But I Won, a hunger games fanfic

This was written for the One-Shot Hunger Games May 2011 writing challenge on Starvation. The prompt: What don't you understand? I won.

A bit of background on this story. This is the POV of a possible of the 30th Quarter Quell, a Games where there are two boys and two girls reaped from every district. Kudos to you if you can figure out who it is. I wrote about this character because this is her personality, not because she is definitely going to be the Victor. I don't actually know who the Victor will be yet.

Please review and tell me what you think!

But I Won

By silver-nightstorm

Summary: The many readings of the History of Panem lead me to believe the mistaken notion that winning the Hunger Games actually meant something. Entry for the May 2011 One-Shot Hunger Games challenge on Starvation.

The many readings of the History of Panem led me to believe the mistaken notion that winning the Hunger Games actually meant something. The History could not have been more wrong. I have lived the Hunger Games. I have died the Hunger Games. I have won the Hunger Games. I have not made a difference. That is what I did not understand. I won.

You must think I'm crazy. After living in an average part of District 11, how could winning the Hunger Games not make a difference? Quite easily, in fact. Quite easily.

It's amazing how little time it takes for events to spiral back into a semblance of "normalcy". Though the definition of the word might morph into a twisted caricature of what it was before, it still was the same word with the same meaning and the same mundane undertone. Normalcy; my golden cage of boredom tightly locked with the key of action in sight, but just out of reach.

I returned to the Capitol triumphantly, a sixteen-year-old girl covered in blood. Figuratively, of course. They wouldn't let me out of the arena without a bath. Frankly, I wouldn't have left the arena without a bath. I was filthy from rolling around in that hellhole of mud. What am I saying? A hellhole of mud would have been paradise compared to that Godforsaken arena.

But they bathed me, scrubbing my skin off and tweezing my eyebrows back into almost non-existent lines of supposed elegance. I emerged from the helicopter with my skin shining copper in the setting sunlight wearing a circlet of laurel on my brow to the cheers of the Capitol citizens. My clothing had been replaced with an exact replica of the arena attire, minus the wear and tear. I suppose the intention was to dramatize me. Having a normal girl return from a fight to the death wasn't dramatic enough. But it wouldn't do to have me appear like a savage, covered in the blood of my ally as I held him dying in my arms.

That was… inappropriate.

To say that I was astonished would be a bit of an understatement. The crowd of Capitol residents were jingoistic in there celebrations, dancing about the city and partying madly like a drunken mob. "She was my favorite!", "I'm so happy she won!", "I really liked that other boy, but she's perfectly acceptable!", "Another amazing Games this year. Gawsh, that was so much fun!", "Congratulations, dear!". Money exchanged hands as the joyous cashed in on bets they had won while the losers tried to quietly sneak away. But they weren't gone for long, returning to the festivities like moths to the light. Savages. The lot of them.

Amid the masses of the partying, the alterations common to the Capitol looked gruesome. Purple skin and orange hair coupled with hypnotic green tattoos all blended together to form a medley of mayhem.

Alcohol flowed freely and I was blinded by the multitude of cameras that kept flashing in my face. My mentors griped me firmly by my shoulders, afraid to lose me among the hoi polloi. But they had nothing to fear. I had no reason to stray.

Instead I smiled for the cameras, and acted as if my life was now complete because of this wonderful experience.

My life was complete in a way. Complete-ly destroyed. But that was a technicality. How did that make the slightest difference in the world?

After many torturous hours, the party finished and I was ushered to a dressing room. My stylist and prep team cooed over me, the woman with candy-like hair fell into my lap sobbing. But they quickly forgot their happiness at seeing me again and proceeded to make me perfect and play dress up with me as a human mannequin.

I managed to sit through their fussing without reacting, just as I sat through the recap of the Games. The only sign of my despair was a single tear that rolled down my cheek. It would have been poetic if it was a tear of sorrow instead of my tear of anger. It would have been poetic if I hadn't felt like ripping the fabric of my dress into billions of pieces, shredding the flimsy material until the fragments were too tiny for even my fingers to grip. That's what I wanted to do. I wanted everyone to know my instability, my pain, my misery, my sorrow, my hatred. I wanted to destroy the source of my loneliness.

But more than anything, I wanted to have someone next to me on the pathetically lonely loveseat that I was precariously perched on. A kindred soul. I wanted to be like Katniss Everdeen. I wanted to cuddle up against my lie of a Peeta bury my face in his shoulder as I sobbed freely. But I held it inside. I kept silent. I resisted.

Now that I think about it, I could have made a difference. I could have made a difference if I just… snapped. But I didn't. And now I have settled into my new mode of normalcy.

I chose my hobby to be fashion, mirroring Katniss. Unlike Katniss, I had a genuine interest in the topic. I loved to create clothing. I should have been born in Eight, but fate had a strange way of working. I managed to pursue my passion despite everything against me. My father even supported me, not that he had much of a choice.

The mansion was lonely. It was large and airy, filled with nothing but space. I would spend hours wandering up the halls and through the labyrinthine corridors. I began to make maps of the area, mounting them on strategically placed walls and posting little "you are here" tabs on them after guests continuously got lost. Lilac would often visit with her baby, and Nessa would be stuck to her side. The latter was now grossly pregnant, and relied on Lilac to fulfill her cravings for caviar and other nonsense. And like most children, the baby liked to explore. It spent twenty minutes once marveling at the fact that it possessed toes. The little creature then managed to roll itself halfway out of the room, though how I still have no idea. I told myself I would baby-proof the house, but Lilac moved to the Capitol before it could happen.

Most of the time, I would avoid others like the plague. My father would stay on the balcony, looking over the vast forestry of Eleven as he spoke to my mother's spirit of the going-ons. Many people thought he was losing it. They were correct, of course. But I wasn't going to admit that.

My sister was quarantined in her room. It had taken all of my barely non-existent sway to persuade the Peacekeepers to permit her to stay there. She was not allowed out of her room. It was like living at home again, it was like she wasn't even there.

I still don't know what possessed me to have her here. Maybe Colby was right. Maybe I am mentally unstable.

But I would wander around the mansion, the castle, admiring the random décor that never seemed to follow a pattern. I once found a room that was decorated with dolphin wallpaper. Clearly the previous inhabitant had been a bit off. But then again, who was I to be a hypocrite? After all, I made a dress to mirror that very room.

But that might have been out of desperation for a new muse, considering how my normal one was under lock and key.

Time seemed to go by at an indecipherable pace, neither slow nor fast. But the time soon came for me to go on the victory tour. Stylist and Co. attacked me once more, chastising me for not taking care of my appearance.

You survive in the arena. Then tell me you care about appearance.

District 12 was the first stop. I awkwardly stood on a platform in front of a mass of soot covered folks. The entire Districtwas the color of soot. The only thing that stood out was me, in my clean white dress. A picture of innocence.

At least I hadn't personally killed anyone from here. I think. I should have made a better effort to get to know the tributes. But looking back on anything from the Games made my throat close and my eyes sting. It wasn't worth it.

After all, the three tributes that mattered to me were all from the same District.

Ten wasn't very eventful, and neither were Nine, Eight, or Seven. I teared up a bit in Six, remembering the boy who had given his life for me. In Five, I recognized one family, the parents and siblings of the girl who was killed by a snake.

Four was… interesting. Three of the four tributes from this District were allies with me. I had cried over the girl, had killed one of the boys, and had been utterly betrayed by another. The mother of the "another" hugged me tightly to her breast and apologized. I didn't reply.

Betrayal is unacceptable.

It wasn't until I was sitting on the stage, watching the reaping that the truth about the matter truly sunk in. I was going to watch these children die for the rest of my life unless I got out. Nessa and Lilac survived because they had others, Nessa had her lover, Lilac had a baby; they both had families that functioned. My family couldn't even eat at the same table. We never would ever again.

It's not that I want us to sit at a table and eat. Quite frankly, it's a pain to eat on someone else's schedule. But my family will never sit around the figurative table of happiness and enjoy a meal. It's just not possible for us.

Some wounds will never heal.

During those games, I saw families torn apart, hearts broken, alliances destroyed, minds crushed. It struck me suddenly, like lightening. I wasn't making a difference. It was the kids who died who truly made a difference. For every kid who died, the Districts were even more inflamed. Winning meant nothing in these Games. In the Hunger Games, the losers were the winners.

That was the day I decided to give up.

A few days after my birthday, I had a surprise visitor. My mansion was still occupied with grossly colored "17!" balloons along with various streamers and a banner. I never bothered to clean up. I think the remains of the cake remained on the table for months.

Of course, my visitor didn't understand the concept of doors, so I walked into the largest room of the house to find her sitting at the table snacking on the cake. I was eloquent enough to tell her that the cake was a week old and quite possibly moldy.

I was impressed that I didn't try to kill her. I was holding a Spork in my hand with a death grip, although I can't remember why I even had a Spork in the first place. I think I found it in one of the rooms.

I smiled slightly for the first time in a while at the sight of the President of Panem gagging over some moldy cake in my house. At the same time, a nagging little voice in the back of my head told me that something was seriously wrong and that she was going to kill me for the offense of feeding a Capitol citizen a moldy cake. Another little voice quietly prayed for her to actually kill me. But it was not my fault she was too stupid to actually look at what she put in her mouth. Capitol bitch.

My gut feeling proved to be right. I was to act as an escort for prominent Capitol officials who would pay me exorbitant sums of money. Saying it using spiffy words doesn't make it less despicable.

She wanted to destroy my plans of becoming a living vegetable.

I didn't react. But deep inside, I was dying. She threatened my family and I said nothing. I had gone into the Games for my family, and I had just gotten out. And now, the President was pulling me back into the mayhem again, back into the Games. But these Games were completely different.

What don't you understand? It's quite simple, very simple. The most simple concept in the world, in fact. I will never make a difference. Nothing will ever change for me precisely because of the very reason that I thought things would change for me. I feel like a child whenever I state this because my face takes that peculiar expression every child has mastered. It's the complaining expression, where your mouth turns down in a pout and your brows furrow and – depending on the person – your nose scrunches up the tiniest bit and your eyes start to squint. I can't make a difference? But I won!

The sad part about this tale is that I got used to it. I got used to not making a difference. I got used to following the every whim of the President to save my own skin. I was tired of almost dying, and I wanted out. So I did everything to stay out.

Things didn't end up as bad as I was hoping. They actually ended up quite good. I found my out, a Capitol boy with a weakness for Victors of the pretty sort. Thankfully, I was one of those and he immediately took a liking to me. And then he became protective of me. Soon, the President had no sway over me. She couldn't hurt one of her own citizens, after all. That would be… immoral.

Immoral my ass.

But I fell into a pattern. I fell into a way of safety. Even when other Victors tried to rebel, I was one of the few who just sat and did nothing. I didn't want to do anything. I didn't want to risk my life again. I was tired. I was tired of almost dying, I was tired of living in fear. I was perfectly content now to just live and let live.

And years from now, when I see my children sporting purple skin, and orange hair, and hypnotic green tattoos, I will give them an empty smile as they cheer for the Hunger Games.

So I hope you liked that. I wanted to make her seem a bit unstable, but at the same time very sane and very aware of most things. Hopefully you liked that, and hopefully, I pulled that off. So please review and tell me what you think :) lurkers included :D