A/N - Unbetaed. So, you can only flame me if it sucks. And, I'm so POed that you can't adjust the font size on .

When the Monsters Get You

.:a one-shot about the nightmares that never leave:.

Panem's biggest secret? No matter what you do or who you are, you can never, ever win.

Whether you're a Victor or another kid from another family that struggles to feed all the hungry mouths, nothing you do will ever matter; because no matter what it is that you decide to do, the actions and roads you take, you won't win.

What's that you say – you're off your rocker : take your meds : stupid drunk : you have no idea what you're talking about : it's not true : go away…

But, deep down, you know I'm right. You know I'm right because I only stand here to affirm what you already know – you lose. In the end, you always lose.

They all say that it must be a lie; after all, look at me. But, they only see the façade. They only see what the Capitol wants them to see – what I want them to see.

A shining, radiant, strong, beautiful person. A Victor.

Lies.

For, on the inside, I'm the most hideous thing you've ever laid eyes on. Hidden parasites suck the life out of me. I'm ridden with holes – teeming with vermin, ghosts, demons, and nightmares – no more than a rotting corpse – a mere fraction of what I used to be.

Defective.

Broken.

And the pain – the pain is unspeakable. Throbbing and unbearable, tearing me apart and wearing me down until there's nothing left. Shredding my soul. Wounding my faith. Incapacitating my ability to do even the simplest of human actions. Pain is my constant companion.

The guilt, too – the mind-numbing, heart-wrenching, insanity-provoking, innocence-stealing guilt that has brought me to my knees time and time again. Not the pain or nightmares – not the sickening displays of celebration at your gory victory – but the guilt. The guilt is what makes it impossible to win in this life. The ghosts and demons that haunt you night and day, serving as a constant reminder. Mocking you. Telling you that you don't deserve to live.

The ghosts are the only ones who know how to tell the truth.

The guilt is all-consuming. It's the ultimate example of how pathetic and incapable we are. For, if they are given to me and they die, I must face the ones they loved. And their ghosts. The living stare and sob, their eyes shooting silent accusations.

If they live, it's worse. Because, in the beginning, you think it's going to be okay. They won – they will live – no more guilt. Instead, the guilt comes ten-fold. Because you realize what you've done. Corrupted them – robbed them – you killed them. The innocent them. The child they were has been replaced by a monster of your making.

Then there's the families. Jubilation changes to hurt and pain as they see that their loved one will never come back. And it's still your fault. Their faces haunt you, taunting you. Letting you know that you still have not won.

I want to curl up and die.

They used to give us advice when I was young. Words of wisdom, precautionary tales. Things that were supposed to help us. The one that sticks out is, "Death is when the monsters get you." It was a precautionary tale, a warning against running into the woods, since that's where we thought monsters live. They don't, though. Monsters reside in the hollows of your chest, the dark places in your mind, the holes in your heart - deep inside you.

If this saying was true, I'd be dead. I wish I was dead. I wish I'd died 100 years ago, when it feels like this began. I wish I had died in those wretched Games. Then, I wouldn't be like this. I'd still have lost, but I wouldn't have to see the monsters every day.

If death's when the monsters get you, I'm six-feet under in a cemetery.

I'm not, though. Because no matter what, I can't win. You can never win.