You swallow around the lump in your throat and blink hard several times over to keep the watery sting at bay. It wasn't supposed to be this hard. You went in, did whatever you had to do to get to the other side, and that was that. It was over, done with, you won. And maybe you were – maybe you still are – naïve, but you never could have imagined winning would feel like this. This was not what you thought being a Victor would be like, feel like.
They never mentioned the guilt so palpable it was suffocating, or the anger so hot it could burn. They said nothing about the sadness, the hopelessness, the agony, the crushing conflict of emotions that are so intense they're damn close to crippling.
But then, even if they had warned you, you're not so sure you'd have believed them. Why would you? The Victors you've seen look alright, not broken and not damaged. Some of them don't smile and some of them do. They're human, normal, everything that you're no longer sure you can claim to be. Are you the only one who feels – who felt – like this, or did they go through it too?
"Frowning leads to premature wrinkles and will most definitely ruin that foundation of make-up our little prep team got ready for us."
The voice, the words, come as such a surprise that you flinch. Your stylist smiles, soft and sympathetic and kind and not at all like you're a head-case, and slowly brings a hand up to smooth some of your hair into place. You like your stylist, sort of, from the first time you met them. They were kind of weird, but nice too, and even if you'd never admit it – they were what you needed when you got here. Though you could happily have done without playing dress up.
"Come now, we've work to do and no time to spare. Your mentor prepared you for the ceremony, yes? Explained what would happen and when?"
Sort of, you think as you follow along like a timid puppy, tail between your legs. Your stylist starts talking a mile a minute to fill the silence and you let them, suddenly eager to remember what your escort told you was required of you tonight. Your mentor had nodded along, a distant look in their eyes that you're sure was a warning, but they hadn't actually said anything. Not that you wanted them to. You'd just wanted to be alone in your sterile little bubble, your too-white-too-bright hospital room.
Turning your mind to the task you're being dressed for, you remember that your escort said – stressed – to smile. You have to look happy, or as close to it as you can get. You must be friendly and approachable. Smiles all around, waves now and again – you're a Victor now. A celebrity in the Capitol, a hero in your District, a murderer of children.
Scratch that. True or not, your escort might just kill you if you slip up and mention that. Better not to even think it.
"If you don't stop frowning, I promise I will glue your face so you can't make any expression whatsoever, and don't believe I won't."
You offer a sheepish smile, nod you head, and try not to shy away as they toy with the base layers of make-up your prep team laid down. Pencil near the eyes with a tip sharpened to needlepoint, a brush over your lashes that's heavily scented, strong and almost alcoholic which has your eyes tingling with the hint of salt-water, and then your lips are sticky and there's glitter on your cheekbones.
"Glitter?" You ask.
They smile. "Just trust me." And you do, glitter be damned.
x x x
You can feel their eyes on you, undressing you, waiting to see how you respond to this next part of their parade. You're glad your stylist didn't send you out in more skin than clothing because you already feel too exposed, like a bug under a microscope, and your skin feels like its crawling – and all of that is with a decent amount of material protection. You can barely imagine how some of the barely covered Victors made it through their crowning...
Placing that carefully constructed smile on your face that your escort had you practice, you rise at the call of your name and sweep down the hallway toward the black portal leading to your throne. Head up and shoulders back, you imagine your escort telling you, sugar and spice and all things nice – and that does make your smile a little more real even if it is for only a heartbeat.
You move confidently through the doorway, that blacked out portal, and its like you've stepped off the platform too soon. A roar of sound erupts as the stage is flooded with light and you almost find yourself in close acquaintance with the floor. You can barely see, your ears are ringing, its almost impossible to believe that you are alive, that you did win the Games because right now, you're pretty damn sure there's a tribute waiting to knife you when you close your eyes.
Over the chaos that simmers around you and the madness inside your own head, you hear the too-familiar voice of the Games host, his microphone clearly jacked up a notch to be heard, call your name. You head toward them, slowly, doing your best to ignore the massive screens marking your progress across the stage only to catch your own eye as you shake the host's hands and sink into the luxuriously padded, straight-backed chair that feels more like a punishment than a victory.
Even with all the time your prep team, your stylist, put into your make-up you look a few shades too pale, your eyes shadowy with sleepless bruising. You can't really decide whether you look like an animal that's finally spotted the hunter it's certain has been following it or if you look starstruck by the Capitol and hope, to anything and everything and that God who may or may not actually exist, that they all think its the latter. You look quickly away from the screen zoomed in on your face, before you can further work yourself up, and paste that smile back into place. You make a mental note to ask your stylist whether maybe they can glue one in place before fixing your attention fully on the host as they begin to talk.
It's simple banter for the first few minutes. Harmless nonsense, really, that you find yourself falling into without an issue. You almost forget why you're here. There's no mention of the Games, not really, just about your home and what you're going to do with all your newly discovered free time and okay, maybe that part is because of the Games, but that's not so bad. You've got a nice, new home waiting for you – Capitol created so its bound to be something else – and well, its your District. Even if your death meant your District partner's, it's still home and you are looking forward to being home. Everything is familiar there – and there's no hoops to jump through.
"And now, what everyone has been waiting for – a recap of this year's Games!"
You can feel your smile as it slips away, your stomach growing tight and bile gnawing at your throat. You forgot about this part and you have no idea how you did. They do this every single year. The Victor watches what the Capitol, the Gamemakers, deem the highlights of their Games while everyone else looks on – alternating between watching the recap and watching their new Victor. You have to relive it. Every single moment. Every last breath, every heartbeat, every death and near-death and injury. You have to sit there, remembering that your victory meant the deaths of twenty-three other children.
And you do watch. You can't help it. You want to look away, you want to shout and scream and demand they change the God-damn channel, but you watch. Every moment, in high-definition, and its worse. Even the parts you lived through are worse. You get to see every mistake you made – or maybe every right choice – and wonder what you could have done different. And then it's over and people are clapping, cheering, and you're still stuck in the horror that was your Games as someone – and damn it, you're not even ashamed by flinching this time around – places a crown on your head.
"And there you have it – our Victor for the thirty-third Hunger Games!"
Author's Note: I'm a dork, definitely - I didn't even think about a prologue until someone messaged me. So, thank you for that, and many apologies for not realising people would want one. Now, before anyone asks, I don't plan on using the second-person POV for the actual story (though, that might actually be kind of fun), it was just something I wanted to trial as a writing exercise. If you spot any errors/typos, please, point them out. I seriously appreciate any editing advice - I'm a terrible self-editor. Thank you for reading this. | Edit: And please, feel free to deliver a tribute in any way, though a PM is probably the easiest.