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The house was huge. It was empty and cavernous and it was supposed to be everything that she had ever wanted.
The silence was oppressive. This was what she wanted. She had spent her life training for this. And she had done. She had won the Hunger Games.
And now-
The arena had been a desert. Flat and endless except for pockets of crumbling stone ruins, the only bits of shade to be found. There had been three suns, and none of them had ever gone down. She had lost track quickly of how long the games had lasted.
There had been few places to hide. The ruins, maybe, but you could look and see everyone else around you. Every weapon had been rotting and rusted to the pointed of unusability. There had been cacti with water in them, but no food unless you got a sponsor. She had had plenty.
Even then, she had been starving by the end.
Every bit of her skin had been raw and sunburned. Sandstorms had whipped through, the sand as sharp as razors. Their clothing had offered some protection, but several of the tributes had been ripped to shreds. The Capitol had cleaned her up, her skin now as fresh and clean as the day she was born.
Not a single scar was left. Sometimes Victors still had them, if was too big to repair, if it was part of their victory. But all hers had been small, rough, and no good for the beauty of a girl she was supposed to be.
And now, sitting alone in the Victors Village, she could still feel the sand against her skin. She could still feel her sunburns itching until it became unbearable. There was still sand in her shoes, her hair, her underwear, getting into her eyes and under her nails and down her throat. The last few tributes had all started coughing up blood, sand in their lungs and tearing them apart on the inside.
The couch was in the middle of the living room. Her back was exposed. She had refused any allies. Most Victors couldn’t say that. Her mentor, his own win just two years ago, had said it was a bad idea. She had proved him wrong.
Her back was exposed.
She stood, pressing herself against the wall instead. That was better. From here she could see the doors. And the windows. Huge and bright and- she found herself yanking her curtains shut, turning off every light switch that she could find.
Better. Darker. She had almost forgotten what darkness was like. Her Victory Party had been all bright lights and desert flowers and sand colored silks. Everywhere she looked it had been as though she hadn’t made it out at all.
Her games, she learned afterwards, had only lasted a week. It had felt like longer. It had felt like forever. It hadn’t really even been enough time for anyone to starve to death. Some had died of thirst. Others had been killed by the heat. She had heard a few people complaining the games hadn’t been bloody enough, too much nature and not enough combat.
That wasn’t her fault. She had taken out two in the bloodbath at the beginning, and four more afterwards. Six tributes.
The blood was still on her hands. Water had been too precious to waste on bathing, and the sand too rough to scrub that way.
It was still too bright. She stepped into the basement, locking the door behind her and shutting off the lights.
That was better. This would work. The basement was empty, waiting for her to fill it however she wanted. She sat down in the corner. It was cold down here. That was good too.
Her father had died while she was in the arena. It felt- he had been sick for months. It was why she had volunteered even though she was seventeen and they preferred you to b eighteen. So her father could see her win.
It wasn’t like she was poor. Her family owned half the factories in the district. Her father had the best doctors they could get. And he still hadn’t lasted the month she had been gone.
She could feel the outline of her ribs.
There had been a boy. She didn’t remember which district. It didn’t really matter. Twelve or eight maybe. He had been trying to clean blood from her shirt. Idiot. Wasting the little water they had been given.
He had been the skinniest thing. Each one of his ribs was visible, his stomach sunk in, elbows and knees jutting out. She had taken a rusted sword and sliced the boy’s head off.
No, because the sword had been too dull for that. It hadn’t been neat and it hadn’t been clean and the twelve or eight or whoever he was had laid there, blood pouring from his neck, bubbling over his lips, trying to say something that would never be said. She had watched him, waiting until he stopped whimpering and the canon sounded.
She had won. This was everything she had wanted. Everything she had spent her entire life training for and preparing for. And now-
She should have been able to get a Capitol doctor for her father and he would still be alive. She should have won faster, and then she wouldn’t have missed it. She should have volunteered last year when the arena was a steaming jungle, filled with platforms and rope bridges, the floor below a belching swamp that dissolved the tribute into nothing if they fell in.
But in that arena at least there had been rain.
Her mentor had told her she could come to him if there was anything she needed, and she had scoffed. What could she possibly need? Everything that she needed was hers.
She hadn’t known her father had died until she had gotten off the train, her mother telling her amid cheers of her victory. Her little sister had told her she wanted to volunteer too.
She buried her head in her knees. Tears were welling behind her eyes but there wasn’t going to be enough water to waste it on crying.
There was nothing wrong. She had won. She had won and it was over. She had her victory and her mansion and her-
She was supposed to be happy now.