Note- I do not claim to own the Hunger Games or the characters used in this story. All rights go to Suzanne Collins.

I wake up. Shivering, cold, alone and shaking, violently. Although, I'm not alone. No. I will never be alone. Not now. Not since we came home. I must remind myself this every time I awaken from those horrifying illusions. Next to me, I feel his warm body pressed against mine, his arms trapping me in his snare, his soft tones coaxing me back to sleep, reassuring me. I struggle with the witchcraft he so elegantly uses against me. His spells rolling so easily from his soft tongue. His lips, compared to my venomous spitting, press the sounds from his mouth. I scream, angered by the power he has over me. I do not want to sleep. I want to escape these dreadful nightmares that remind me of the terrors we faced in the arena, the rebellion. It's over now, but so quickly it returns to me as I fall into oblivion. I mustn't let him force me back there. "No!" I'm flailing now, kicking and clawing at him in a desperate attempt to escape his grasp. "Let me go!" I screech. He hushes me, tightening his lock with my every move. Why must he do this to me? Doesn't he see how each nightmare, each pair of mutts eyes, each of Prim's disabling screams from those revolting Jabberjays, each hint of rose, each drop of blood, scars me beyond repair? I am beyond repair. I see this now. This is why it does not matter to him. Sinking into his strong chest, eventually I tire, cursing under my breath. Not once does he stop with his comforting words or his gentle hushing. Before I slip away, I ask him one question. "Why?" He must be wondering if I'm going to add to my question, or if he'll ever have an answer because I still have no response when I'm ensnared once again by the darkness, my head rising and falling with his sturdy rhythm.

I wake again. This time to the dazzling rays striking through my window pane and my hands relaxed by my side. My hearts pounding, but I do not scream, and I am not shaking. "Maybe I'm getting better" I whisper to myself, although I'm fully aware that this is very unlikely, I've had long enough now to recover, and I have not. Sometimes I wonder if I ever will, if time, the universal healer of both a broken heart and mind, can even fix me. I sit up, embracing the warmth from the morning sun, tilting my head back slightly. I don't smile, but I feel happy, well happier than usual anyway. With a sudden urge to be proactive, I swing my legs from the bed and hop onto my toes, searching for a t-shirt to throw over my underclothes as I dodge the medicine bottles and damp wash flannels. Sometimes, when I'm having a particularly bad night, he'll wet them and press them against my head in another attempt to calm me. From the sight, I can see last night was one of those nights, though I can't remember it. I find his shirt laying on the floor, scrunched up in the corner, as if it had been thrown in a moment of frustration. It makes sense. With me refusing to recover and all, surely he's getting tired of me by now. I sigh. Disappointed by my own selfishness. I wish I could be better, or act as if I am. That way he wouldn't feel the need to stay, I don't want him to leave, but I don't want him to stay either. I bend down to retrieve the shirt and as I pull it over my head I smell his strong odour that I've grown so accustomed to. Careful to keep my positive mind, I do not linger in my bedroom, and after opening my window I float towards the stairs, not stopping think of how I looked in his oversized shirt.

I slip into the living room, the TVs blaring bright colours around the room. It's such a contrast to the programs before the revolution to the Capitol propaganda and the droning voices. Even the littlest of changes become apparent when you're locked up for so long. I say locked up, what I mean is trapped. I can leave, physically, but emotionally? No. I could never bring myself to leave this house. For some reason, I creep towards the kitchen, afraid to make him aware of my presence. He stands at the sink, the tap gushing out water as steam rises around him, fogging the window before him. Mechanically, he washes the dishes, each action being perfectly timed. I remember it's not just me who suffered from the games. He's almost finished when he stops to exhale a lungful of air, it's my sigh, only it contains something more, confusion we both share, and I can hear the hopeless lost feeling I experience on occasion, but no. The sound he makes is the sound a person is faced with a dilemma, when a choice is to be made. Curious, I wait, hoping he'll reveal more. I get nothing and so I approach him, slower than before, and begin to dry the dishes he washes with so much precision. As I stand there, heated by the steam, comforted by his presence and occupied by my task, I can only bring one sentence to cross my lips "Why did you choose me?"