Note: I am a complete novice when it comes to writing stories and publishing them and such. I have read many a fanfiction, and I hope it has prepared me well enough. I ask you to please bear with me through this journey, and to please enjoy it. I am extremely nervous and anxious, so I sound like a robot. Ha ha :) Let me know in the comments what you think and please give criticism. It is greatly appreciated for a young writer such as myself. Thank you, and enjoy!

Chapter one: Hope

Darkness and light coalesce and writhe within the confines of the fireplace. Crimson and blood orange hues flicker in a sinuous, flaming dance amid the charred wood and burning, red-hot coals, smoldering tendrils stretching wispy fingertips up the bricked chimney. They reach to touch the fresh air and the spring.

The fire's supposed to emanate cordiality, sparked to swaddle my feeble form in warmth and comfort. I currently curl into an antique, dilapidated and rickety chair, cocooned in rugged wool fabric with feet tucked beneath my bottom and frail palms clutching a pearl; the cool orb kisses my chapped lips with cold.

But I feel nothing.

I do not feel warmth. I do not feel cold. I am numb to all.

The core of my being is hollow and aching, a void of nothingness so obscure and opaque it's become a sentient creature of serpentine origins. The teneborsity is vast and coils about my body like a viper, injecting my mind with in an epidemic of emotion: grief, misery, sorrow, hate, rage, frustration, guilt, self-doubt, and self-loathing. All these lethal toxins rose in a fever pitch and burned existence from me, leeching me of any semblance of life. I am now nothing but a husk of flaccid flesh and brittle bone. Wan epidermis strained over atrophied muscle and spindly limbs, skeletal and all sharp angles in my emaciation. Scars and blemishes mottle my skin in pinky patterns of inflammation; violent shades of purple stain my under eye from sleep deprivation, eyes sunken, cheeks sallow, lips thinned and cracked, jagged tresses matted and lank from the absence of hygiene.

I know of my appearance. I don't need a reflection to confirm my slow death. But still Greasy Sae insists I look upon myself in the mirror's silvery surface, shouting at my supposed absurd and ludicrous actions, pleading for me to seek the will and want to live, to oppose the grief and dejection and strive to overcome it. She claims me resilient, strong in character, strong in my determination and tenacity, that no obstacle can possibly fell me, no matter the pain or suffering I've endured; that my loved ones endured.

But it's all because of me.

Sae has shoved me into the bathroom on more than one occasion, jabbing a gnarled finger at the reflective glass. She commands me to look, to gaze at the damage I have inflicted on myself. "What have you done to the Girl on Fire, my sweet girl? Why do you do this? They wouldn't want this for you." Tears usually moisten her slate-grey irises, running in thin rivulets through the valleys and gulches imbedded in her wrinkled face. Her voice trembles just slightly, the gruff rasp warbling. And then she'll wrap me in a tender embrace, caress my knobby spine with calloused and work-hardened hands, and lift her chin to look into my eyes. Those same leathery palms cup my jutting cheeks, stroke them with soothing touches. They remind me of the soft flutter of a butterfly's wings. And finally, she'll whisper the words that grip my esophagus in a vice, that have my vision misting from the blur and sting of tears. "She wouldn't want this for you, Katniss. She'd want you to be happy, to live for something more."

And with that, I look. And I see.

But I perceive a product of the Capitol, not the potent permanence Sae says I have. Not a girl with the durability and strength to survive two Hunger Games and lead the successful Rebellion that ensued. Not the one who poached on government land to feed her starving family; the girl who became the sole provider at age eleven after the crushing death of her father; who forced sustenance into her vacant, invalid mother, who volunteered to die in place of her sweet, fragile sister.

I glimpse an echoing chasm where her heart should be, long since crumbled to ash, ceased to beat. But yet there is a small coal nestled in its dusty remains. It gives off a lenient aura, faint but pulsing heat.

It is because a petite, minuscule piece of me still hopes. I said there was an abyss of emptiness, but I lied. Of course I lied. It makes the anguish of life easier to bear, the burden of living lighter, freer. Hope can only hurt, and I hurt enough already. It becomes even more awful when I see the shell that encases that ember, the mutt disfigured by fire. Huh, the Girl on Fire indeed, what a suiting and ironic epithet.

And then I think of them.

Finnick, Rue, Boggs, the Leegs, Mitchell, Jackson, Castor, Messalla, Prim, and all the people I have lost or killed to further my own survival, by their means or my own. I think of all who left me; my mother, Gale, and Peeta. My mother couldn't handle her grief, the ghosts that haunt this desolate place too terrible to confront. So she left me here to fend for myself, saving her own hide, throwing me away like refuse, disregarding me completely. Now I see what I meant to her, after all the sacrifice, the death, sweat, tears, and blood I shed. I wasn't worth braving the agony.

I meant nothing.

The parting between Gale and I was mutual. Nevertheless, it still leaves me raw and sore and rocks me to the very marrow of my bones. The sheer cunning and ruthlessness in the creation of those bombs was that of a hunter, one of great skill, who knows the inner trappings and plays of unsuspecting prey. He utilized human emotion and toyed with their instinctual response to save their wounded and dying. And in turn, those horrid creations of war stole my sister from me. It scorned me and carved a deep, hollow pit in me; the part of me that loved and cared for Gale as a brother, as a friend, as a kindred spirit, gone. So we said goodbye. He flocked to the mantle of District 2 to aid the budding new government, receiving valor in his continued military service. And I remained here, rotting in eternal exile.

And Peeta, the Boy with the Bread, the sweet, kind, gentle, loving, loyal boy I once knew, gone. The one with such a way with words they sounded of lyrical prose. The one who could appease any hurt be it physical or mental. He was the one who saw decency in any individual, in me, in any situation no matter how bleak and horrible. Ocean-blue eyes otherworldly in their hue, locks of hair seemingly spun from gold, long, fluttering lashes that kissed his pale cheeks, strong in physicality and mind. The boy who resembled the dandelion in spring, seeds drifting upon a balmy breeze and wafting about me in the calm that is him. The one who loved me.

He is gone.

But still I hope.

I hope he returns, but I understand if he doesn't. After all, the raw memories of his family dwell here. Why would he want to return to their grave? Plus, I am here, and the hijacking morphed his love into a venomous hatred that wishes only to maim and murder me. He still resides in the Capitol, undergoing treatment to reverse its effects. When he will come back, I don't know. He may never, but all the same, I still hope.

It's selfish of me, really. I'm the reason for his torment at the hands of the Capitol, for the warping of his mind and the marring of his body. But when you're clinging to a fraying thread, the thin material about to give, you desire what you cannot have most.

After I think and see all this, I always leave the bathroom. Words never escape my lips, only shallow breaths as tears drip from my quivering chin. I leave Sae in there to sigh and hang her head in defeat. She then shuffles about the house to clean and prepare meals, her granddaughter finding entertainment in her homespun rag dolls, murmuring nonsensical words and flitting about like an insect. I go back to sitting in the ancient wooden chair, burrowing into blankets and slipping that damned pearl from my pocket to hold.

Just as I do now.

I'm seldom visited by Haymitch. And when he does grace me with his presence it's to slur belligerent words laced with the reek alcohol and acrid tang of bile, spittle flecking his lips. The liquor and spirits he downs smells of machine lubrication and bitter chemicals, and I gag at his foul stench. He has no grounds to yell at me about my current state when he fares just as well as I do. The only difference is his overindulgence in drink and my self-deprivation of sustenance: whether it be sunshine, water, food, or exercise. I allow myself none of it. If anything, his appearance is worse. His olive skin is slick with sweat and the heady scent of body odor, his clothing stained, teeth yellowed, silver eyes glazed, hands shaky, breathing labored, greying hair dull and greasy, a large pouch of a belly from excessive amounts of whiskey, and stubble stippling his jaw. Apparently he gave up sobriety as soon as he walked into his house. Can't say I blame him. But he's an annoyance; a real pain in my ass.

When he's not yelling at me he's making idle conversation with Sae about the reconstruction of the district, the daily happenings in town. They think I am deaf to the hushed sounds of their voices, so they speak of me and my condition. I occasionally hear words thrown about that involve my mother or Peeta, but I take no notice. I just stare at the pristine white plastering the walls, mind vacant and dazed.

Intermittently, I sneak a glance at my father's bow and quiver of arrows resting dutifully in the corner as if standing sentinel, the supple leather jacket slung over a plush chair adjacent it. Seated on the turquoise cushion is a cardboard box, which houses my personal effects from District 13. Sae made sure to place them in my periphery, tempting me to don the jacket and grasp the bow and quiver, to escape into the warmth of outside and find solace in hunting.

But still I sit.

I regularly fall asleep here, only to be awoken by horrid nightmares consisting of lost children and the roaring flames of my sister's immolation. Sharp, painful exhalations follow, nausea roiling in my gut, bile rising unbidden onto my tongue, tears rolling down my cheeks and staining my wobbly lips with liquid salt, throat raw from shrieking bloody murder. I don't sleep, no matter the peaceful thoughts I think before my lids flutter closed and a sigh leaves me.

And sometimes, on nights when my thoughts stray to him, I dream of Peeta. But they're flickers of past memories from District 13, nothing pleasant and serene; his attempt upon my life, his snarls of contempt and cruel remarks at my expense, the haze of malice polluting his beautiful irises as he glared in my direction; just everything. Everything that wounded me and caused me pain. But I can't say I am free of fault. My aversion to help, and the derision I held for the boy he had become, only made matters worse. My denial of my feelings hurt us both in the end.

But it doesn't matter anymore.

I could just end this wretched cycle; could've ended it a long time ago. But still I cling to that suspended thread, dangling over the edge of a precipice and gazing into the black, wondering if its embrace is as comforting and brimming with warmth as this fire. But hope is a fickle bitch, and lulls me to some semblance of self.

So I wait. I wait for him, if rather peevishly. It seems childish and in vain, but I do.

I wake shrieking from a recent nightmare, one where all my deceased friends and loved ones bury me alive, soil filling my mouth, the dead all around me, asphyxiation impending. Their unsympathetic laughter is devastating, an obnoxious chorus assaulting my emotions like stone hitting flesh. Tears and mucus drip from nostrils and tear ducts, vomit threatening to spill from my bleeding lips. I must have bit them while dreaming. I stumble from my perch, lurching into the stainless steel sink within the kitchen and retch. Barely anything comes up, most of it gastric juices. I ate scarce a morsel for breakfast, as per usual. I rinse my mouth out and gulp down tap water, savoring the cool against the torn and raw. I wipe my lips, drying my chin with my sleeve.

And then I hear it.

It's faint, but I perceive the telltale sound of metal meeting dirt; a shovel. Someone's digging in my garden.

But who?

I steady myself against the sink, a dizzy spell having taken me, fragments of light and dark staggering my vision. When I've collected my wits, I gather my blankets and walk to the door. My hand freezes upon the knob. Breathe Katniss, just breathe, it will be alright. With a final breath to brave the unknown I pull open the door and step into the sunlight, bathed in its warm radiance. I bask in it for a moment, choosing my steps carefully as I shuffle down the front stoop. I take the curving flagstone path to the barren garden dug around the corner, and halt in my tracks.

And I see him.