The rack of clothes stand before me, gleaming from inside their garment bags, that new clothes smell I'd never really experienced before last year wafting into my nose. Snow has decided to make a production out of this, I see.
The rack in my new apartment, so generously provided by Snow for when I am here on business, is filled with clothes.

It seems I am to dress myself from now on.

Most of them are disgusting. Corsets and fishnet tights, tall leather boots and thick black chokers. There is even a schoolgirl outfit to fulfil some man's sick, dirty fantasy.

Ugly.

Then there's gowns for when a man has paid extra, and I have to be his trophy for the night.
They each have a date on them so I know exactly what to wear and when. And there is a black appointment book on the table next to the rack, filled with already booked requests.

I am popular.

The thought seems to enter my head before I can stop it and I bite my lip. But it doesn't stop the tears.

"Argh!"

I kick the rack almost subconsciously, the shiny silver metal colliding with the gleaming mahogany floor with a sharp clang. I stare at it for a second, then storm off, my obnoxiously high heels clicking loudly on the floor.

Why me?

My fists seem to clench up on their own, and as soon as I reach the bathroom, I sink in a crouch, my head resting on my tight fists. I burst into angry, hot tears that roll down my warm, flushed cheeks.

I didn't chose to be pretty.

I don't want to do this. I don't want to be some fat and ugly man's date. I don't want to lose my virginity to a guy who paid for my services. I don't want to have services.
I don't want him to be attracted to me. I'm not his to be attracted to.

I don't want to be pretty.

"I don't want to do it." I whisper, my lip wobbling. I can see my face in the mirror, puffy and red. My breath is ragged, coming out in short, hot breaths that tumble over my honey coloured chin. I scowl in disgust at my reflection.

I'm not even pretty.

Then, in a swift burst of adrenaline, I grab the shower head off the holder and smash it into the mirror.

I hate you.

Shards of glass fly everywhere. They hit me, creating thin scratches that make me hiss in momentary pain, but I just close my eyes and keep slamming the shower head into the mirror. My chest shakes with sobs, and as I bring the shower head down, I cry and scream at the same time, making incoherent noises as I grunt in rage. I can't stand look at my sorry excuse for a person any more.

I really fucking hate you.

"I don't want to do it!" I scream, sobbing harder. The reflection of myself is etched in my brain. My eyes aren't that pretty bright green anymore, they're black. Not the type of black the night sky is, or the type of black a can of black paint is. The type of black that remains after all the life has been sucked out of something. Soulless black.

I really fucking hate you, Laurel.

"Laurel! Stop! Stop!" A voice screams. I know who it is without looking. Giovanna.

I don't. I just slam it down, again and again. A vicious snarl erupts from the depths of my throat, a noise I didn't know I could make.

"Please! Laurel! STOP!"

I sob harder. I can't move my arms anymore because I'm crying too hard, my chest burning as the sobs rattle my ribcage. My heart aches in pain.

"I DON'T WANT TO DO IT!" I shriek. I lower my arms, the shower head sliding out of my suddenly weak hands. It lands with a clunk, the pristine white tiles cracking up the middle.

Like the cracks in my heart.

She steps forward, her hands in front of her.

"NO! Don't.. Don't touch me." I pant. "I'm bad. I haven't even done it yet and I'm bad. I'm dirty. I haven't done anything and I'm dirty. Because I agreed to do it. I agreed to have sex with some random man! He fucking paid for me, for me to make love to man I don't love. I don't want to do that!"
I step closer to her, putting my mouth right next to her ear.
"But it's a question. Who do I love more, myself or my family? Do I do it for them? Do I? Do I say no, and be clean? And be pure and good, but with them all dead? Either I'm fucked, or they're fucked." I drag my nail down her face, a tiny waterfall of salt running down my right cheek. "Who shall I chose?" I say in a singsong voice. "I think I'm fucked anyway." I muse. "I think I'm crazy." I say calmly. "But no one notices. To busy dressing me up, making me look pretty. But I'm crazy, I think." My voice has raised an octave in my moment of revelations.

I'm crazy.

I shove her out of the way, her head falling back and thumping on the wooden door.

And I hate myself.

I laugh as I stalk out of the bathroom, throwing my head back and raising my arms. "Well, maybe I am a selfish bitch after all! Wouldn't that be nice?" I say bitterly. Because there's a bitter seed in my stomach, and the tree's growing too fast for me to get it out.

Fuck.

"Laurel? If you come back, I'll fix your scratches." She whispers, her voice trembling.

Fuck shit fuck.

I turn, my eyes filled with spite. "Get the hell out of my apartment." I tell her calmly.

Don't listen to me.

"Laur-"

Please stay.

"What did I say? Get the FUCK OUT!"

No, don't go.

She runs out, the door slamming behind her. And I punch the wall, plaster crunching as my knuckles connect with the grey wall.

Please come back.


There is a liquor store three doors down from my house. I saw it when I got here and now I'm utilising it.

I go in and lean on the counter. I'm careful with my hand. It's throbbing and swollen, tiny blots of dried blood on the high points of my knuckles, then crusted in a river running down the hollows between the bone.
But he doesn't notice this. The man, who's bright yellow, can't stop looking at my chest.

My eyes are up here, pervert.

"So..." I trace my finger down the counter. "I would like to know, what is the strongest drink you have in here?"

Don't sell it to me.

"Erm.." He doesn't move his eyes. For the first time, I'm glad.
I forgot my purse.

Liar. I'm not glad at all.

"This one." He says, pointing to the fridge full of bright pink bottles. It looks like the bath slime.

"Delicious." I say. "Oh god." I moan. "I loveeee that one."

He grins. His teeth are orange. Ew.

Save me. I'm crazy.

"Well, I do recommend it." He leans over, mirroring my stance.

God. You wish.

I giggle at my thoughts. Oh Laurel, I think, you're so funny! I laugh hysterically. He frowns a little.

Told you. I'm out of my mind.

"Right." I say, putting my finger to my lips. "You see, it's a little out of my price range."

"You're a victor." He states plainly.

No shit.

"I know." I giggle again, but this time, it's sexy.

I think it is, anyway.

"But I kinda, ya know, forgot my money.." I hoist myself up onto the counter, twisting around so I'm on his side of the counter.

"You can't be back here, honey." He says reluctantly. He's looking a little lower then my chest now.

"Are you sure? You don't sound very certain." I drag a finger down his chest.

Laurel, stop.

"I'm su-sure. You can't be he-here, on this side." He stutters.

I snort. "Course not. But who are you going to tell?"

Stop touching him!

"Uh-" But he's cut off when I put my hand over his mouth. I wrap my legs around his waist.

Oh my god, what am I doing?

"Look, I want that." I say, pointing at the pink drink. "But I'm just so, so poor right now. I need a favour." I whine.

"Of course." He exclaims, rushing to the fridge.

And it's like taking candy from a baby. When I walk out a minute later, I'm three bottles richer in alcohol.

Oh no.

And half an hour later and two bottles are gone. I'm filled up with candy pink liquid and it burns my stomach from inside out.
I feel all bubbly. Like I could fly. And the voice in my head has stopped talking. Maybe I drowned her.

There's a knock at the door. My head rolls back against wall.

"Reveal yourselffff!" I slur, giggling.

The door opens quietly. I reach into the drawer and pull out my knife. There's light footsteps, then a brunette head peers around the door.

"Laurel?" Giovanna says.

"I'm over 'ere." I say, holding the knife up.

"I see you." She crosses the carpet, kneeling down and prising the knife from my fingers. "Let's put this back." She puts the knife into the drawer.

"Why are you being nice to me. I'm just a horrible, horrible person."

She clucks her tongue at me. "No. You're not. You are just a little..sad right now. And that's okay. Things happen sometimes and they aren't nice. And sometimes that person doesn't know how to deal with that. Because it is a completely new experience for them, and they don't have, let's say weapons, to deal with that fight."

"But I can make weapons." I say defiantly, bringing the bottle back up to my lips.

She grabs it. "Well then, make a weapon. How much of this have you had?"

"Thatss the third bottle." I slur sheepishly.

"No more. You have stuff to do tonight. I came over to help you get ready. Maybe I will give you a French tip."

"Ohh yes pleasseeee!" I grab her, giving her a big hug.

Then I throw up all over her.

And this is the last thing I remember.


When I wake, I'm in bed. Naked. My head is pounding and my eyes are sticky. Everything is still foggy and a little bit shiny, but I'm not giggling anymore.

There is a man next to me. He's about fifty. He's naked too.

Well, it seems I got to my job alright. It seems I did the job too.

I can feel tears prickling in the corners of my eyes. But I'm sick of crying. So I slide out of bed, my head throbbing with every movement. I slip on the dress I must have worn, a sparkly emerald green number, and disregard the disgusting red and black tights and corset lying innocently on the white carpet.

I leave it sitting in the pile, then bolt to the door. But I don't make it the whole way. I vomit all over the carpet, retching over and over again. The man doesn't wake, so I just slip out, after taking the three full bottle of wine from his table.

I'm a mess. My face in dry and scratchy, with thick lines of makeup running down it. I have bits of vomit on my dress and face. My hair takes me at least an hour to brush out, so when I'm done, I just tie it into a braid. My face is smudged with lipstick, and one false eyelash is falling off. I check my reflection in the mirror in 'my' room, then take it down and turn it around. I can't look at myself. I can't remember when it got so hard, but all of a sudden, it hurts to see my reflection.

I braid my hair, shower, then clean off my makeup. I don't feel like crying anymore. I shower again. Brush my teeth twice, then wash my hands three times with massive pumps of the neon orange soap.
Then I shower again. I eat some lunch, which is delivered at twelve thirty. I shower again. I feel so dirty. Like I'm covered in mud and it won't come off. I start on the bottles I stole. Shower. Clean up the shards from yesterday. Shower.

By the time it's six o clock, I'm piss drunk, have showered fourteen times and my teeth are minty fresh. You can't even smell the alcohol. I dress for my date tonight, then drink faster while I wait for my ride. I can't remember any of this, I just can't bear to. And I don't.


FEBRUARY


MARCH


But alcohol doesn't black everything out. When I wake up in the morning, I have dirty little memories of what I did the night before, blurry images of horrible things.

I'm a little whore.

And they like it.


A/N: I am guessing the schedule of the Games and following, but in Catching Fire Katniss stated that the victory tour was six months after the Games, and since it was snowing in twelve, I'm guessing it happen around late November, early December? I'm not too familiar with America's weather patterns, since in Australia, it's summer in December.

But any way, that makes the Games in early June, and depending on how long it lasts is when they leave for the tour.

Then Laurel has a month at home (January), then three months in the Capitol (Feb-Apr),

Then another rest month (May).

Then June; Hunger Games!

So there you go. A little outline of the story. Now you kinda know whats going to happen next!

Thanks to my beautiful beta, thir13enth, who helped me make this chapter better, and for letting me know where my major flaws are so i can fix them. ilysm! :)

Love you all! Read, enjoy and review!