A/N: Hello there! So, this is my The Hunger Games fanfiction. The reason why I decided to write this is that I felt pretty unamused by series' ending to say the least. In my opinion, that's just not how it works in real life. You do not magically cure from all losses, don't go writing books about the dead ones, don't start a family and give birth to a few babies. Just. Not. The process of post-war rehabilitation is much longer than the actual war. And, secondly, I don't believe for a second that the New Government will treat Katniss indifferently and will leave her alone at some point. This is not likely to happen. She's too powerful figure to let go. So, this is how I see Katniss' post-Rebellion life. The real fight only starts at this point.

A/N 2: I would really (really!) appreciate your reviews, especially in terms of my grammar and stylistics for I am working hard for it. And, of course, your views on the whole story/plot/character development and anything else. I am open to any criticism because it will definitely make me better.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm nineteen years old. I suffer from posttraumatic stress disorder.

The therapist they hired for me says that acceptance is half-way to rehabilitation. I am self-destructing numb piece of shit, that hasn't felt anything in past two years. Are you fucking happy now, Doctor Salome?

Since the rebellion, two years have passed. What I've seen? Plenty of shit. I've seen my mother not wanting talking to me anymore, I've seen Gale going away from me, I've seen Peeta taking my hand and trying to save me. That's the day when I stabbed him. In the face. In the fucking perfect face. With a fork. They had to put stitches.

They kept me in a psychiatric hospital in the Capitol. They forbad me to see Peeta. Good. I didn't want to anyway. I didn't want to hurt him, though. God knows why I did it. I just felt so angry. I felt so angry because he thought he could comfort me. I killed my own sister and he thought that his hands on mine would help me. I laughed in his face. And then I've tried to spoil the perfection.

Guess what? I did it. No one has the right to live when she's dead. They chained me to the bed. They gave me nothing but meds. I screamed my lungs out with her name. I stole the paint from our rehab room. I painted her name everywhere, and when a nurse came, she saw me with her name on the walls, on my body, on my face.

I've pronounced it so many times, it stopped being sacred. I've spoiled it. You see, it has been holy and my mouth profaned it. Therefore, I tried to erase my mouth with a knife in our dining room. God, they were scared. I just slashed one cheek in a half, from the edge of my mouth to the temple, and there was just a little blood, but, God, were they screaming.

I know they think I've completely gone mad. I am, however, not mad. I just want to destroy every little perfect thing and then rebuild it in havoc. I want everything be much less than her. I simply can't forgive them for their ability to live when she's gone.

My therapist has tortured me with triggers. She says that I have to let go. I wanted to kill a stupid bitch but she's already dead inside. And they chained me to a chair.

Nobody trusts me. I've been a symbol. Now I am a trash. They hate me. But more than hate, they are afraid of me. They are afraid of what I've become, because deep inside they know that it is their fault. They are afraid that I will take revenge. I am smiling with the half of my mouth because the other half is paralyzed. They are so stupid.

I am not crazy. I just hate them. Hate Peeta. Hate the Capitol. Hate the New Government. The only thing I've ever loved was Prim and now she's gone. Oops, this is the trigger.

Here she goes. Stupid bitch. Fucking therapist. Fucking nurses. Why they are in such a rush? What's in this syringe? Oh. I remember now. My knuckles hurt as hell. I punched the wall. With knuckles and then with my head. I feel so sleepy right now. Is that my blood on the wall? Whoa, that's a lot of worthless liquid.

I haven't seen daylight in six months. The last time I've seen sun was the day when I stabbed Peeta. He has never visited me again. That's good. Fuck him.

I wake up with a mist instead of brains. For the last two weeks they gave me so much meds I threw up on myself every night and almost chocked twice on my own vomit. I wish I would have chocked.

My wrists hurt. I want to scratch my head. But, fuck me, I am chained to the bed. The ceiling is white. I have to get out of here.

Let me think. How?

At first, I will stop misbehave. I will stop thinking of the holy girl. Then I will persuade the therapist that I am the holy girl…

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Why did I have to say this?

Here they are, with the new syringe. I must have been screaming. I can't do it any longer.

I have to get out.