The Days Chapter 1, a hunger games fanfic

A/N: What follows is a journal entry, date unknown, of Lena Feld, victor of the 42nd Hunger Games. I do not claim any ownership over the following entry, any of its events, or any of the people involved. I hereby release ownership to any relatives who have sufficient proof to be a descendant of Lena Feld, or anyone who is able to claim ownership over her possessions, or stories. I advise you to proceed with caution in reading this journal.

now

"Ms Feld, how does it feel to be up on this stage?"

The first wild thought that enters my mind is that I feel itchy. I wonder what it must feel like to be an audience member in the Capitol. When they ask this question, what do those people think is going through our minds? Do they think we love the reason we're here? The next thought that comes to mind, after the first one failed me abysmally, is that it feels awful. If I could say it, I would. I hate being here. I hate being played. I hate the Capitol, and I hate their Games. But I am Lena Feld, and I won the Hunger Games five months ago, so I must pretend that I love it.

"If I'm honest, Caesar," I lean forward instead of saying the words blaring across my mind, the picture of a perfect victor in a sparkly, flouncy gown, "it's very surreal. I still can't quite believe it's happening."

"Really?" Caesar says, his face contorting into something the audience will interpret as surprise, but no one in the districts will buy. He won't be surprised by any answer I give. In the Capitol right now, he alone knows everything that comes out of my mouth has been agreed upon by people far more important than I am, that I am merely a puppet. But he must pretend to be surprised anyways, so in return, I offer him a smile. "Really?" he repeats. "That answer is quite uncommon. Most victors have such faith that they will win in the beginning, that it does not come as such a surprise to them. But surreal, you say?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely." I sit back in my chair. "From the moment my name was called, everything has gone by so fast, I barely have enough time to process it. From the reaping to my interview with you to the beginning of the Games themselves."

"Ah," says Caesar, "that makes quite a bit more sense. I often feel like the whole Games process goes by too quickly. I often feel like my whole life goes by too quickly! One minute I was a stagehand, young and careless, and the next thing I knew I was an old man!" The audience laughs, some people are scream dissent. Caesar is far from young. At least, he doesn't look it.

"Oh, Caesar, please, you don't look a day over 35!" I tell him, lightly slapping his knee. He smiles widely, and I can tell I've done a good job.

"Now, onto the question we've all been wondering all evening…the final question. What took you so long to recover from the Games?" Caesar can no doubt tell that I hate being here. Only my eyes would betray me, and Caesar is the only one close enough to see my eyes. I can see it in his own.

"Oh, technicalities. I think something happened. One of the doctors noticed a severe issue and it took a few weeks for me to recover from the surgery." I sit back, and resist the urge to scratch my itching body. This dress is not itchy. It's a lovely dress, really. Cass did a wonderful job, but it's me being on this stage, and lying. It always makes me itchy.

I try not to go back to the weeks of torture, being put through session after session with a psychiatrist, who was trying to pry me out of my own mind, which was torn to pieces after the Games. I guess it's bad that while I didn't appear crazy during the Games and its climax, it would be bad if I appeared crazy after the Games. It's been months since the Games, and I still am not recovered. It's a miracle I appeared on the stage that night, let alone sane.

I catch the eye of my mentor, Patch, who's sitting in the audience. He's nodding, like I've done everything right so far. He won six years ago, and though he says it's not a big deal that I won so few years after him, I think it's miraculous. District 9 is never this lucky. Thankfully, the tributes will have good, young, and strong mentors looking after them next year.

"Well, Ms Feld, it has been a pleasure talking to you this evening. Enjoy your last few free months back before you're chained to the cameras again! Good evening, folks, and good night."

The roar of the crowd is deafening. I didn't know I would be this popular. I'm only from District Nine, after all. We're overlooked all the time. My own district partner died in the Bloodbath. And it was by chance that I survived.

It's only a moment that I'm alone after the interview ends until my escort, a tiny woman called Bonnie Sawyer, grips my arm with surprising strength and steers me off stage. She pulls me aside. I look behind her for Patch, who is never far behind her. He's not there. He probably escaped Bonnie's clutches to take a smoke behind an alley.

Bonnie frowns at me. "Lena. That was not impressive."

"I know," I say, looking away, though I'm not sure what I did wrong.

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. I just pulled you aside to ask if you wanted to go to the feast at President Snow's house. You don't have to."

I focus back on Bonnie. She wants me to take her up on this offer. Probably an actress will go in my place. That's almost what happened for my interview after the Games. Sometimes this happens in the Games; a tribute won't fare well enough to sit an interview or go to a feast, so the Capitol sends an actor in place of them. It's not all that unlikely, but I thought I would've done well enough to go as myself. Clearly, I've upset Bonnie in some way, because she looks even more anxious than usual. She's always been eager to impress President Snow; Patch and I are convinced that she has a crush on him.

"I'll go," I say cautiously. "The food will be good, right?" Evidently I've upset Bonnie in some way, because her face flushes angrily and I bite back, "Fine. Send an actress. I'm always incompetent, right?" I sound angrier than I intended. Bonnie still looks angry, if a little relieved, but she stomps off before I can say anything else. Which is fine, since I wasn't going to say anything anyway. I probably would mess up her whole day, if it could get any worse.

Patch materializes from behind a stagehand, and as he comes closer, I can smell the unmistakable stink of marijuana on his clothing. My nose wrinkles in disgust as he approaches. "Lena," he says. "Bonnie just ran off in tears while getting into the car. I think I'd be wrong to ask anyone else what the hell happened."

"Well, you're just right, aren't you?" I mumble, crossing my arms and collapsing in a random chair probably used for a backstage person.

"Well," Patch says, rubbing his eyes, looking tired, "what the hell happened, then?"

"Nothing."

Patch sighs, more in futility than in frustration this time. "Fine. Come along, Miss Sensitivity." I smirk at the memory of Patch calling me that before my Games, and take his offered hand.

then

It was a cold, rainy day. I was different. In spite of the day, and the circumstances, I refused to be pessimistic, as my district partner was. Probably why the dumb shit died. It was raining so hard, and the microphone had been broken, that I didn't hear my name being called. The rain got so heavy in those next few moments that they had to write my name on a piece of cardboard and hold it up for everyone to see it, and even then I didn't think it was me. So I stepped out of the pen that they kept us in, and stood there for a few seconds in shock, staring at my name on the cardboard, getting soaked. At least I wasn't crying. Even in the rain, the people of the Capitol are hungry to find out who could stand the pressure of being reaped. After my name was called and I gave what I assumed would be my final goodbyes to my family and the one friend that came to see me, we, my district partner and I, were hauled, under umbrellas now (like we were important now that we were on our way to die), into the car that drove us to the train station. For some reason, we were in that car for more than twenty minutes, and when they finally delivered us to the train, they held up those damn umbrellas over our heads. I stared at the umbrellas. Why was I so important that they were suddenly inclined to protect me from the rain?

Once I had changed into dryer clothes, Patch stumbled into our train car, clutching a brown paper baggie. I wasn't sure what it was until he poured it onto the table and started hunting the train car for a piece of paper to roll. That was when I dipped a napkin into the pitcher of water and wiped the drugs off the table, and snatched the bag and dumped both out the window. Patch stared at me for a bit until I told him I wanted his help.

"What do you want, sweetie?" he asked me, touching my chin, his eyes cold.

"Don't you dare touch me, first of all," I slapped his hand away, "and second, I need your help. Much as I'd like to throw you out the window, we—"

"Leave me out of this," Milo, my idiot of a district partner, said quickly, looking away from me. His eyes were red and puffy. Obviously he'd been crying.

"Fine," I squinted at him. "I need your help. The odds are one in 18 that I'll come home, which are not bad chances, and I don't even have to kill one of them." I smiled at him for all I was worth.

"What, so you're not counting me?" Milo said. He really should have been more mature, for an eighteen year old. I was only 17, myself.

"Since you refuse any help, I'm assuming you don't care. So yes, I'm not counting you." I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Fuck you." He said, standing and throwing something, probably a cookie, to the floor. His eyes started welling with tears. His mouth trembled. "You are a bitch. An insensitive bitch."

"I'm being practical," I said indifferently, turning away from him, partly because looking at him made me angry, partly because looking at him starting to cry made me want to cry. "It's going to help me win." He stormed out of the compartment.

Patch whistled. I looked back at him, and he was clapping. "Let's hear it for Miss Sensitivity." More whistling. "Really, spot on."

"What did I do wrong?" I asked him.

Patch stared at me for a long time before he said, "He's going to die and you won't."

now

Patch leads me outside to the car, where Bonnie is sitting in the front seat, staring determinedly ahead. I know in a few minutes she'll forgive me, she'll get excited and caught up in the details of my escape from President Snow's mansion, to whom I'll only have to say a brief hello and goodbye before I'm whisked away to the Training Center to take a nap before the actress who's playing me leaves the party to go home. Sure enough, as the car moves slowly through the Capitol, Bonnie begins to talk excitedly about the festivities that will take place in District 9 upon my arrival. I tune her out, though. I'm thinking about my nap. I look over to Patch to give him a knowing smile, but he's already asleep, leaning against the window. I roll my eyes. Patch is excellent at falling asleep whenever he wants to. Sometimes I used to joke that if Patch was a god, he'd be the god of napping.

The car pulls up to President Snow's mansion, and I have to get out to appear on camera as though I'm going to actually stay at the party. Bonnie whisks me into the mansion before any of the photographers have any idea that I'm even out of the car, and directs me, though it feels more like her pushing me, to a dressing room where the actress who will be playing me awaits. My prep team, Delphi, Huck, and Swann, take a polaroid photo of me and then swarm the actress to make her makeup exactly like mine. Bonnie urges me out of my clothing and presses plain clothes into my arms. I duck into a corner to change, and then escape the chaos of the room.

The door opens to a wide, empty corridor, which gives way to an empty courtyard. For a moment, I'm alone. It's cold out, but it's not snowing. A thin blanket of snow covers the ground of the courtyard, and the wind is chilly. Bonnie's only given me a thin black shirt and pants, so I'm shivering. The sky is dark, even though it's very early in the evening. Even though it's freezing outside, I stand still, taking in the silence. I haven't been alone since the beginning of the Victory Tour.

I send my thoughts back home to District 9. My parents and older brother have been living in the Victor's Village since before I even got home from the Capitol. It was a relief to not have to worry about being hungry, for once. One of the good things about being from District 9 is that while we are poor, the Capitol often overlooks us. Our Peacekeepers are lenient, they let people off with a warning when they've stolen grain because we are so poorly fed in our district. With my victory, everyone in the district gets a break because of the food from the Capitol. With my victory, coming so soon after Patch's win five years ago, the people in the District have been well fed. It feels incredible to watch everyone eat like they have enough, because they actually do.

"It's good to see you, Ms Feld," someone says. Almost immediately my heart starts quickening its pace, my right hand drops to my side, where I keep my knife, and I feel warm, even though it's cold outside. My eyes search hungrily for the speaker, my fingers ache for a target, for warm flesh, to sink my knife into…

Then, all at once, President Snow appears, and I'm momentarily confused until I remember. I let my arm relax, and my heart does not slow, but I recognize that there is no threat. I am not in the Hunger Games. No one, at least, no one that I am aware of, is trying to kill me or hurt me.

"Apologies," President Snow says. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Now that I'm not trying to fumble around for a non-existent knife, I take a good look at President Snow. He's wearing a suit that, for lack of a better term, suits his sharp frame. His hair is dark and neat, and his facial hair lends itself to a face with handsome, almost regal, features. He's smiling kindly at me, but I am not close enough to his face to be able to tell if his smile is genuine. He's leaning against the wall of his own home, hands in his pockets. If I were anyone other than a victor of the Hunger Games, I would be scared of him, but I know how to hurt people without anything sharp on me.

"It's alright," I say. My heart begins to slow, so it doesn't feel so much like a bunch of wild animals pounding my chest as they pass me by. "Instincts from the Games, I imagine many victors have trouble with them." All of what I've said is true, but it still feels like I'm doing everything wrong just by speaking to him. Snow nods.

"I merely wanted to offer my congratulations," he says quietly, and he looks down. It occurs to me, then, that Snow is far younger than he acts. By the look of it, he's only in his twenties, which isn't much older than I am. My heart starts pounding in my chest again.

"Thank you," I reply. "I'm sorry I won't be at the party tonight," I gesture vaguely to the house. I can hear the violinists, faintly, tuning up for their performance. It sounds exquisite, it almost makes me want to ask Bonnie if I can't go. The food will be excellent, after all.

"That's alright," Snow says, "I won't be there either. I have much too much to do. Paperwork and such." I nod, though he isn't looking at me. This is the first time I've ever spoken to the President without anyone watching, and he's acting like we're old friends merely catching up. I feel, at the same time, like my heart wants to burst out of my chest, and like I want to throw up. For a whole minute, which is longer than any other minute I've ever endured in my life, we both stand there, as still as statues, as though the ancient monster Medusa has risen from the dead and paralyzed us both.

Snow unfreezes and says, "Good luck, Ms Feld, at the Games next year." He turns around swiftly, his dress shoes clacking across the marble floor, echoing across the courtyard and bouncing back in all different directions. It jars me from my positions as well, and I turn around to go back inside the dressing room. "I hope," I hear Snow say, so I turn around to look at him. He has his hand on the doorknob of a door I didn't notice before, and all but his head is facing away from me. He takes a deep breath. "I hope," he repeats, "that I will see you there."

He exits the courtyard, closing the door quietly behind him. I open the door to the dressing room and shut myself inside. No one is in there, and it is dark. I take a deep breath, and sink down against the wall, letting out the breath I wasn't even aware I was holding.

then

It's still dark when I'm awoken. These days, though, my body wakes me if I hear even a leaf rattling in the wind. Still, I'm not going to let myself fall back asleep. Vigilance is how I will survive. So, as quietly and quickly as I can, I begin to move my limbs, which aren't even stiff from sleep because I've gotten used to waking up every other hour, and work myself down from the tree that I picked to sleep in last night. I'll be sad to leave it; it was a good one, steady, strong, and plenty of leaves that blocked the freezing winds that blew in at night. I maneuver the knife in my belt to rest near my left hand, where I'll easily be able to grab it and use it. I plant my back against the trunk of the tree and begin to check my surroundings, watching and listening carefully for any movement, ready to strike even a fly if it so much as moves a wing.

Despite my body being prepared, my mind is still a bit fuzzy. I must remind myself where I am every five minutes so I don't dissociate and lose any bit of focus. I am in the Hunger Games. I am still alive. I've killed three people. I am in the final six. No, the final five…the girl from 3 died yesterday. I'm only just remembering her face appearing in the death toll from last night. I wonder who killed her. The only ones left are me, the boy from 1, the girl from 4, and both from 7. I wonder if the boy from 1 and the girl from 4 are still working together, as the Careers. Without a doubt the two from 7 are working together, and it is very likely that the only Careers left in the Games are still allied. The odds, as the lone un-allied tribute left, are not in my favor. I try to shore up my knowledge about the remaining tributes. Thankfully, I have perfect recall of every tribute's training score. The boy from One received a 9, and the girl from Four a 10. The boy from Seven got a 6, and the girl from Seven a 4. I'm beginning to wonder if they both are performing better in the actual Games than they revealed in training, because what I remember from training is that both tributes from Seven were abysmal at everything they tried, and at one point they even cried.

Snap! I bring my knife up, ready to strike. Even if it is just a small animal breaking a twig, I know without a doubt that both Careers are after me, at the very least the girl from Four. I personally killed her district partner, and the last time I spied on them she swore she was going to kill me. As a general rule, I tend to avoid people who want to kill me. I am just on the verge on convincing myself that it was only the wind that woke me when I hear a cannon.

It doesn't matter that I didn't hear any screaming or anything from the fight, I am running less than a second after the cannon goes off, searching for a very large tree to climb up. If anyone catches up to me before I find a tree to climb, I can just stick them with my knife. After a few seconds of sprinting through the foliage in the dark, I come across a tree that will do, and start climbing. I have to stick my knife in my belt, though, so I climb up the side of the tree that faces the opposite of the direction I came, so I can see if anyone is coming. I know for certain that there is no one behind me, because I am the only person on this side of the arena, and I definitely would have heard anyone passing by when I was sleeping. That, and no one will have a free shot at my back with anything sharp if they find me climbing up this tree.

My fingers must have permanent damage by now from climbing up so many trees, but I don't care. I haul myself up to a branch that's about twenty-five feet in the air; high enough so no one might see me if they were coming from a distance, but close enough so I can have good aim to throw my knife onto someone if they were to pass by.

I wait there for a good twenty minutes, knife poised to throw on anyone with deadly force, but no one comes. I am just about to haul myself further up the tree to start sleeping again when I hear the definite noise of someone running through my part of the woods, searching. I scurry back down to my branch, and I can hear the footsteps coming closer. From the gait, I can tell it's a boy. I let out a breath of relief. If it was the girl from 4 I wasn't sure I would have a chance at killing her before she spotted me. I squint in the dark, trying to see who it is. From the height of the figure, I'd guess it's the boy from 7. But I don't hear another pair of footsteps. Why is that? Have the two from 7 split? Is the girl from 7 dead? Did she kill one of the Careers? All I know for sure is that I am now in the final four and I'm not sure who the other two players are besides myself and the boy from 7.

I hold my breath and keep very still as he passes by my tree without stopping. Perhaps he thinks I'm even deeper in the woods. I wait until I can barely hear his footsteps approaching, and I start crawling along my branch to a different one. This way of traveling through the forest lends itself to more stealth, but less speed. If the girl from 4 saw me in this tree branch, the odds of me outrunning her through the trees would not be in my favor. But judging by the pace of the boy from 7, he wasn't trying to run from anyone, he was running to someone. To me.

Suddenly a theory forms in my head. The pair from 7 have split up, with the girl after the Careers and the boy after me. But why would the girl from 7 go after the Careers? It is very likely that as a girl, she would have the significant disadvantage of being smaller than both the Careers, while the boy from 7 is as big as the girl from 4 at least. If the girl from 7 is after the Careers, that must mean that she only plans, or planned, on fighting one tribute. That means that the Careers have separated as well. If not, then that means that the pair from 7 have made a serious mistake. Because once the girl from 7 kills one Career, the other one will kill her, no doubt.

Boom!

There's no way that that cannon was for the boy from 7, unless he fell off a cliff, which, while it would be extremely helpful, is very unlikely. The sky is starting to lighten, no doubt because we're now in the final 3 and because the Gamemakers want the rest of us, whoever that happens to be, to find each other. This is usually when they would start to drive us together, with a mutt or something like that, but nothing is forthcoming. Which means my other enemy is close.

I stop moving in my tree.

From where I am, I can't see or hear the boy from 7, possibly because he has stopped moving, but if he's anywhere close, I'll see him soon enough, because the sun is rising fast. Sure enough, after a few minutes I can spot him about twenty yards from my tree, and it looks like he's trapped in something, because all his limbs are moving, as though swatting at something. It must be those sticky spider webs. I saw one tribute get stuck in those. It was the boy from 5. I know because I killed him myself.

I slide from my tree to the ground in total silence. Wherever the spider is, it is not near, probably because the Gamemakers want me to make this kill. But whoever the other tribute is, they must be lying in wait, so I must be silent and invisible, and ready to move as soon as I make the kill. The boy from 7 is facing away from me, and if I'm silent, he won't be able to cry for help. I decide I'll strike him through the head, which will kill him faster and ensure that he won't make any noise.

As quickly as I dare in the morning light, I hold my breath and approach the boy from seven still struggling in the mess of web. I raise my knife up high, because he is a lot taller than I am, and strike down.

Boom!

The boy from 7 now hangs limply in the spider webs, but my weapon is lodged in his head. And whoever it is that remains alive is close, but not close enough to see me where I am, struggling to pull my knife from the boy's skull. Finally, just as I've managed to pull my knife out of the boy's head, I hear something behind me.

"Finally, we both have the proper weapons with which to end this." I turn around.

It's the girl from 4.

now

Patch claims he has a headache and won't be attending the celebrations when we get back home, and he immediately retreats to his room. For a moment I think about following him, but then I decide against it. There wasn't anything about Snow's tone or demeanor that suggested that he was angry with me, and Patch is smart. He would warn me if something was wrong. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. I'm thinking that maybe I should ask one of the other District 9 victors when I get home about the whole situation, but Patch kept me alive in the Games. I trust him more than anyone else in my life, including my parents. I'm sure he wouldn't mind an interruption.

I mutter an excuse to Bonnie and follow Patch to his room on the train. I've only been inside it once, and once I enter his room, I remember why. I wrinkle my nose up from the stink of marijuana. Patch claims that marijuana is the only type of drug that he has ever done, though I remember from the day of the reaping that he was about to snort a white powder, so I don't believe him.

Patch doesn't look up from where he's sprawled on his bed. I guess he really did have a headache. "Bonnie, what is it?"

"It's not Bonnie," I say.

"Oh?" Patch hauls himself into a sitting position and stares at me. "Oh," he says. "What do you want?" I don't budge from my place in the doorway. I've gotten very used to standing still, having done that in the Games far too often.

"What do you want?" Patch repeats.

I look down and shrug. We're both silent for a minute.

"Close the door," Patch says, running a hand through his hair and flopping back on his bed, scooching over to make room for me. The room isn't being filmed, but we've always suspected that there are microphones listening in, so when I lay down next to Patch on his bed, I do it quietly.

Patch holds up an impressive looking tool that I don't care to describe. I furrow my eyebrows. He rolls his eyes. He holds down a button on the tool and points it in the corners of the room. "Alright, what's up?"

"President Snow approached me before the party."

Patch closes his eyes and rubs them, like he's tired of me being so paranoid. He sighs heavily and stares at me for a moment before replying. "Okay." Patch says. "Well, did he say anything threatening? He tends to make threats if he's angry at you."

"He's angry at me?" I say anxiously. I feel my heart quicken.

"No," Patch sighs again. "Angry at people in general."

"Oh," I say, and feel my cheeks heat up. "No." I say tentatively. "I guess not."

"Well, then he's probably not angry at you. Listen," Patch sits up, "the Capitol tends to ignore District 9, because we're very poor, and our victors come few and far between. We're non threatening, and we tend to keep our mouths shut. As long as you keep your mouth shut and look happy on camera, I'm sure you're going to be fine."

"Okay." I whisper and nod, closing my eyes. For a while we just lay there, and then I feel something on my head. I would react differently if I didn't know what it was. Patch strokes my hair softly, and I feel myself relaxing into his arms, and as I listen to his heartbeat, which is strong and steady, I feel my own heart begin to match the pace of his.

then

I almost forgot about my first encounter with Patch. Not on the stage, listening to him breathe heavily through the rest of the reaping, not on the train when I threw his drugs out of the window. The memory worms its way through my mind as I begin to fall asleep next to Patch, and just before my consciousness falls victim to another nightmare, I remember when I first met Patch face-to-face.

It was a warm day in the harvest season. The Games had concluded a few weeks ago, so everything was relatively calm in the district, except for the fact that we had to be working from sunup till sundown to maximize the amount of grain we harvested. The sun that day wasn't as brutal as usual, and I remember having just enough money to buy some of the cream that counteracted the burns we got from standing under the sun for so long. In fact, it was still kind of light outside, but our supervisor had let us out early.

My old house was small, just big enough for my parents, my older brother, and me, and it's not far from the square of District 9. I was walking home from work, having already separated from my friends who lived on the other side of the District. I was almost at my door when I heard someone groaning. I turned around and saw a figure, obviously a drunk figure, stumbling in my direction. I rolled my eyes and approached the person, figuring I might as well help them get back home before any Peacekeepers find them and arrest them for disorderly conduct or whatever.

"Excuse me," I said cautiously, "are you alright?"

As I got closer, I could make out some features of the drunk person. Tall, muscular, haphazardly dressed. They waved me off.

"'M fine," the figure said, and I didn't recognize the rough voice immediately. "Just been drinking a bit," the figure continued, gesturing wildly to the sky, though I wasn't sure what the sky had to do with this person drinking. Finally, I could see the person's face. It took me a few moments to place them.

"You're Patch," I said, and relief flooded me. This man is harmless, rich, and needed my help getting home. He wasn't going to assault me or rape me, as my mother often claimed would happen if I approached someone drunk in the street at night. "Why are you outside so late?" I asked him, though I wasn't really expecting a clear answer. Technically, Patch could do whatever he wanted. He'd won the Games four and a half years ago and was most often seen high or getting high. It wasn't often that he drunk, but I guess there's a first time for everything.

"I been thinking," he slurred, "why is it that all the people in this district are…" he seemed to ponder for a moment. "Ugly?" he finished, with a decisive nod. I stood there, stunned.

"Um…"

"Except for you," Patch continued, not seeming to hear me. I decided to stay silent. "You're pretty, uh, what's your name?"

"Lena."

"You're pretty, Rachel!" I couldn't think of who he thought he was talking to, because Rachel was nowhere close to what my name is. Patch flashed me a wide smile.

"You're not going to remember any of this, are you?" I said to him as his posture sagged even more. Patch's smile turned lopsided and upset, and his brows furrowed. It looked like he was thinking, and it looked like it was taking him more effort to do that than to stand upright, of which he was doing a poor job. I put my things on the ground so I could catch him when he fell, which I could tell would be soon.

"No, probably not," he muttered, and then he fell over entirely, and I caught him. Even though he was dense and my arms were spindly and weak, I managed to haul him into an upright position. I picked up my bag and started the short trek to the Victor's Village, though I had no idea which house his would be.

Thankfully, I didn't get far before Demeter, one of the older victors of District 9, ran up to greet me at the gates to the Victor's Village. She won about thirty years ago, and is somehow still sober. Her arms were strong so she was able to support Patch better than I was. She pressed some coins into my hands, "For your trouble," she told me, and sent me back home with a large loaf of bread and a canister of milk. I was thankful, but still a bit puzzled by my interaction with Patch. Who was he talking about? Who is Rachel? Why did he confuse me with her? Unfortunately, I didn't think I'd get the chance to ask Patch what he meant because there's no way he would've remembered that night.

now

"Lena." The voice is soft, but insistent. I know it's a friendly voice, because it's one I recognize. Patch.

"Lena," Patch repeats, and my eyes open. He's staring down at me, but he's particularly blurry. I breathe in deeply and blink a few times, and he comes into focus. "You have to go back into your own bed now. We're going to be home soon." I sit up and feel a hand on my back, and jerk away instinctively from it. "Sorry, I forgot." Patch mumbles, but he puts his hand back and buries his face in the crook of my elbow. I sit there for a minute longer, taking in the early morning light and the quiet of the train, just breathing.

"Okay," I say, and I swing my legs out of the bed. It's difficult to move from the bed because it's so warm and the carpet on the floor is not, so I sit there for another minute before Patch complains that someone will see us. "Okay, okay, I'm moving," I say, and I grab my robe from the floor and retreat from his room. I shuffle slowly to the dining car to grab a glass of water and to get a glimpse of home.

Just as I'm sitting down, Bonnie bursts into the compartment. "Oh!" she exclaims. "I was just about to go wake you and Patch for breakfast!" I shrug. "Well I guess I will go wake Patch up, then!"

"Don't bother, he's already up." I wave her away, keeping my eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Oh?" Bonnie says.

"Yeah, neither of us could sleep so we talked for a little while," I say, taking another sip of water.

"Well, I'm going to go find him anyways, dear. The food should be here any moment, and when I come back with Patch we will go over today's schedule. It's such an exciting day, Lena!" It's moments like these that I wonder how this woman functions without caffeine in the morning. She disappears into the next compartment and I rest my chin on the table.

Home. It's been almost two weeks since I was home. It's the longest I've been away since I went to the Capitol for the Games, which was for just over a month. Thankfully, the cameras will be off us soon, and Patch and I, and the rest of the District 9 victors, can relax. Historically, as people forced to kill children on camera, we don't enjoy the spotlight as well as some of the other Victors, like the people from One, Two, and Four, even some other Districts.

It's never easy to be on camera. Everyone expects you to be 100% for 100% of the time. I used to want to be a television star when I was younger. I didn't realize that the reality of it was so much harder than I thought.

"…I told you Bonnie, I am not wearing any hat at all when we get back to Nine, especially not that hat. I am going home to take a nap!"

Patch and Bonnie burst into the compartment. Well, Patch looks like he's dragging himself out of the depths of hell, and Bonnie bursts in on her heels, huffing and puffing, clutching a ridiculous looking hat in her hands. She looks upset and Patch looks tired. It's such a common sight that I tune them out while they argue out whatever it is they're arguing about this time.

Breakfast today will be short, since we're almost home, but still I dig in, because it will be a while before I'm treated to food from the Capitol. Eggs so fragile that they burst when you poke them right; pancakes infused with champagne and stuffed with chocolate spread; waffles moulded into decadent shapes and topped with fresh fruit. I can only think of all my friends back home who would see this food as a rare treat, as a miracle, even, and not as a regular occurrence, and that is what compels me to eat as much as I can.

"…she doesn't like it either, do you, Lena?" Patch says angrily, his brow furrowed. Patch and Bonnie are still arguing about the hat. They look at me expectantly for an answer. I pick up the sandwich I've made of the eggs and some toast and take a huge bite, considering both of them. On the one hand, the hat Bonnie's holding is ridiculous, and forcing Patch into it would be completely humiliating. On the other hand, when Patch is angry, he aggravates this cute little scar in between his eyebrows that's only visible when he furrows his brows, and honestly, I could do with some entertainment today.

I smirk at Patch. "Honestly, Bonnie, I agree with you. That hat would look great on you, Patch," I say, and I take another bite of my sandwich. Now Patch looks more amused and angry than just angry. He snatches the hat from Bonnie's hands and jams it on his head.

"Fine," he says, his lips baring a small smile. "What about that beautiful evening gown Cass showed me the other night? The one he almost threw out because you said it was too beautiful, Lena? I think that would look great on you tonight," he's definitely smirking now, and my jaw is dropped.

"Fine," I say after a moment, regaining my composure and smirking right back at him. He leans in to me.

"Fine."

"Fine." We're nose to nose now.

Bonnie doesn't seem to notice. She's too busy pulling out a small device that I recognize as a phone and dialing a number. "Really, Lena? That's fantastic! I'm getting Cass on the phone right now, maybe he still has time to salvage the dress for tonight before the official celebrations start!"

"Okay, Bonnie, I'm going to change into better clothing to greet the District," I say, and I take my plate of egg sandwich and strawberries and leave the room. I can almost feel Patch's eyes on me as I leave the room.

I'm thinking maybe I should savor these next few months without the cameras.

The next hour and a half is a blur - changing and putting on the ridiculous hat Bonnie's chosen for me, greeting the district and the cameras at the train station, and being whisked away to the mayor's house to get ready for the celebration tonight. Patch goes home, waving off Bonnie's offer to get ready into clothes that have been prepared for him at the mayor's house. As he throws the clothes haphazardly over his shoulder, I see Bonnie flinch, and I have to cover my mouth with my hand so she doesn't see me laughing. I don't even know why Bonnie's bothered to give him clothes to begin with. He's probably going to stay at home and get high, like he usually does. That doesn't stop me from lingering too long outside the mayor's house watching him walk back home to the Victor's Village.

Then, "Lena, come inside! You have lots of work to get done!" I roll my eyes and go back inside. All at once, my prep team is crowding me, trying to get my hair, nails, and makeup done, all the while shoving me into a evening gown, and it gets kind of claustrophobic, so I mention to Bonnie that I'd like to meditate (she's been obsessed with yoga and meditation lately) and she orders everyone out so I can relax.

After they leave the room, I do sit down on the floor cross-legged, trying to control my breathing. I guess after asking to be alone so often I've convinced myself that being alone is the only way I can be calm.

Strangely, I think of a time before I was reaped for the Games, of when I first encountered Patch face-to-face. It was a few months before the Games where I was reaped. He was drunk, I was tired, and he was rambling about how everyone in the district is ugly. Except for me. That thought brings heat to my cheeks, and then I remember he thought he was talking to someone named Rachel. Still, it's nice to think about sometimes.

Bonnie bursts into the room, telling me that I have to come outside for the dinner right now do I seriously want to disrespect the mayor of District 9 and all the Capitol officials that have showed up for tonight's event? So I walk out of the room as gracefully as I can and sit down and eat dinner, scanning the table, but Patch isn't there. I end up answering questions distractedly because I'm watching the door almost obsessively because maybe Patch will come in late and sit and have dinner with us but he never comes.

By the time I'm home and in bed I feel a strange pressure on my chest, but at the same time I feel completely empty. I can hear my heart beating hard, working overtime to fill the emptiness in my body. I feel the strangest urge to sob, but no tears are coming so it would just be a dry heave. Why do I feel like this? Why do I feel like I am missing out on something?

I think about it until I fall asleep, until I'm overwhelmed by a dreamland that makes no sense, a dreamland that overwhelms my thoughts of meditation, home, and Patch.

then

"Say it again out loud, it'll help."

I shake my head. Nothing will help me right now. My hands are shaking beyond control, my entire core is a leaf in the wind in the fall. And in an hour, the wind might have blow me into a river and I'll have sunk so far that no one can rescue me. If I tried to open my mouth right now, I'm sure I'd just dissolve into tears and I can't risk losing any water. So I just keep my eyes closed. Maybe I'll fall asleep and forget about this for a while.

I feel a hand on my back. I wonder, if, in a few months, if I get out of this, I will flinch if anyone touches me. Because in the Games, any physical contact could mean that I will die at any second. But right now, it's okay. I know Cass is just trying to help.

"Come on, Lena, just once. I promise it will help." He's rubbing my back, but nothing can prepare me for death in the Games because no one who is alive knows what it's like. But I say it anyways.

"Run. Run until you can't anymore, and hide if you need to. Be quick, be quiet, and be near water. Until you find a weapon, run." I say, and though I don't cry, I feel a strange sensation in my throat, like I might choke if I say anything else. Cass fills up a glass with water and tells me to drink it. It helps with the choking feeling, but not with the dread.

"That's good, Lena," Cass says. "That's really good. Okay, now just keep repeating it in your head. Remember, we have some time until they send your clothes and then we have to wait for them to tell you to launch. Don't think about anything else except Patch's instructions."

Patch. I close my eyes and think about Patch for a second. A few months ago, I ran into him when he was drunk in the street. I thought, in fact, I prayed, that I wouldn't ever have to face him again. I thought about it so many times that I began to hate him. Whenever I saw him across the square, at the market, my blood began to boil, and my ears got red the way they always do when I'm angry or upset. But it happened. I came face to face with him on the train, and I threw his drugs out the window. Now, Patch is my last chance at surviving if I'm close to death in the arena. At least, close to death by natural causes. There's no way he can save me from being hacked to death by another tribute. That, I'll have to rely on my own training and instincts. I just hope that they're good enough.

Cass jars me out of my thoughts to change into the clothes for the Games. Strangely, I don't start shaking once he reminds me that I might be less than half an hour from death. My hands are strong, sure, and steady. Run. Hide. Quick. Quiet. Water. Run. I repeat it in my head, I mouth the words, like a prayer, except I'm praying to myself that I can do all those things. I feel a sudden surge of strength that passes just as quickly as it entered my body. I will win the Games. I can't consider any other possibility, I won't.

I give Cass a big hug and tell him to give my best to Bonnie and to my prep team if I never see them again. I keep drinking water until I have to piss, and even after, I keep drinking water until I have to get onto the plate that will lift me to my death. Patch told me to drink water, because I can't control the next time I'm going to get water in the arena. I turn and face the wall because I don't want to watch my world go away slowly. I'd rather rip off the bandaid, so I put my hand on the glass and Cass puts his hand there too, and then I turn around before the plate starts lifting me up.

Just keep on repeating your list in your head.

Run. Hide. Quick. Quiet. Water. Run.

These are the words that will save my life.

Those were the words that saved my life.

A/N: Real human speaking. As soon as I have finished transcribing the following journal entry, I shall upload it in its entirety to this medium. If you have any issues at all with this story, leave a comment below and I will do my best to mediate. I cannot promise a happy outcome.