor with their contents oozing across the hardwood. Specks of blood mingle with the alcohol. A bloody hand print is on the side of the island.
"Dimitri!" I yell again. I hear the panic escalate in my voice. "Where are you?"
"Just go away," a raspy voice snarls.
I drop my purse on the couch and hurry towards his bedroom. Glass crunches underneath my high heel. "Dimitri."
"Leave me alone." His voice is slurred. He sits slumped against the side of the bathtub, clutching a bottle of whiskey. Several bottles surround him. Rum. Tequila. Scotch. Absinthe. He's not being picky. Vomit stains his shirt and pants. Gods, he drinks too much. At least he doesn't pop pills like they're some sort of sweet.
"You know if you've been vomiting you probably shouldn't be drinking," I say.
"Please, just let me drink in peace."
"You can't do this." I say. I start picking up the half empty bottles. "Not now."
"And why can't I?"
"Just because you're a Victor doesn't entitle you to hole up in the bathroom and get blackout drunk because you're afraid of your feelings. Act like victor who's actually proud he won the Games." I realize my misstep as the words fall out of my mouth.
His eyes harden. Rage flickers in his hazel eyes. "Do you want to know the hell my life has been for the last eight years?" He screams as he staggers to his feet. "Do you want to know how I got these scars?"
He hurls the whisky bottle and it shatters on the doorframe above my head. Pieces of glass fall in my hair and down the back of my dress. Glass splinters find their way into my arms and leave a bloody reminder. Whisky soaks my hair and runs down my head into my eyes. I can't wipe my eyes because I risk putting glass in them. The liquid makes its way down my arm and stings my cuts.
Dimitri grabs my arm pushes me against the wall holding his knife to my lips. "You wanna know how I got these scars?"
I don't answer because I'm afraid any word I say will provoke him further.
"Answer me," he yells, pressing the knife closer to my face. He reeks of vomit and alcohol.
"Yes," I say weakly.
"Once upon a time, I was reaped into a deadly game where twenty-four tributes go in and only one comes out. Does that sound familiar to you?"
He jerks my arm. I nod to appease him.
"Do you want to know how I got these scars?" Dimitri repeats. His voice takes on the tone he had at the party. "Let me tell you how I got these scars. It all started when I won the sixty-sixth Hunger Games. I had a beautiful girl, just like you, who loved and adored me. She didn't care if I was broken. She loved me anyway. I loved her more than you will ever know."
He licks his lips and presses the flat end of the blade harder against my mouth. "And they killed her. They made me watch her die after I refused to do what they wanted. They asked me 'why wasn't I smiling? After all, I won. President Snow said 'Let's put a smile on that face.' So I did."
Dimitri slides the tip of the knife inside my mouth so that the blade touches the corner. "I put a smile on my face and laughed while I did it. You should have seen their faces." He laughs hysterically. The steel is cold against my lips and bitter on my tongue. Tears fill my eyes as I realize what he is implying. What he did to himself to defy President Snow.
"He didn't like that, oh no. They locked me away and killed a few members of my family. Now I'm always smiling even though they're dead." Dimitri loosens his grip on me and takes the knife out of my mouth.
"How long did they lock you away?"
"Two long years. Two long years they tortured me under the guise that I was on holiday at the expense of a rich Capitol lover. They all knew that I defied President Snow. Then I was back, a member of the elite Victor's Circle. They didn't want me. They couldn't handle my smiling. The scars." Dimitri opens the bottle of absinthe. "You know as well as I do that the Capitol hates ugly things. I was blight on their beloved Victory Circle, with my face. Plus I destroyed my "value" as a bed buddy. As a Gamemaker, now I am a blemish on their beloved Games. So sweetheart telling me to be proud of winning the Games is like pissing on my dead girlfriend and family members."
"The absinthe is going to make the memories worse," I say quietly. "If you want to be wasted into oblivion drink the tequila."
"The absinthe is stronger. I want to be dead," Dimitri says. "I deserve to be dead. I want my fellow Game tributes and the tributes I let die in the arena to stop haunting me."
"You can't." I say.
"Give me two good reasons."
"First of all, if you do die, you're letting the Capitol win," I answer. "You defied them, and if you die their problems will be all over. Secondly, I need you."
"You need me," Dimitri repeats. "Dammit Capitol Girl."
"I need you because I don't know what I'm doing. And a part of me thinks you need me too."
"That's a brave assumption," he scoffs. But he backs down.
My hands shake as I gather up the remaining bottles. "So, I need you to pull yourself together, if not for your own sake, then for mine. Pretend I'm a tribute. Keep me alive. I challenge you."
"Well, you're going to be let down."
He smiles sadly. "There's a big difference between you and the kids from District 5."
"Is there? The only advantage I have is money and power. I have no idea how to use a knife, throw a spear, shoot a bow and arrow. There is no place to be a pianist in the arena."
He looks down at the bottle and then back at me. The lack of sleep is catching up with him. There are dark circle and bags under his eyes that I didn't notice before. "Sometimes power and money are all you need. It doesn't mean anything if you don't know how to use it."
"You know more about it than I."
He doesn't answer. I pick my way over the broken glass, leaving him to ponder in the bathroom. Suddenly, I have an idea. It risks having another bottle thrown at me. I turn on my heel. "President Snow sends his regards."
My words have the desired affect. Dimitri's eyes narrow and his hand tightens on the neck of the bottle.
"Don't let him win," I say smugly.
"Get out," Pain and rage fill his eyes. He screams. "GET OUT OF HERE, YOU BITCH!"
Dimitri makes a point by throwing his knife in the wall across from the bathroom. It sticks deeply into the drywall. Then he slams the bathroom door. It rattles on its hinges. As I walk out of the bathroom, more glass shatters. I don't know if it is the mirror or another empty bottle. I should be worried that he'll mutilate himself with the glass, but being found dead in a bathtub isn't his style. He's more 'clean my gun while drunk and accidentally shoot myself' type.
His gun lies on the bedside table. In this state, Dimitri is a danger to himself and others. I balance the still full bottles in one arm and the gun in the other. There is also his collection of knives to consider. I set the bottles on the counter. I stash the gun in my purse. His other one is lying on the coffee table. I put next to my purse. I sneak back to my apartment to stash the guns away. They are my biggest concern. I need to hide them so he can't find them. My hands shake from the adrenaline coursing though my veins. The fight or flight instinct is back. This is probably how the tributes are feeling in the arena right now.
I rush into my bathroom and stash one of the guns under the bathroom sink, underneath several boxes of my feminine products. Men fear those with every ounce of their souls. It'll be safe there. I don't have much time. There are other weapons in his apartment. If I were Dimitri, where wouldn't I look? Under the mattress seems like a logical place, so does my underwear drawer. Suddenly, I have an idea. He won't look in the cookie jar. I stuff one gun in the jar labeled "cookies" until I can find a better spot for it. It's out of reach of my cats.
Carefully, I walk back to the bedroom. If I remember correctly, he keeps his knives on his bookshelves. My cuts are bleeding now, and droplets of blood run down my arms. The shards have also created runs in my hose. I pause at the door. From my vantage point, the bathroom door is still closed. Water is running. Maybe he's finally washing off the vomit and pulling himself together.
I pick up a discarded shirt lying across a chair. I recognize it as the shirt he wore yesterday. I tie knots at the end of the sleeves and begin to put the knives on the bookshelf into it. I don't have much time. I tuck one of the larger knives, I think it's called a machete on the chair so I won't forget it. This probably only the tip of his collection.
If I were Dimitri, where would I keep my weapons? His night stands catch my eye. There might be something in the top drawer. I feel sort of guilty rummaging through his things, but it's for a good cause. Plus, he's already been in my underwear drawer. I find two knives several flat disks with sharp edges that look like they can be used as weapons, and several cartages containing bullets. I stash them in the shirt as well. I freeze as I hear something fall in the bathroom. I don't have much time. I open the drawers in his dresser and dig through the contents. There are a few knives in there. There are also several dirty magazines containing women in lewd poses. I stuff these back in the drawer hastily and close the door, my face is red. Dimitri may be owned by the Capitol, but he has needs too.
I open a few more drawers and find a few more knives and gun magazines. In his sock drawer, tucked at the bottom, there is a magazine featuring victors. The one on top has Dimitri on the cover. He is completely naked and smiling coquettishly. I flip through it. I have never seen one of these before. It makes sense, given the Victor's duties besides mentoring. Loud retching comes from the bathroom jolting me from my thoughts. I should check on him. He is my mentor after all. I close the drawer I was digging through, gather up the shirt and escape from his apartment. I stash it under my arm. I don't have much time.
I tap on the door lightly. "Dimitri?"
"What?" he sneers. "Haven't you done enough damage today?"
"I just wanted to tell you—"
"Get out."
"But—"
"Carmen, I swear to God if you don't get out I will kill you." Another round retching sends him crawling to the porcelain throne. I wrinkle my nose at the licorice smell from the absinthe mixed with the smell of vomit.
"I'm making chicken soup for dinner tonight and if you're feeling up to it, I wanted to invite you over for some."
"What makes you think that inviting me over for soup makes what you said any better? I am not your whore."
I have a sickening feeling that he knows what I've done. I pick up my confiscated items, close the door and let him drown in his misery. "Because you're my mentor, and you need—"
"I don't need you." He spits. "I don't need you to take care of me."
Back in my apartment, I wonder where I am going to put these knives. In any case, they can't stay in the stolen shirt. I own two curious kittens. My phone rings and the sickening feeling in my stomach returns. It's Graham.
"Hello." I say. I pick up a few of the knives and start hiding them; a few in the silverware drawer beside the steak knives, one in the butter compartment of the fridge. The throwing stars would make good coasters. He probably wouldn't notice those particularly if I hide them under the flower vases. Getting a concussion is good for something, at least, even if it was his fault.
"Are you busy?"
"Not really." I stash the machete with the plates. "Just doing a few things around the house."
"Can we talk about this? About the Games? About us?"
"I guess." After all that's happened today, one more thing can't hurt. "I need to take a shower."
"You want to meet in an hours?"
"To talk about us?" I reply. As far as I was concerned there was no more 'us'. Maybe he knows that two. The upside of meeting Graham is that I wouldn't be around for any more of Dimitri's rages. I need to take a shower and wash off the blood and glass. I also need to wash the blood off my hands from the tributes. Epona's glassy eyes burn into my thoughts, with the blood gushing out of her throat. I shouldn't go. I should stay here and babysit Dimitri through his self-destructive dancing with the Green Fairy.
No. I need to get away from this place, at least for a while.
I quickly finish hiding the rest of the knives. I stuff a couple in the couch, behind a pillow, under the couch, the television stand. They are scattered through out the apartment. The guns are safely hidden away. I hide the Victory Circle magazine in my piano bench underneath some music. As far as I know, Dimitri does not have a key to my apartment. He does still have his motorcycle keys. I slip back over there and press my ear against the door. Nothing. I open the door slowly. An Avox stands with a dustpan filled with glass.
Another one comes out carrying a bag. They don't meet my eye.
"You didn't see me here," I say. The key from the motorcycle hangs on a hook by the door. I pause.
"How sick is he?" I ask.
My answer is a loud sobbing from the bedroom.
"Stop drinking the absinthe," I call. "It's going to make the hallucinations worse as well as make your feel drunker."
"I just want to forget," he cries. "Make it stop. Make them stop torturing me."
I want to figure out what happened to him. Maybe I can make it stop, but I have no idea where to start.
I slip out the front door and back to my apartment. My phone rings. This time it is my mother. I let it go to voicemail. I know that call probably pertains to the stunt I pulled earlier involving the Victor's Circle. When I undo my braid, glass falls onto the bathroom floor. I shower quickly and wash my hair. I still smell like the arena.
Thankfully, I only have a few cuts from the bottle Dimitri threw at my head. My makeup has rubbed off some with my crying so my black eye is visible. It's not a swollen as, and the bruise is starting to turn from purple to green.
After my shower, I rebraid my hair and pull on the shirt I wore to the arena last night. It smells faintly of Dimitri. The scent is comforting as I breathe in deeply. It is a mixture of his cologne and clove cigarettes.
Graham and I plan to meet at a local Bistro called Robin Alexander's in two hours time. It is a popular restaurant for college students. It's maybe a fifteen minute drive from the training center. I decide to take Dimitri's car. He's not using it.
I should check on him before I go, but I don't. I just hope he'll be alive when I get back. I don't know how to help him or even if it's possible.
A/n: Please Review