The first rays of sunshine break through my bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning. The light scatters on the hardwood floor of my Victor's Village home as I bring my head up from the pillow.

I hold myself there, sitting up in bed. My sleep was restless that night.

My exhausted eyes trace the rainbow of lights upon the floor while I block out the recurring nightmares of the night. The screams. The looks of horror in his eyes. The last breathe leaving his body. Those memories continue to haunt me even months after the Games.

No one told me how bad it would hurt.

When I got back from the Capitol to District 4, it was great.

I was showered with gifts from suitors. My house was adorned with letters of admiration daily. Small children came with their parents to my front porch, telling me of their dreams to grow up and live next door to me. To be a victor.

I would simply smile and encourage their goal, hiding my disgust at their eagerness to get into the arena. True, only a year ago, I was preparing myself to take the responsibility of bringing my District honor and glory by becoming to lone victor of the 71st Hunger Games.

It wasn't until I was brought back home that the flood of emotions I thought was pride turned to revulsion quickly.

After weeks of this constant reminder of my actions in the arena, I finally had some peace and quiet, which, as it turns out, was worse than the steady onset of fame.

My name was not shouted in the streets with celebration every night. That was nice. For a while. After a few days of silence at night, it began to eat away at me, pulling at my nerves.

This house, huge and solemnly empty except for my glowing mother, was all wrong. When presented with it, I was glad that my mother, finally proud of me, would be able to take care of herself.

My dad had died where he belonged, in the water. His heart gave up on him in the middle of the gulf. We made it without him. Mom was sad most of the time.

But I couldn't blame her. Her oldest son, my brother Odin, had moved out only months before and all she had left was me. A small, pathetic child of only 12 years old who sincerely was lost.

I felt the only way to make my mother whole again was to enter myself into the Games as a Career and fight until I was the last one standing.

It worked.

Now, just turning 17 next month, I was a hero for my District. For that, I was happy.

Glad that my District could be happy for one year until the next Games. Then they would have to watch the next groups get slaughtered, disheartening them even more.

I shake the idea of dying tributes once more from my head and pull myself out of my too-big bed. I drag myself to the window and pull back the curtains. The faint light of the rising sun glistens off of the water of the bay where Victor's Village is positioned in District 4.

I sigh as I see the cameras and the television screens already being set up in front of each of the 4 victor's homes.

Annie, the winner from last year, has already been done up by her stylist and is being led to her interview that will be played at a later time in the day, probably right before mine, which will be live.

I don't want to do this. Not today. It is exactly 4 months to the day that he was murdered. 4 months to the day that I watched the one hope I had in this life breath his last life.

I grit my teeth, reminding myself that I wouldn't cry about it again. I'm about to head back to my bed to calm myself down when I hear my name being called from downstairs.

"Kalipso, get your happy ass up and ready!" And there's Finnick.

Forget calming myself, I'm going to have to completely cut my senses off to get through today with Finnick. Here we go.