Olivia Carey // District Eight

The liquid fire is my salvation.

I raise the glass so that its contents sear the inside of my throat, making tears press up against the backs of my eyes. The bartender jumps when it slams back against the counter and I slump forward, frowning at how it doesn't make the pain go away. I order another one and the man behind the counter frowns at me, but he can't turn away the cash I pass over the greasy surface. I slump forward in my stool, pressing my palms into my eyes. When I pull them back I notice a young woman staring at me, her face pale. Her wide eyes flicker between me and a spot on the wall behind me, and even in my drunken state I can guess what she's looking at. I can't quite find the strength to do what's best for me and despite the twisting in my stomach my eyes raise to the television screen to see her, bloodstained and pale, eyes staring at nothing.

'vannah.

Another drink appears in front of me and I down it as fast as I can before turning again to the young woman, my lips curling into a humorless smile. "Family resemblance is a killer, huh?"

On the night she died, I broke down. I locked myself in my room at stared at myself for ages. I don't remember what our mother was like. There aren't any pictures of her, so I always attributed my different features to Savannah. I had Savannah's brown hair. Savannah's high cheekbones. Savannah's green eyes. My fingers ran over the side of my face and my eyes fluttered closed, remembering all the times she claimed that I was nothing like her because I was pretty and she wasn't. Liar. Savannah was beautiful because she was strong. Hers was a light that came from within, one that was always shining without the help of nice clothing or a new hairstyle. She didn't know it, but I was always trying to be her kind of beautiful. My eyes had opened again and I met my own gaze. Her eyes.

A heartbeat later the mirror was shattered and my hand was covered in blood.

I blink against the memories, returning my attention to a stain on the counter beneath my fingers. I feel the woman's eyes lingering, no doubt seeing a dead girl. There were always those subtle differences between our appearances - Savannah was taller with more muscle, while I was always a few inches beneath her with willowy limbs, and the curve of her jaw was different, more angular than mine - but it doesn't matter. Most people don't bother to notice that, especially now I've let myself go and look just like she did as a tribute. I haven't brushed my hair in ages, there are dark circles under my eyes, and the clothes I wear are wrinkled and worn. There was a time, before the Games, when I wouldn't be caught dead looking like I do now. I wore frilly clothes with jewelry to match, all stolen by Savannah just for me. She knew my expensive taste. I wonder what she would have said if she had been there to see the fire I lit in our back yard, in which I burned every last scrap of clothing she had ever given me.

I just wanted the pain to go away.

It doesn't. It whirls around, a tornado of memories, and in my drunken state all I can do is whimper pathetically when they hit me. We used to play together when we were young. Mom was still alive then, although now her face is blurred and distorted through the haze of time. Dad didn't hit us back then. Our house seemed much bigger, the white paint brighter. We would play on the rope swing during long summer days, too young to understand that the world was much harsher than we realized. It was just her, Eva, and I back then. Nora was just a baby. Helen and Lucy weren't even born yet. Now the house is old and battered, our mother six feet under with Savannah soon to join her, and the rope swing looks more like a noose.

I wasn't always so bitter. In fact, we all used to shine. Things changed when Savannah died. What was once bright, bubbly energy transformed into an overwhelming sense of guilt and sorrow that weighed heavily on my shoulders. Without thinking I raise my hand for another glass. The man, apparently finally having been pushed beyond caring, sets another glass in front of me without question. The world is slipping and sliding around me, having taken on a kind of golden aura. It's a sweet symphony of numbness that brings peace to my weary bones and I slump back, finally satisfied. When I stand the world tilts dangerously, but a pair of hands grip at my arms and steady me. For one delirious moment, I'm convinced it's Savannah. But then I turn and see the lady instead, and behind her Savannah's dead body is still being shown on the television screen, and it's all so wrong that I stumble away, heart hammering. The young woman's eyes widen in concern and she takes a step toward me.

"'s fine," I slur, my feet stuttering back one, two, three more steps. "'m fine."

I'm not fine. I manage to duck out the door and around the corner before the contents of my stomach are released onto the pavement, leaving me dizzy and winded. I don't wait to regain my senses before moving through the darkness, trying the blink away the blur at the edge of my vision. I've always been one to wander when lost and even the deep sense of loss I feel yawning in my chest isn't enough to steal away those traits that are embedded deeper than my shallow need for material possessions. It's become a regular routine for me, something even Savannah would frown at. I wouldn't even look at alcohol before she was reaped and it killed a small part of me to know that she could still go out and get drunk and have fun. The alcohol doesn't make me laugh or smile or stumble into young boys like it did with her, though. No, these drinks keep me sane. They keep me from spilling into the void of despair. And so I return to that bar every night, and every night ends like this one, with me sinking to the ground and trembling as my fingers press into my scalp in an attempt to hold the emotions at bay.

I should be surprised when I return several hours later to find Dad sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle sloshing in his hand. He's hardly around these days. When he asks me where I've been, a recognizable fire in his tone, I blink.

"Savannah died," I tell him, and then I go up into my room with the shattered mirror and ashes of my clothes, eyes staring blankly ahead.

Her eyes.