He was a hero. He'd won the Hunger Games with no mentor and during a Quell at that, with double the amount of tributes.
He was a hero, going home to be greeted by unimaginable riches for himself and his district. He'd made history as the second Victor from poor District Twelve.
He was a hero, with adoring fans and praise from anyone in sight.
And he hated it. He hated the fame and the money and he hated himself. He hated having to relive his great triumph which was also his worst defeat every time he closed his eyes.
So he didn't. He didn't sleep until he fell over from exhaustion, hoping such tiredness would free him of the guilt he felt with each breath he took.
It didn't.
And each time he woke, something else in his terrible, perfect house got destroyed.
The coffee table.
The TV.
The phone.
So he resorted to searching for a nightmare cure at the bottom of a bottle. Surely there would come an amount of liquor he could drink that would give him a black, dreamless sleep. Or kill him. Whichever came first. If there was, he couldn't find it.
While the liquor didn't help his nights, they greatly improved his days. They felt utterly surreal. He was able to joke around when he was so drunk he couldn't feel the pain anymore. They asked him why. He was a Victor, the Victor of the second Quarter Quell, he had everything plus more. Why did he need the drink?
Because the only thing he wanted was gone, and nothing meant anything without her.
But he was too drunk to tell them.