Warning: This story has mentions of drug and alcohol use, disordered eating, and non-consensual sexual encounters.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

Prologue

My arms are not strong enough.

That is clear immediately. I can feel myself weakening, the pain is searing and yet I continue to hold on. I cannot let go.

I cannot let go.

But then it becomes too much. I see everything and everyone I care about slipping through my too-weak grasp. I can't breathe through the stifling scent of roses and I suddenly realize petals and blood are raining down around me, drowning me. I can feel the blood on my skin, sticky and warm.

Prim's face in anguish, Gale's gray eyes lifeless, my mother gone from me forever, Peeta…

Peeta's face is calm, but his blue eyes are filled with torment. His voice is soft as he whispers my name, "Katniss…"

I try to grasp his hand, but I cannot; he grows farther and farther, but his voice continues in my head, reminding me that I could not save him.

"Katniss, Katniss…"

I jolt awake, my breath coming in heavy gasps as I try to suck in as much untainted air as I can. There are arms reaching for me and I immediately shy away.

"Katniss, it's okay. It was just a nightmare; you're fine, you're okay." I finally realize that it's Peeta who is reaching for me, who is speaking calmly and sweetly to me.

A sob rips up my throat and I collapse into him, suddenly aware that I am sweaty and tangled up in the damp sheet. My nightmares have been getting worse, but then again, I had been expecting that.

Peeta is still speaking in soothing murmurs, petting my tangled hair away from my face and rocking me like you would a child until my breathing evens out and the tremors cease.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, but he just continues to hold me, even though he is probably being plagued with demons of his own right now.

After a few more minutes, I pull away and get out of bed. It is still dark outside, but I know I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep even if I tried. The sweat is cooling on my skin and all I can think about is the raining blood running over my body, clinging to it.

When my eyes adjust to the bright light of the bathroom, I strip down and take in my reflection.

Dark circles under my eyes, hair lank and dull, bones that are just a tad too prominent. It has been a rough few weeks.

I sigh, not wanting to think about why I have been deprived of a good night's sleep, why my appetite has been absent, and why my family has been forced to deal with my moods.

I take off the simple gold band that I have grown accustomed to being on the ring finger of my left hand ever since my marriage to Peeta. While it was rough in the beginning, our relationship has smoothed out since, allowing us to live together as intimate partners, if not the passionate lovers that all of Panem still got to see.

The hot water washes away the sticky sweat as well as any lingering thoughts about the nightmare. I had developed the skill to compartmentalize, even though this leads to a festering of bitterness that I hadn't yet figured out a way to temper.

Peeta is knocking on the door much too soon, a soft reminder that today, unlike most of the days I have now, I have a schedule to keep.

The dress is simple, but I am still uncomfortable as I shimmy into the dark green material. After getting used to my hunting gear and casual clothes, the hem that skims my mid thigh feels much too short, the neckline just a bit too low. I scowl at the mirror, not liking the image scowling back at me.

Peeta comes up from behind and starts to gently comb through my still-wet hair with his fingers.

"That's a pretty dress." He murmurs, smiling at me in the mirror as he continues to ease out the tangles from my dark tresses.

I don't respond, looking at how the dress hangs loose on my frame. As I became older and became someone's wife, the Capitol has expected that I start leaving the flushed and innocent girl look behind and begin embracing the alluring woman image. That has meant hems that inch up a bit further, material that clings a bit closer, and necklines that dip a bit lower.

However, the few curves I had managed to develop due to a steady diet have disappeared in the past month or so, just as they had the year before. I can't help but feel satisfied at this tiny form of disobedience. After all, it was all I really could do out of defiance at this point. Of course, when the time came for more important appearances, my prep team would do damage control. Until then, I will defiantly display my skinny legs and imperfect hair.

Once we are both ready, Peeta in his crisp white shirt and I with my feet stuffed into uncomfortable black heels, we make our way downstairs, preparing to go to Haymitch's and drag him away from his bottle; after that, we will make our way to the square of District 12.

The Reaping of the 76th Hunger Games beckoned, and we three victors were about to meet our new tributes.