Twenty-four years, forty eight tributes, and hundreds of bottle of alcohol. That has been his life ever since he had won the Hunger Games. He had lost count of how many funerals he had gone to and how many dirty looks he had gotten from the families of the kids he couldn't get out of the arena. He couldn't even remember when he had stopped going to them. But that didn't mean that he didn't care about them. None of them were fighters, they were just kids, scared to death just like he had been, desperate just to go home, hole there family in their arms, like he wished he could do.
Until he met two of them, fighters both of them. She was strong, deadly if you could get her mad enough, not eager to kill, but willing to do it. She had volunteered for her sister, protecting her as he suspected she always had. A girl who had to fight for her life everyday, being from the Seam, he vaguely recognized her from the Hob.
He was strong in a different way the the girl, pure muscle form hours of labor in his father's bake shop. Coming from what was expected to be a comfortable life in District 12, it was shocking to see the darkness in his blue eyes when he spoke of his family.
It began how it usually did, they asked for advice but when he gave his usual "Stay alive" the boy actually hit him, the girl throw a knife at him. Most of the past tributes burst into tears when he told them this, once or twice they just glared at him. These two were fighters, he was sure of it, but he needed them to be smart.
He had watched them fight, both with and for each other. He would never admit it, but he was rather fond of them, two kids who dared to fall in love at the worst time possible. They had made it out of two Games and a rebellion. Broken and beaten as they were, they still fought and by some miracle lived.
He wish he would have tried harder to mentor the tributes before them, maybe he could have gotten at least one out. But he knew why he didn't, it was too painful to build up those kids hope as well as his own, just to make it that much worse when they did lose. Instead he surrounded himself with alcohol to make himself forget that those kids were people. He had never learned their names calling them 'darlin', 'kid', or 'shorty', it was easier that way, they were easier to forget.
The Hunger Games were gone now, he wasn't a mentor anymore, not that he had been a good one. If he was honest with himself he never considered that he was one. He made apperances at parties were no one wanted to talk to him, he showed up drunk at the reaping year after year and he ignored kids who were counting on him.
He wasn't a mentor, he was a drunk.