I had originally planned for this to be a one-shot from Mrs. Everdeen's POV, but I've decided to add this on as a separate but similar one-shot. Takes place during the 74th Hunger Games. Thanks for reading!

I can't decide what's worse – knowing that she may die, or knowing that, if she survives, who she will become.

Prim is very encouraging. Every day she reminds me how strong Katniss is, how brave she is, how smart she is, how she's such a skilled hunter. She brushes my hair and coos calming, soft words; but it only soothes half of me. I nod my head appreciatively and give her my best attempt at a smile. The other half of me wallows in fear and self-loathing until I can't remember where I am or why I'm here.

Whenever Prim finds me like this – curled in my rocking chair with my knees to my chest, my face buried in my hands – I know how weak I am. My child coaxes me over to my bed, where I fall asleep to her reassuring voice. "She's coming home. She'll be here soon." She hums a lullaby and I succumb to sleep.

She's scared for me, though she tries to hide it. She thinks I don't notice the flash of shock in her eyes every time she finds me standing alone, staring out the window. Or at the ground. It doesn't matter; I see the same things everywhere. Mostly coal and dust, and silent, helpless mockingjays. And Katniss. She's always at the forefront of my nightmares.

The first time I saw her, really saw her on the television, I laughed. She was twirling for Caesar Flickerman. It was beautiful…the dress, her makeup, most of all her smile. But it wasn't her.

This wasn't the stubborn child who'd kicked me so hard from inside my womb that I was put on bed rest for the last three months of my pregnancy. This wasn't my daughter whom I'd raised from infancy…that is, of course, until we switched roles…and she became my caretaker. I stop laughing when I remember that.

Prim looks at me like I've gone completely mad, then realizes her mistake and fixes her face into a tranquil smile and turns off the TV, telling me to, "head on to bed. It's getting late." She thinks I can't function on my own, so I oblige to prove her wrong, letting her tuck me in and sing me to sleep until I am brave enough to allow myself to relax.

When I'm feeling especially rebellious, I cook. Nothing fancy, just enough to show Prim that I can handle myself. She always finds a way to downgrade my actions, though – mopping up my spilled juice, reminding me which drawer the utensils are kept in. It doesn't make me mad, not at all. My sweet Prim is the only one who has never left me.

It makes me sad. It makes me dependent.

"She's coming home soon," she reminds me when I have my bouts of relapse. This only confuses me. Is there any good possible outcome of this? Is there any type of life that would be worth living after her return? Maybe she won't return, I reassure myself. This realization only causes the nausea to roll back in.

I feel like I'm being force fed by the Capitol. I picture someone taping back my eyelids, making my witness my child's slow and tragic end. In reality, they are. There is no escape from watching her unjust, untimely demise.

Only in my dreams, which consist of nothing, do I escape. I don't mean I don't have dreams - I can't sleep without them. But in them, there is nothing. No sound, no light, no senses, apart from touch. I can feel my hands clasp together in my lap as I sit on the ground. It's comforting.

Prim updates me on how many tributes are left, one thing I don't need her to tell me, since I see it on the TV myself, but I let her. I think she's concluded that I don't really see any of the games when I watch it. But I see everything. And I mean everything.

I see what Katniss doesn't. That her "star crossed lover" isn't pretending, that the other tributes are afraid of her, that she really does have a chance.

I still don't know how to feel about this. Again, I am split down the middle. Half of me cheers for her with all the strength my vocal chords contain.

Half of me wishes she would hurry up and get it over with, so I don't have to watch anymore, so she doesn't come back broken. Different. I think that would be the end for me.

I am a hopeless cause. I am heartless. I am a mother forced to wish for a quick death to end her child's life.

"She'll be home soon," Prim reminds me. I nod, torn between smiling and crying.

Oh my goodness, I almost can't stand how depressing this is, but then again, what else have we ever seen from Mrs. Everdeen? At least up until this point, nothing but sad melodrama.

Anyway, this is probably the last of the Mrs. Everdeen ramblings I will write. I think I'd like to try something happy, so look for a new story from me soon. I promise it will not be horribly sad like this!