A/N: I decided to write a story about Johanna Mason based off of the song Broken Angel by Boyce Avenue. I suggest you listen to it if you haven't. A tear jerker for any with daddy problems. I love my daddy. He's one of my best friends & I even cried.
But here's the story. Hope you like it.

I do not own the Hunger Games or Broken Angel

I walk into kitchen and see Daddy looking at something. He ran a hand through his hair and put it down, reaching for a beer with his now free hand. I walk over to the table where he set it and see it is a picture of Mommy. I've never met my mommy. She was beautiful. I think I look like her.

I walk over to Daddy and tug on his pants leg. He kneels down to my level before opening his drink. He ruffles my hair and smiles. "Hi, sweetie," he says. I assume that this isn't his first beer as I can smell the alcohol on his breath. "How long have you been up?"

I ignore his question and get right to the point. "Daddy," I say quietly, "where's Mommy? Why can't I ever see her?" I know I am treading unchartered waters here. Every time I ask about Mommy, he either gets angry and hits me or stays very quiet and doesn't talk to me for the rest of the day. I don't expect that to change now so I am surprised when he answers me.

He sighs and looks down. "I guess I can't hide it forever," he mumbles. He looks back up at me, his eyes boring into mine. "Joni, your mother died when you were born."

I try to make sense of what he is saying. Being only five, it takes me a while. Even then, I don't completely understand. He must read it all over my face because he elaborates. "She was really sick. She wasn't strong enough to make it after having you."

I furrow my brow as I think about his. "Was it my fault, Daddy?" I say quietly.

Here, he's quiet. He quickly picks himself up, pops his beer open, and takes a swig, going back into his room. I can tell he is done talking about it so I go to my own room, lock the door, & curl up on my bed, ignoring the hunger pains that strike me.

9 years later

I realized as I got older that it was my fault that Mom died. I killed her as an infant. And Dad was mad about it. So it is also my fault that he is an alcoholic. Everything is my fault. All of it.

"Joni!"

I sigh, and stop my fidgeting and getting ready for the Reaping for just a minute. I walk into my tiny living room, where Dad is sprawled out on the couch, drunk as usual. "Yes?" I say, preparing for the worst.

He looks up at me. It seems like it is a difficult task at first. "Why are you so dressed up?" he asks me.

I roll my eyes. "It's the Reaping day, Dad," I say in a duh sort of tone.

"Oh, yes. Anyway, Joni, will you get me another beer? I sure am parched."

I look around at the floor, covered with beer cans. I don't know what he thinks parched is but everyone else would say he should be quenched by now. Still, I go to the kitchen and rummage around the fridge. I realize that there's no beer left. We probably don't have enough money to buy anymore either as I make very little income, and he usually spends it all on alcohol.

I come back to living room, knowing that know I'm going to get the worst. "There's none left, Dad," I say hesitantly. "You drank all of them."

His eyes turn hard as he glares at me. He gets up clumsily, but steadies himself. "You're lying," he snarls, coming closer. With each step he takes forward, I take backwards. "You're hiding it. Just like you always do."

I shake my head quickly. "No, I'm not. I'm not lying," I say, trying to sound calm. "You can go look yourself. There isn't any!"

"I will," he grumbles. I hear rummaging in the kitchen, my stomach clenching tighter and tighter. He finally comes back in, a shiny object in his hand. "There's not beer left," he mimicks in a high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like mine. "What do you call this?"

I feel my mouth hang open. He had to have been hiding it. He had to have been. This isn't the first time it has happened. I am about to speak when I feel something hit my cheek. Hard.

I fall to the floor, holding my cheek. It stings and starts to throb. I can tell already that I'm going to have a bruise there. I scramble to my feet and run out of the door before he can hit me again. But as I'm running out, he calls after me, "That's right! Run, you worthless rat! You've always wanted to be like your mother! You are! All you have to do is go die! Then you're dream will be fulfilled!"

I run as far as I can from my house. I finally stop in the woods, lying in the tall grass. When my dad is sober, he's a great guy, honestly. But he's drunk so often that he's unpleasant to be around. I've told my father since I was young that I wanted to be just like my mother. I've heard from so many people that she was a wonderful, accomplished woman. However, he always shoots it down, telling me I'm worthless and that I'll never be like my mother. A couple of times, I almost believed it.

I lay in the grass until it is time to go to the mandatory Reaping. I suppose someone in my distant family will realize I don't have my father with my and drag him to the Reaping.

I check in, get my finger pricked, and go stand with the other 14-year-old girls. I tune out most of what is said. But I definately listen during the actual Reaping.

"Ladies first," our District escort says. He goes to the bowl and runs his hand around. My name is in there several times, but not as many as other kids so I probably won't get pulled. "Johanna Mason!"

I gasp and all the girls turn to look at me. I robotically move up to the stage, thinking about one thing. Dad. Who will take care of him after I'm gone? How will he take my death? Will he even care? These thoughts run continue to run through my mind as we are escorted to the Justice Building.

As my visitors come in and out, I keep thinking that Dad is going to come, to come see his daughter. As the final visitor leaves and the Peacekeepers say my time is up, my blood turns thinner than water as the horrible truth hits me. My dad isn't going to say goodbye to his only daughter, the only one left to carry his name. He's leaving me. I know what I must do if I want him to pay attention to me and love me.

I must win the Hunger Games.

2 months later

I step off the train at the District 7 station and look around. I expect to see my dad, honestly. I'm not sure how. Running towards me to embrace me in a hug, maybe? Tears of joy from his eyes seeing that his "beloved" daughter has survived the worst event in all history? But what I do see is my best friend's mother coming towards me. The two of us embrace and exchange a few kind words.

"Well, you're home," she says with a smile. "What's the first thing you want to do? Anything you want, Johanna."

I smile, already knowing what it is. "I just want to go home," I say, thinking of how happy my father will be that I won the Games.

Mrs. Niells purses her lips. "Well, actually, there's something I should tell you-"

I hold a hand up, interrupting her. "Can it wait?" I ask her. "I really just want to see my father."

She seems hesitant but nods, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. "Come on," she says slowly. "I'll take you."

Where I expect her to take me to my little house. Where she takes me, floors me. "What are we doing in the cemetary?" I ask as we weave around tombstones and avoid statues and memorials.

She sighs as we stop in front of a tombstone. She gestures to it and tears start filling her eyes. I hesitantly look at the engraving on it. My breath leaves me as I do.

Henry Mason
September 25, 2021 - August 15, 2050
You Will Be Missed

"What happened?" I mumble. He wasn't physically sick or anything when I left. He wasn't dying that I knew. Did he have an accident? Did someone kill him?

"He couldn't take the thought of living without you," Mrs. Niells says sadly. "He committed suicide. I'm so sorry, Johanna."

Later that night, I sit in my kitchen in my father's seat, just staring down at the table. My home was supposed to feel inviting and wonderful. But it just felt empty and gloomy. Yes, my father was a drunk, and yes, he hit me almost every day, but he's my still my father. I care about him and love him. I just didn't tell him often enough.

I pull myself up, find a piece of paper, sit back down, and begin to write. Begin to write a letter to my father. Once it is finished, I go out to the graveyard and find his tombstone.

I kneel down in front of it, feeling like the rolls are reversed as I remember when I was a young girl. My fingers brush the cool stone. Tears roll down my face as I set the letter on top of the grave. I smile a bit. "I love you, Daddy," I whisper before standing back up and walking off.

And as I walk away, I realize that none of this was ever really my fault.

A/N: Okay. I almost cried writing this. Just a little back story to Johanna. Hope you guys liked it.

-AG