*This is a rewrite*

"Congratulations to the victor of the 69th Hunger Games, Laurel Rosary!"

Nightmares plague my sleep, visions filled with bloody faces and acidic bubbling that make me scream with pain and horror. When I wake up, I'm sweaty and shaking, clammy tears dried on my cold face. My breaths are ragged and the only thought running through me head is Why me? What did I do to deserve this?

I shuffle to the dark kitchen. The table is still set and Seeder is sitting in a wooden chair, staring off into nothing.

I sit across from her, pulling my sweaty mess of chestnut hair away from my face, tugging at the long strands that are wrapped around my neck.

Seeder finally becomes aware of my presence, and I pretend not to notice her shining eyes.

"They are very happy with you." Seeder comments idly, buttering a piece of bread. She doesn't look at me.

"What? Why? I wasn't meant to win." I fold my shaking hands in my lap in an effort to calm myself. The night terrors are etched in my brain, carved in.

"No, Laurel, you weren't. But you were never an underdog. They hate underdogs. You were a second choice."

"Plan B." I snap sourly, then bite my cheek. I need to learn to shut up.

"Yes, well, they like you nevertheless. They like your looks. This is good for them, bad for you. Beauty is a curse, my dear." She attempts a smile, but it's weak.

I swallow. Her face is genuinely concerned.

So is mine.

I'm not beautiful. I was, back in the innocent days, before I was damaged and left out in the rain to malfunction. I used to glow with happiness, shine like an angel and smile with my eyes.

But after you have killed someone, you start to become ugly. You look like a demon, not an angel. When I look in the mirror now, I just see a monster, not a gorgeous victor.

"They are going to want you on show as much as possible on this tour."

I sigh quietly. Of course they do. I'm just a pretty little pawn. I was never meant to win. But they already have a plan in place for me.

But that's the problem. I did.

Seeder folds her aged hands in her lap, mirroring my stance. She even looks similar to me, with the same honey skin. I want more than anything for her to be my mother. Because Seeder is alive.

"I'm not sure what to say, Laurel. I was never in your position, not exactly. Of course I will help you, love, but I'm not sure how much help I will be."

This unnerves me. Seeder is so wise, and clever, and yet she doesn't know how to help me? I must be in deep. But was being dead in deeper? Or not? I have so many questions. I tell her this.

"I have so many questions."

"Go ahead dear." She encourages.

I think.

"I'm not sure any are answerable." I worry.

"Try me." She coaxed.

I eat some more soup. I ponder as I sip the thick stuff up. I don't know what this is. We don't have it in Eleven. I remember getting it from a sponsor in the Games though.

I push it away, the liquid sloshing. I've lost my appetite now. That wasn't a nice night.

"I'm not sure which question to ask you." I admit, my brows knitted.

"The easiest one." She smiles at me reassuringly. But it doesn't reach her eyes. And it's tired, she's tired. I laugh, but it's hollow and empty.

"When will we reach Twelve?"

She laughs now, and the stiff air feels lighter. "Tomorrow, we're only halfway out of Eleven."

I sit back. She can't answer any more of my questions. Not tonight.

Lili bursts in, rambling about something I do not care for.

Her hair is bright blue for this tour. She brushes past me and I resist the urge to shy away from her. She's done nothing wrong, but she looks like the colourful Capitolites that haunt my dreams lately, snatching at me with their blood stained hands.

There are weird butterfly shapes at the corners of her eyes, and I'm not sure if she's just applied it wrong, or it's meant to be like that, but her lipstick has run off the edges of her lips.

It looks like she's just drunk someones blood. I shudder. Since when is looking like an alien considered pretty? I remember thinking the exact same thing at the reaping. It feels like years ago.

I play with the edge of my skirt. It's made of chiffon, and it swishes prettily as I walk. But it doesn't look pretty on me. It's too short, only just covering enough. My breasts are spilling out of the top, and I have already fought a battle with them, trying to shove them down so I look decent. But they stay as they are, and I can't change. This is the only dress I have. I guess Blake didn't think I'd get so tall when he sold the other ones. And didn't figure I'd fill out so much. I fold my arms over my chest.

The crowd rustles around me, and I look up to see the bright orange person step up to the microphone.

She's new. I guess they fired the last one. That offhand comment he made must of landed him in trouble.

Her hair is like a lion's, orange and sticking in all directions; a mane. She looks horrible. She'd be quite pretty if she was just natural, but no. Her dress is patterned with leaves. I guess she's trying to represent our district.

She turns to pull out the girls choice, and I can see her nose properly.

She has whiskers. Oh god.

This thought makes me almost laugh with the ridiculousness of the situation. But I'm stopped. Because then she calls out my name. I stumble up the stairs in shock, but I don't panic. I square my shoulders, look out at the large district, and avoid Blake's eyes.

I didn't panic at all. I'm good at stuff like that. Keeping my composure and a level head.

But my best skill is lying. I'm flawless, near perfect at it, and it comes in handy. And I have a sinking feeling that I'll need it more often now I've won the Games.

Later that night I enter my room, turning to lock the door behind me. Its become an automatic gesture, and this is sad. I should be able to sleep with my door unlocked. I should be able to sleep without a knife under my pillow. I should be able to sleep without the night light from when I was a baby on, and I should be able to sleep without waking up every other hour in cold sweats, the sheets twisted and my heart pounding, visions of carved faces and blood pounding in my head.

I don't realise I've been holding my breath until I let it out, the scented potpourri in the corner making me sneeze. I pick it up, yank the window open and hurl it out. I hear the bowls faint smash as we speed past.

I spend ages in the hot shower. We hardly get baths back home, and when we do, it's never hot. I'd only had my first hot bath after I was reaped.

I change into linen pants and a top, and start undoing my hair. It's pulled into a elaborate braid by Giovanna; one third of my prep team. The weight I hadn't realised was there lifts as I pull the pins out and I twist my aching neck around.

I shake out the kinky thick mess and fall into bed, worry and stress keeping sleep away. When sleep finally does comes, it's restless, and full of the repeated nightmares that never cease to scare me.

When I wake up, sunlight is streaming in, hitting my eyes. The curtains were left open after I threw the ceramic bowl out the window.

I can see snow. We've stopped, and I can see frost and thick layers of powdery white stuff hanging off thin branches.

It's pretty, but we have it in Eleven, occasionally. It's nothing special, just colder.

I try to extend my lie in as much as possible, but soon my prep team has entered my room, slamming the door loudly. Freesia yanks me out of bed and into the chair in front of my vanity.

Delcour rips at my hair, untangling the mess of knots. I would rather Giovanna, who's gentler. She thinks I am breakable. But I could kill her with my bare hands and she's not even scared. I'm scared of myself, and she's worried about my spilt ends.

Freesia somehow finds hair left on my body and begins ripping at it with sticky sheets of paper. They did it yesterday, but apparently there's some left. She then does what she calls a Brazilian, and this is horrible. Why do I need that hair gone? I think. Who's going to be looking there?

It seems my eyes are going to be permanently watering today. They rip at every hair on my body, whether they are removing or roughly brushing it.

I'm shoved into the bathroom with strict instructions of no longer than a twenty minute bath. I am just glad they don't join me, like yesterday, where they washed me down and lathered my hair, as if I am incapable of washing myself properly. "I'm sixteen!" I almost barked at them.

The shampoo smells like the orchids my mother used to put in vases around our old house, and the soap like strawberries. There is a glass bottle of something that smells like daisies, which I spray on myself. There's even apple scented moisturiser, which I'm told I must rub on. This reminds of the orchards at home.

I'm slick and hair free, smelling of a garden, looking like a plastic doll. I get out of the bathroom, and even though I didn't take more then fifteen minutes, they scold me.

I'm shoved in the chair again, and Giavona styles my hair in uniform ringlets while Freesia paints my nails and toes black.

Coal, I guess. Original.

Delcour paints my lips blood red, and this reminds me of Lili's lips yesterday. This is the point I begin to count backwards from three hundred, to stop myself from cracking and shrieking at them.

He rims my eyes with black, smokes them out, and I suddenly look like a vampire, or something else evil but alluring. The whole time they chatter loudly, filling my ears with trivial gossip about people I don't know. Freesia is the worst, squealing loudly in her annoying, sugary voice every time someone reveals something new.

They spend ages making my hair look perfect, and Delcour seems to find space for more black eyeliner. Somehow I don't look like a raccoon. My cheekbones are high, and my lips are pink and plump. Freesia puts thick black lashes on my eyes, and they become huge.

Then they leave, and I'm left sitting alone. I look wrong, sitting in my dressing gown, made up to the extreme.

Tatania sweeps in, a black gown bag and a hat box in her hands. She's silent, taking in the prep teams work, judging me. Then she fixes my chestnut hair, giving it more volume and messing it up a little.

I put the dress she's bought for me on. It's very heavy. A skirt with what seems like millions of layers, black edging bleeding into the orangey red. The top fits my curves perfectly, a tight corset with lace sleeves. My tan breasts are spilling out the top for the whole world to see. Black tights and knee high stripper boots.

I look gorgeous. Like a gothic sunflower, or a burnt out ember. My reddish brown hair suddenly has gold highlights in it, and I notice the gold dust on my eyelids.

I hate it.

I feel underdressed and overdressed at the same time. I want to wrap my arms over my chest, and rip the thick black choker off. I feel hot now, but I know when I get outside in the snow I'll be cold. Tatania finally speaks.

"It looks beautiful! Ooh, I am so happy with my work."

This is the way Tatania is. She never compliments me, just the clothes.

She pulls the right side of my hair back and clips it back with a fake black flower. It has little feathers sticking out of it. I resist the urge to rip it out and throw it on the floor in disgust.

"Mm, lovely. You're lovely." She coos to the skirt. "Now go eat something. Come back when you're done for a quick check."

I am an obedient little victor, so I walk out, my boots clunking. I feel the only thing missing from the outfit is one of my knives in my boots, but Seeder would kill me.

Speaking of Seeder, she sits at the mahogany table, not eating. When I walk in, she looks up at me.

I can't read her expression, but she doesn't look too excited. I get an urge to crawl into her lap and beg her to take us both home. She's like a second mother to me, and I know it's hurting her just as much to hear my screams of terror at night, and to watch me be turned into an icon of the Capitol's Games.

She's very patient with me today. I watch her ask me what I want for breakfast four times. It takes a while for me to process what she's saying. She gives up, and runs my speech lines back and forth to me. I've said them so many times I'm sure I'll remember it word for word ten years later.

I've been dreading this. This is only District Twelve, and the Capitol tends to dismiss it. I think it sounds better then Eleven, but the Capitol doesn't bother with it. So I can afford to stuff up here. No one will be paying a huge amount of attention.

The real reason I'm worried, though, is completely different. I'm sure I won't stuff up, because my lines are rolling off my tongue. But I want to thank the tributes from Twelve, but how can I?

Because I killed them.

A/N: Hi guys! So here's the very first chapter of my first story. (I have others, but they are collaboration work.) First of all, I want to say some things. I don't want to say too much, and this isn't completely necessary, so feel free to skip it. But I want to explain my motives for this story.

Firstly, I wanted to explore some of the characters in The Hunger Games in a little more depth. When I read stories, I tend to create characters to fit into things I find intriguing, so I can figure out what is happening behinds closed doors. You will understand what I mean a little later on.

Secondly, I wanted another perspective on what Katniss went through, at what was going on at the time. I will look behind closed doors and open them wide.

So with these things in mind, enjoy!

(I will also love you forever if you review.)