CHAPTER ONE
- 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗻𝗼𝘄
( 𝗯𝘆 𝗽𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗯𝘂𝘁𝘀𝗸𝘆𝘄𝗮𝗹𝗸𝗲𝗿 )

       It is as if I can feel his heart stop. His body crumbles like a lifeless puppet, the wound in his chest staining the snow a scarlet red before my feet. The knife is in my hand still and my numb fingers tremble as his blood drips from the blade and soaks my forearms. The frigid air and the death in front of me leaves me breathless. Gasping. I'm screaming until my throat is raw. He is unmoving, the death my doing. I feel my own blood gushing from my nose which coats my chest and blurs my senses until I'm stumbling through the snow completely disoriented. I hear the sound of the cannon echoing through the snowstorm.

       Now I'm awake, still shrieking and thrashing in my bed. The Hunger Games is never really over, no matter how many years pass after my victory. Every time I go to sleep, I'm transported back into that wintery arena where I am forced to relive every moment I killed for the sake of my own survival.

His death never fails to reappear in my nightmares. We had never spoken before, but I knew he was the tribute from District 11. His attack was unexpected. One moment I was preparing to rest my eyes, and the next, I was being punched directly in the face by his already bloody knuckles. It is painful to admit he was an easy kill. All it took was the grasp of my blade and the flick of my wrist.

It was after my Victory Tour when his murder started to effect me. In his district, the crowds were full of hollow-faced people forced to listen to my scripted speech where I shared my condolences for their tributes. I spoke of their male tribute as if I hadn't taken his life. It was the boy's family who made me view his death as more than just an easy kill. When his mother looked at me, I expected to see anger or rage, but beneath her dark eyes, she only seemed broken. Little children clutched to her legs, terrified. Terrified of me. I had taken their brother and I was the enemy.

Winning the 68th Hunger Games was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing in the fact I escaped with my life but a curse because of the burdens I now carry with it. There is a fear in my chest that never seems to diminish and the murders always emerge at night. Sometimes, I wonder that if I had died in the games with the others, it would have been the true blessing.

I lay in my pool of sweat until I am back into reality. The bedsheets are tangled around my legs like overgrown vines, constricting my already sweaty limbs, and I kick them away from me in a panic. I'm sure my father has heard my yelling, but he never comes to comfort me like he once did. He never knows how to calm me down while I'm in distress and his awkward encounters often make the situation worse.

At least I have Finnick Odair, the only living person who knows how to make me feel better. If it weren't for the Hunger Games, we would have never become friends. We were both 17 when he become my mentor and helped me through the games. He won three years before me at the age of 14 and he passed his knowledge on to me as I could keep my life as well. It is a debt I can never repay.

Putting his arrogance and crude jokes aside, Finnick always knows how to comfort me and handle my breakdowns, especially when it comes to the Hunger Games. It is the main reason I tend to seek out his company first, even above my siblings and any of the other victors.

I slip off my low mattress and tiptoe across the room. It is still a habit even though I've had my own room since I arrived at the Victor's Village around 10 years ago. When I wake up abruptly, sometimes I believe I'm back in my childhood home where I slept with my entire family in one room. It is selfish to say that I miss those times. Everything was so much different. Now our home has so many rooms where my father sleeps with the ghost of my mother and each of my siblings sleep alone.

No one comes to stop me when I grab my thick coat and open up the front door. A blast of the winter air hits me like a wall, sending me spiraling into visions of the arena again. The Hunger Games lives in everything these days, especially in the winter. Even the icicles hanging down on the tree branches and the cold feeling in the tips of my fingers serve as reminders.

I may have won the games, but I will never win in my memories. I replay it over and over, adding more blood and fear. I imagine the deaths so vividly that I feel as if I can see all of the corpses in front of my eyes.

All the living District 4 victors of the Hunger Games occupy Victor's Village. Finnick is the one I talk to regularly. The only other residents I speak to occasionally are a young woman named Annie Cresta, a mentally-damaged victor, and Mags, an elderly woman who was the victor of the 11th Hunger Games. The latter practically raised Finnick and mentored him throughout his own experience in the arena. Anyone who is a friend of Finnick is a friend of mine.

I trudge towards the house right across from mine, my bare feet cringing at the cold touch of the snow that reaches about halfway up my shin. Finnick's house. It is unhealthy how many times I have made this trek in the middle of the night. At first, when I was only 18, I would have to ring the doorbell in order to get inside, but Finnick learned quickly to give me a key.

The longer I stay outside, the worse the flashbacks get. I fall to my knees, submerged deep in the inches of white ice beneath me. The snow soaks through my fuzzy pants and I am fully taken back to my moments in the arena. The memories of being huddled at the base of a tree, wounded and freezing, in the darkness. The memories of being attacked in the night as the cold hindered me from feeling my feet. The memories of killing the young girl in the moonlight and her body being my only source of heat as her life leaked from her bones. The memories of him dying in my arms and seeing the light disappear from his eyes.

I let the moment pass before scrambling to my feet like a terrified animal. It is pitiful how weak I have become, physically and mentally, and even the therapy I have received over the years has made minimal positive change. No medications I have taken have been able to fully drown out my flashbacks.

It takes me a moment to get my trembling hand steady enough to insert the key. I am filled with relief when the doorknob turns and I am hit with the warmth of his home as I step through the threshold of his front door. My feet are soaking wet, dripping cold water and leaving clumps of snow on his doormat, and I attempt to scrap as much of it off as I can before I go further inside. My efforts are useless and water drips on to his hardwood floor with each step I take. I remind myself to clean it tomorrow morning.

Even though the night casts shadows through the hallway, I know the directions by heart. The door of his room is wide open as if he anticipated my appearance. This isn't a daily occurrence, but occasionally it happens thrice a week.

My pants and jacket are wet from my episode outside, so I slip them off leaving me in a long-sleeved t-shirt and shorts. My legs are cold and moist so I use my pants to clear as much of the snow off as possible. After my attempts to appear dry, I approach his bed where I get my first glimpse of him. His body is completely still besides the steady rise and fall of his chest every few seconds. His messy blonde curls are splayed out on his pillows and his cheeks are a bright red. I can feel his warmth from where I stand.

It makes me smile to see him so peaceful. There is a longing I have for him that I have never felt for anyone else. My admiration for him has only grown over the years, starting from the moment I met him at 17 until where I am now, standing in the moonlight at his bedside cherishing the curve of his jaw and the slight parting of his lips. I feel my body relax to the point I have almost completely forgotten the bad dreams I just endured. He is where I find my comfort.

              I heave myself up on the bed beside him and pull back the blankets. His hold on the sheets releases, allowing me to slip in front of him and lie down so my back is facing his bare chest. I must have been too rough and I hear his breath hitch as his warmth starts to settle around me.

             "God, Sonnet, you're freezing," he grumbles, the sleep making his voice grittier than usual.

              I laugh softly, flipping over so that we are facing each other. His eyes open, droopy with sleep, but still so green. The darkness could never make the color dull. They shine in the moonlight that pours through his bedroom window and their familiarity makes me feel safe.

              "Sorry, I fell in the snow." He must have known what really happened because he rests a hand on the crook of my waist.

              Without thinking, my heart is beating faster and my breath quickens. I mask my nervousness as the touch of his fingers resonates on my hip. He moves in closer and shuts his eyes again. I can feel his breath against my neck. "Do you want to talk about it?"

              I shake my head and he grins, knowing that would be my response. I refuse his offer almost every time except rare moments. Those nights are particularly bad where I will arrive in his room in a fit of sobs and he will hold me while I confess all of my thoughts and emotions. Other nights, it is the other way around. I hope he finds as much safety in me that I find when he holds me in his arms.

              "Just be here for me," I whisper.

              His hand drifts down my thigh and his touch makes my skin tingle. It's a pleasant feeling. I turn my back towards him and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me into his body. The first time I ever got into his bed for comfort, I had been scared that he'd judge me for my weakness but now, we fit together like two puzzle pieces.

"Always," He says, pulling me in tighter.

I forget about the Hunger Games, and I forget about the snow.

My fear evaporates with each of his low breaths. He will keep me safe, and as I drift back into a deep sleep, I feel his lips meet the back of my neck.

_

The Quarter Quell is on the horizon, and as the event gets closer, my dread increases. Finnick and I are the two victors responsible for teaching and training the District 4 tributes every games, and even after many years, it always pains me to witness our tributes die on screen. After weeks of training and getting to know them, I become so connected to the two individuals that it breaks my heart to send them to the arena to watch them suffer. I make an effort to get both of them Capitol sponsors, but some years, they just aren't crowd favorites, which makes keeping them alive so much more difficult.

Since it is the 75th Hunger Games, this year will involve some sort of twist. The 50th Quarter Quell was won by the District 12 tribute, Haymitch Albernathy, who helped the renowned Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark to victory just last year. Not ony did he get one of his tributes out alive, but he'd gotten both. When it was just Katniss and Peeta left in the arena, the girl had pulled a stunt with poisonous berries to get out with Peeta as well. Most people view her as a symbol of rebellion, despite her constant alibi that she was acting out of her deep love for Peeta.

Whatever is in store this year will not be pleasant. The 50th Hunger Games required two times more tributes from each district, and for the 25th, the citizens of each district had to vote for their two tributes. It is terrifying to think of what they may have planned next.

About two weeks have gone by since the night Finnick kissed my neck. He never mentioned it, and maybe he was so exhausted that he didn't remember. But I do. The snow has started melt outside since then, making the ground mushier and harder to walk across without getting mud stuck in the grooves of my shoes. This is fine with me. Snow has never served as a happy component in my life.

"They're announcing new information about the Quarter Quell later tonight," my father says over dinner. His voice is careful. Cautious. He has always been a quiet man, and when my mother was still alive, she tended to do the speaking for him. Now he stayed silent.

"Tonight? Its months away." I shovel the hot stew into my mouth. My father has never been a very good cook, but he can manage. Nowadays, we can actually eat something edible. Right after my mother passed away, he let the grief consume him so much that he didn't have the energy to move, let alone cook a meal. We all got a bit skinnier that year.

My siblings don't respond to my question, so I keep my eyes trained on my father until he responds, "They'll probably just read the card."

I may be disqualified from any further games, but my siblings are not. Koa, age 14, and Willow, age 12, can still possibly be reaped. Even though they have never had to add their names more times than needed, the chances are still there. Both of their names are only written once, but the odds may not be in their favor. My youngest brother, Crane, is only 7 but soon enough his name will be entered too.

It is a terrifying thought to think my siblings could be chosen to endure the suffering I had to experience. Koa would not stand a chance against anyone too skilled. He is too sensitive, and if it came down to it, he would not be able to kill someone. On the other hand, Willow has that fight in her that could keep her going. I've seen her practice with a knife before and she can perform moderately well. For Crane, it's too early to tell.

It is odd for the Capitol to release information about the Quarter Quell so soon. It may be to get people in the Capitol excited or it could mean something deeper. It must be important either way, and I tell myself no matter how much I hate seeing President Snow's wrinkled face, I'll watch the Capitol announcement. My tributes will have to fight in it after all.

After dinner, I take some time to wash up while waiting to hear the news. I turn on the faucet, letting the warm water rush into the bath tub and mix with the soap I had already added, creating a layer of bubbles on the surface. Hot water used to be so scarce back before I won the games, but now we have it in an endless supply. There are children out in District 4 who have to bathe with sponges and cold water while my family sits content with our luxury. Sometimes, thinking about it makes me sick.

After washing and dressing myself in an easy outfit, I make my way to Finnick's house at around 7. My boots slosh through the moist grass, and I curve onto the pavement that leads up to the doorway. I don't want to see my sibling's faces when the card is being read. It will break my heart to see the panic in their eyes, thinking of the possibility that they will have to be the ones to experience it.

Finnick opens the door and welcomes me with a quick embrace. I linger in his arms for a moment to appreciate his familiar scent. He smells like salted caramel. I don't know why. Before I moved to Victors Village, I'd never had the grandeur of treats. Now, I know that he smells like the saltiness of that specific sweet candy that melts onto my tongue. The aftertaste of him clings to my clothes.

"Hey, princess," he says smoothly. His hands take my coat from my shoulders and hangs it by the door. "Nervous?"

"A little," I admit. Honestly, I am more anxious for whoever the future tributes will be.

We walk the hallways until we come upon the sitting room where the television is propped up  on a wooden stand, playing an interview which features different styles of Katniss Everdeen's wedding dresses. It is starting to get annoying how much they've talked about her upcoming wedding.

"I think they're just doing it for the Capitol," I tell Finnick as he flops down onto his fuzzy couch after pushing aside a dirty mug. The room is a mess, but I pretend not to notice. "It all seems too scripted."

Finnick nods as he yawns, and when he shuts his eyes, I study his complexion. Although his face is scrunched up, I can see the noticeable purple bags beneath his eyes and the wild nature of his hair.

"Finnick, when was the last time you washed?" I ask playfully, sitting beside him and ruffling his hair. He reacts by slapping away my hand and sending me a glare full of sarcasm.

"A busy man doesn't have time for such foolishness!" He says in a thick Capitol accent.

I raise my eyebrows. Often, there are weeks at a time where he is plagued with Capitol visits. He never gives me specifics of what he does when he is called there by President Snow himself but I know he hates it. Since he has always been a Capitol favorite, I presume it is full of parties and empty conversations. But I know him too well. He won't be going there anytime soon and his schedule is absolutely empty.

He lets out a heavy puff of breath. "Okay, fine. You caught me. I haven't been feeling the greatest."

"Finn!" I cry, a pang of hurt blossoming in my chest. "You haven't come to me!"

"I know, I know. I didn't want to bother you," he grumbles. "But I promise I will now, Sonnet. Just for you. You'll listen to me, right?"

I giggle, and when I don't answer, he leans in a little to give me sarcastic puppy dog eyes. I shove his face away with the palm of my hand, and he lets his head hang all the way back onto the arm of the sofa. I grin at his goofiness.

Suddenly, the television is shifting from wedding dresses to the talk of the upcoming Quarter Quell. The shift catches me so off guard that it takes me a moment to recognize that Casear Flickerman is standing in front of the camera, smiling wide to display his array of bright white teeth.

"That's right, this year will be the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games, and you know what that means! It's time for our Quarter Quell!" He cries as the camera pans back to the elaborate stage where President Snow is standing.

I glance sideways at Finnick, who is watching the screen attentively. I can tell he is nervous although he probably wouldn't admit it. He taps one of his feet rapidly and narrows his eyes at the sight of the president.

Beside Snow stands a young boy dressed in a white suit, holding a plain wooden box in front of him. The President recollects everything about the Dark Days when the rebels attempted to break free and the Hunger Games emerged instead. Every 25 years they would have a Quarter Quell to remind each citizen of Panem about the rebellion and give them a reason for it not to happen again.

It's ironic because I've heard rumors that some of the districts have been rebelling ever since Katniss Everdeen challenged authority with her poisonous berries. 'The girl on fire' is what they call her. The spark of a possible chance to break free from President Snow's unruly rein.

He explains the rules of the past two Quarter Quells and then continues on with a small smirk on his face. "Now we honor our third Quarter Quell."

The young boy moves so that the president can open the bland box and look through the multiple years worth of envelopes to find the one labeled with a small 75. His fingers trace the creases of the paper as if to taunt the Districts of Panem and then proceeds to open it with even less urgency. I hold my breath.

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Finnick sits up, alert and looking at me, waiting for me to react. But I'm frozen, stuck in a nightmare that has become reality. I've been living off the promise that I'd never have to go back. Once a victor, you were safe. Now even that has been torn from my hands.

There's nothing else to do but cry into Finnick's arms, knowing that one way or another, it was him and I together back in the games.

word count : 3852 words
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