Short, I know. But it's one of my first THG and I'm so damn proud of it, even if it's not one of my best works.

Because we all love Primrose Everdeen.

DICLAIMER: I own nothing.

First time — Seven years old

The tick-tack echoed in her head. When was the last time she ate anything? Her dry lips itched.

Her mom was lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Was she asleep? She wanted her mom to wake up. She was hungry! And Katniss had started yelling at mom. Why was she yelling? Why wasn't her mother moving? Her head hurt. She just wanted food. Food, food, f—

"Stand up and do something for your daughters already!" Katniss screamed.

Tick. Tock.

"I'm leaving," her sister announced as she stood up.

A wave of terror covered her. Katniss was leaving. She couldn't go!

"NO!" Don't leave, Katniss! Don't leave me!"

Katniss kneeled next to her. She couldn't go. She didn't want to be alone with mom, who wasn't moving anything at all.

"It's okay, little duck. I'll come back as soon as I get something to eat for us."

The cold breeze that entered in the house as her sister opened the door made her shiver violently.

Cold. Hungry. Katniss…

"I'll come back."

But Prim wasn't so sure.

Second time — Twelve years old

"Primrose Everdeen!" the overly pitched voice announced.

The colors. Were they dancing?

With wobbly legs, she stepped to the front.

You don't choose the Hunger Games, the Hunger Games choose you.

She was going to die.

(Buzzing sounds in the distance.)

"No! Prim!" someone (Katniss? —the voice in her mind hopeful—) screamed. "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

The Hunger Games choose you.

Her pulse was reverberating in her ears. Like a bullet. (But to the head or to the heart?)

"You have to win," she begged minutes before her sister left.

You don't choose the Hunger Games.

"I will. For you." The empty promise had stayed with her for days, months, years.

But her sister was already dead.

Third time — Thirteen years old

"Now we honor our Third Quarter Quell, on the 75th anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest amongst them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol. The male and the female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

The television was too bright for her eyes and too loud for her ears.

But the pain was too much for her heart.

Her sister stormed out of the room, but could she really blame her?

She had miraculously come back from death once.

(Her sister wouldn't be so lucky this time.)

Her mother put her skinny arm around her tiny shoulders, and pulled her closer.

Maybe trying to comfort her.

"She won't come back, will she?" her mother asked.

Prim tried to convince her mother otherwise.

But she knew there was no chance.

Fourth time — Three months until fourteen

When they had called them, she almost laughed at the irony.

Bombs from the Capitol destroyed her home, and now she was going to help the Capitol people whose houses were destroyed by the bombs they, the rebels, created.

Karma?

Corpses lying all around, kids with mutilated limbs, mere empty shells of what they once were rather than humans like her.

(But were they real persons, and not demons? After all, the worst monsters are the brightest humans.)

A little girl, no older than seven, was crying.

Her parents were nowhere in sight.

She was seven the first time she feared for Katniss' life.

She rushed to the girl's side. Monster or not, she needed help.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," she assured. "You are safe."

/But then/

A loud noise. Screams.

Her sister.

"Katniss." The last whisper.

Hot.

Burning pain.

Black.

White.

And death.