Salvation: A Gale Hawthorne One-Shot

Gale Hawthorne gazed into the mirror. That thin slab of glass never lied. Despite having grown up in the underbelly of the slums of Panem, going to bed hungry more nights than not, he looked worse than he ever had. His stormy grey eyes had lost the glow they once held, because that spark that had once illuminated them was long gone. The whites were bloodshot, unhealthy. The dark bags beneath his deadened eyes were heavy and yellowed. His entire body seemed to be wasting away. He was gaunt and skeletal, emaciated due to a nonexistent appetite. The only evidence that he was alive was the reluctant beating of his heart and the oxygen passing through his lungs. Each breath was painful. Each beat was unwelcome. It'll get better, he kept telling himself. He wouldn’t always be shunned. People will begin to realize that there was no way he could be directly at fault. He didn’t drop the bomb. Hell, the explosive could have been created by any of the weapons engineers. There was no proof that the bomb was Gale’s design. They'll come around.

But they didn't.

It had been five long, agonizing years since the Rebellion. Panem had been rebuilt and was operating seamlessly. There was no more starvation, no more Hunger Games, no more Capitol. Children could expect three full meals a day and never have to fear their names being shouted in some shrill Capitol accent, ringing through the district as they were summoned up to slaughter. It was a better world. A better Panem, for everyone but Gale.

There was nowhere he could go without heads turning, eyes narrowed, whispered gossiping that sounded like this hissing of a rattlesnake and was just as venomous. He was still the Child Killer, the slayer of the innocent. The rumors were fueled by none other than the person he had trusted the most; the girl who had once captured his heart. If the Mockingjay believed her former best friend had murdered her beloved sister, who were they to disagree? They idolized her. They followed her like sheep. Not even years later had they let him be.

It was all too much. The vandalism hadn't even ceased entirely. Hateful words written in the blood of slaughtered livestock on the side of his house. Burning dolls representing the children who had been caught in the crossfire. Sometimes there were ones that resembled her. Prim. It ate him up inside. He wished more than anything that he could exchange his life for hers; the fair-haired young girl whose heart beat for everyone in Panem. She was the epitome of selflessness. The world needed people like Primrose Everdeen. It did not need Gale Hawthorne.

Sleep bore no refuge from the hell of Gale's existence. Not a night passed where he didn't hear Katniss's scathing words. "It's your fault she died... I never want to see you again... I hate you..." Shouting over his pleas and his apologies, having none of it. The screams of the children; their charred and burning skeletons coming after him, bony fingers outstretched, beckoning him toward a flaming death. He'd wake up sick to his stomach, traumatized to the point where he wouldn't let himself sleep for days. Not even the alcohol helped anymore. He could drink himself into oblivion every day and still see those horrors at night. It was time.

Gale rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt, his hands trembling. He hated himself for this. He hated himself for everything. Not a day went by that he hadn't wished he died in the Rebellion. He envied other people. At least they didn't have to spend every waking moment of their lives with him, like he was forced to do. He could never escape himself. Not until now. It was the only way, the last resort. He picked up the knife, the blade glinting silver in the dim light of the moon shining through his window. His eyes stung with tears that he refused to shed. Nobody would come for him. Hell, it would probably be days before anyone noticed his absence.

Gale closed his eyes, taking a moment to think about his family. Mom, Rory, Vick and little Posy. What good would he do them now? He would bring them nothing but constant worry. He was beyond help. Far beyond salvation, even with their support. He left a note, a message for each one of them. He was sorry. Desperately sorry. But he assured them that this was what he wanted, that he would be happy and he would watch over him from wherever he'd be after tonight. He would be leaving his body, the beaten prison that kept him trapped in misery. But it would be only that from which he departed. He knew because of his father. After his dad was killed in the mine accident, Gale had felt his presence. His father wasn't there physically, but in spirit, he was all around. However, that wasn't enough anymore. Gale needed his dad now more than ever. And there was only one way to be with him again.

One.

Gale raised the blade, his right hand shaking violently. But he wouldn't back down. He'd just regret it when he woke up screaming in the morning, having to suffer through another day. He'd wish he didn't have to wake up, as he did every morning. Day after day, he wished the alcohol abuse would finally consume his battered body. But it never did.

Two.

What would she think when she heard the news? That her former best friend had permanently eliminated his suffering? Would she care? Would she be relieved? Would she know that he thought about her every day? That he left District 12 as an act of respect for her? That he didn't want to burden her with the reminder of Prim's death every time she laid eyes on him? He left her a note too. If she read his message, she would know.

Three.

The pain was brief, but intense. Gale drove the blade of the knife into his skin, dragging it from the crook of his elbow down to where his wrist met the palm of his hand, severing nerves and tearing his flesh in a quick, clean cut. The knife fell to the wooden floor with a clatter. The blood spilled fast. Gale collapsed onto his knees, eyes squeezed shut, tears flowing as thick and hot as the crimson liquid of life now vacating his body. His heart was beating fast now, his breathing becoming shallow. Gale slumped onto the floor, into the growing pool of his own blood. He wasn't feeling regret. He did not wish he’d reconsidered. No. Death didn't frighten him anymore. Life did. As his vision faded to black, he saw something. Shadowy figures. One large, one small. Their faces came into view. The faces of the two people closest to him who had preceded him in death.

Prim looked young, fresh-faced and innocent. Not a scratch on her, a soft smile on her face. Her golden hair was in two braids, perfectly styled. She was dressed not in the drab, ugly clothes of the Seam, but in a beautiful gown; elegant and simple, pure white in color. She didn't look sad or distraught. She looked peaceful and serene.

Gale's attention turned to the larger figure. He had never seen his father looking as he did at this moment. His dad was younger, probably not much older than Gale was now. Not a speck of coal dust blackened his face or nails. And he was smiling, a soft smile, with a hint of sadness. Sorrow surely at what had become of his firstborn son.

The pain had faded by now. Gale felt almost as if he was floating. He began to move toward his father and Prim. The youngest Everdeen had been like a second sister to him. And she was here to greet him. It was clear that she did not blame him for her tragic death as her sister did. That alone eased some of Gale’s qualms.

Gale himself seemed younger. His body was unscathed, slight smaller in stature. He wouldn't be entering the afterlife as the damaged man he had become. He was a boy again, not much older than twelve or thirteen. The boy who looked forward to going into the woods with his father after school, learning how to hunt and trap. The boy who was still able to smile outside the woods. And smile was what he did now. At the little girl with the braids, at the man he admired and wished to be someday.

It was at the moment Gale felt his father's arms wrapped around him, reuiniting father and son, that the final breath passed his lips and his heart gave one last beat. Prim's tiny hand lightly rubbed his back, a comforting gesture, as Gale clung to his father. He knew he had made the right choice. He was no longer in pain. He no longer had to experience the nightmares or live with the memories. He was happy. He was home.