Okay, so I wrote this a few years back and I just recently decided to share it. My writing has improved since then, (thankfully)
So don't get overly annoyed by spelling mistakes or whatever.
This story was completely thought up by me, but I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES or anything related.

Thank you! -Fubukikou135


Chapter One

When I wake up from a nightmare in which two of my children are forced to compete in the vicious hunger games, I open my eyes with quickly in terror. It takes me a few moments to realize that not only do I not have children and never intend to, but also that the hunger games are over and will never take place again. Moonlight streams in from the open window, and brings in a cool summer breeze. Alma Coin, the former president of Panem, the capitol, is dead. In fact, I killed her for destroying my sister, Prim. President Snow is also dead, and the arenas are destroyed, so I needn't worry about any more hunger games.

I must remind myself of all this before I can relax again. My husband, Peeta's, arms are wrapped around me to keep away nightmares, but this one seems to have slipped in. I adjust myself into a more comfortable position in bed, and slowly look around the room. This house, the one in the Victors' Village, used to house my mother and Prim until President Snow obliterated District 12. My eyes rest upon an old worn book sitting on a shelf across the room. Suddenly, I know what I have to do.

I gently slip away from Peeta, who is still asleep, and slowly walk towards the book. My hands find the battered crimson cover and brush their fingertips over the slightly torn edges. The book I wasn't supposed to look at when I was little is now resting in my hands.

I vaguely remember as a child after my father died and my mother was in her zombie like depression where she shut out the rest of the world, finding this book sitting amongst my father's possessions and snatching it up. My mother suddenly shrieked for me to put the book down, which startled me because she hadn't spoken for quite a long time. I immediately dropped the tattered book to the floor, and backed away from it. My mother grasped my wrists and told me never to open that book, that the things inside would change the way I think and I would never be the same again. I had pulled away from my mother's iron grip and ran as far away as possible. Since then, I hadn't really paid much attention to the book and it's old, well read pages. Until now.

Pulling on my father's old leather jacket and hunting boots over my sleeveless nightshirt and thin pants, I set off into the crisp night air, quietly shutting the door behind me so as to not wake Peeta. I know exactly where I am going as I walk along the path in Victors' Village, my boots making barely audible thuds against the dirt.

When I arrive at Haymitch Abernathy's house, I open the door without knocking. Haymitch is sitting at the table in his house, surprisingly not holding a wine bottle. He is staring forward as if he is remembering something, and I pull up a chair and sit across from him, setting the book on the table.

I slide the book towards my old hunger games mentor and say, "Tell me about my father."

A smile creeps onto Haymitch's lips, "I knew you'd ask sooner or later. You couldn't stand to not know forever."

One of the things my mother never spoke of was my father. Whenever Prim or I tried to get information about him, she would act as if she didn't hear us.

"Yes," I agree, "How well did you know him?"

"About as well as you knew your sister," Haymitch says quickly. He knows not to linger on the subject of Prim, "But of course everyone tried to shove all extra information about him down the drain."

"Well now I want you to tell me about him," I say.

"Ah, Leon Everdeen, where to begin," Haymitch says thoughtfully.

I open to the first page of the book sitting in front of us, "How about you begin here."

"All right," Haymitch says quietly, "This all happened two years after I was crowned victor of the 50th hunger games. My family was still alive at this time, and your father was 16, just like you were at your first hunger games."

"My father was never in the hunger games," I narrow my eyes.

"See how much they have taught you?" Haymitch raises his arms in the air in a sign of defeat.

"You mean-" I begin.

"Yes," Haymitch nods, "Now let's begin at the start of his diary, where he wrote all about his hunger games."