The Capitol didn't let their pets go easily. She knew that. They took other things instead, like her family and her friends, until she'd learnt that being on her own was the only way to keep the pain away. She didn't care.
(She couldn't care, because then she had a liability, one that was quickly eliminated by the Capitol.)
She'd had proof of her insanity. Because sane people didn't want to die, not like she had. She hadn't cared how she would die, if it was painful or quick, whose hands she died at. She'd just wanted to be dead.
Because then she wouldn't have to deal with this anymore, this pain, this agony. She wasn't the Girl on Fire, but she was being burnt by her flames, destroyed by it. The flames licked at her, caressing her skin, and she enjoyed it. It didn't hurt, not at all.
She couldn't feel pain anymore. (Yes she could, it hurt every time someone tried to get close and she pushed them away, until they stopped trying in the first place.)
But still, she'd do as she was supposed to. She'd fight for her District and show them who was the best, even though they weren't. And then she would let herself be killed, either by Cato or the Girl on Fire, and put up a convincing fight.
One just enough for others not to pay the price even after she was dead.
And then she would be dead, dead at last. And maybe she'd take the fire girl down with her.