I killed my mother.

Though, I never really liked the word "killed." It always seemed too blunt, too direct. I never liked the things associated with killing. Weapons, accomplices, gore, mercilessness. No, "killed" isn't the right word anyway.

I murdered my mother.

And I remember everything about the day it happened. I remember that it was freezing outside (unusual for the Capitol that time of year). I remember the green dress I was wearing. I remember the red velvet chair I was sitting on, only six years old, when my mother was screaming at me. I remember the long black dress that she had been wearing… the knife in her hand…

I remember the blood. It was everywhere. I remember that not twenty seconds after it happened, my father and other government officials rushed into the room. I remember screaming. At my mother, at my father, at the world. I remember my father's eyes darting between us before he rushed to my mother, kneeling beside her, cradling her in his arms. I remember her leaning forward, whispering in his ear before she went limp. I remember my father yelling for some guards to take me away, telling them I was a soulless demon. I remember a syringe going into my arm. And I remember being manhandled as I faded out.

I remember waking up in a cold, dirty, prison cell. I remember being dragged out of the room by my left leg to a room where I was soaked in water, then electrocuted. I remember repeating this process of torture for months, before electrocution suddenly wasn't enough.

I remember the first day I was injected with tracker-jacker venom. I remember the hallucinations I had of my father, my mother, and the knife in her hand.

That was when things got blurry.

Days passed by quickly. The torture became worse, but I hardly noticed once I was back in my cell. My arms were covered in scrapes and bruises – I never left my cell without a fight – and my legs were covered in dirt and blood. After months and months of being locked up, I had lost hope. I had lost love. I had lost purpose. I had lost everything.

And there was no point to my life.

Which is why I was so surprised when I was dragged from my cell – kicking and screaming, as usual – and up a flight up stairs to an elevator. An elevator I hadn't seen since the night my mother died. I was confused beyond belief. I didn't even have time to legitimately wonder what was going on before I was practically tossed out of the elevator and into the large suite that would be my sanctuary for the next several years. There was no explanation for my sudden release from the prison.

I remember being strangely afraid of how clean everything was. The color scheme of yellows and vanillas and pinks and whites didn't help either. This wasn't the room I'd had when I was five, was it? No. Something told me that the double queen sized bed was new, along with the other furniture.

I remember taking off my dirty clothes – now mostly rags after years of abuse – at the door before I tiptoed delicately to the bathroom, where I was reintroduced to all sorts of ways to be clean. Looking in the mirror, my face was different. Obviously, it was different. I hadn't seen it in years!

My hair was long, longer than I'd thought it was. It reminded me of my mother's hair. And I hated it. I hated her. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate…

I rummaged through the cabinets and drawers until I found a pair of scissors. I gathered my hair into a loose ponytail before unceremoniously cutting it all off with one clip.

After a long shower I located a large closet with hundreds of dresses. I winced at them as I found a simple green nightgown and put it on before tentatively exploring the rest of my quarters.

There was a kitchenette – freshly stocked. There was a smaller, second bedroom, a balcony outside the main room, and a smallish television set in the main bedroom.

It was days before I had any contact with another human – if you could call Venomia a human. And even the contact I did have with others was scarce. To substitute for school, I read books. Math books, religion books (though nobody in the Capitol really acknowledged any religions unless it was a current trend), science books, psychological books, history books. Any books that I could get my hands on.

It was quite some time before I began sneaking into the prisons – enough time for my own tracker-jacker venom to disappear – to take care of the people down there.

My first friend that I made was a twenty something year-old gentleman from District 4 – Kendall - who'd been captured after walking out of the district's rebel headquarters. He was really nice, and since he wasn't really tortured very often, we were able to have real conversations without one of us having an attack. I was never exactly sure what happened to him, but after only a month of my visits, he was gone. So I could only assume he'd been, you know, killed.

The others that I cared for after Kendall were alright, but they weren't really looking for a Capitol friend like me. There were five of them – Darei, Polly, Cinna, Sawen, and Jacklan. None of them were particularly interesting, and they weren't around for long, which was just sad.

It was only one day after Jacklan 'disappeared' that the Quarter Quell ended. And by ended, I mean that the force field was shattered and a hovercraft swooped down and grabbed several the remaining victors. My heart was pounding, and I couldn't quite figure out why. That is, until I saw Peeta Mellark being taken up into a separate, Capitol, hovercraft.

He was one of the few tributes from last year's Games that I actually took some interest in along with a boy named Cato and a little girl named Rue. This year, though, my focus was on Finnick Odair and Katniss Everdeen. Well, my focus was on them for what little snippets I watched of the Quell, since I'd spent most of it in the guest bedroom which had become my art studio, working on a collage of pictures from my dreadfully boring District 4 trip. But I guess that I was lucky to go and get out of my house and its memories. Nonetheless, the trip was boring and Venomia's rudeness towards the locals made me sick.

The day after the Quell ended, I got sick. Like, really sick. I was so busy being sick, in fact, I had no idea how long it had been since I'd felt perfectly healthy. Eventually though, I got better, and was able to go down to the prison, where I was absolutely sure Peeta Mellark was.

And from the moment I saw him, I knew that he was different. From the start, it hadn't really mattered if he wanted me around or not – though he seemed to – because Peeta was important. And it didn't matter if we became friends or not, I just knew I had to keep him alive. If not for him, then for Katniss Everdeen.

"Peeta," I had whispered that first night. The rest of that week went by in a bit of a blur, though it hadn't seemed so at the time. And then I was stabbed with a syringe and dragged from the cell. As of now, it seems sort of symbolic, but really, it was just painful and a bit humiliating.

"Summer."

My eyes snap open at the sound of Peeta's voice, only to be shut immediately because of the bright sun pouring in through the window. I groan as a bolt of pain runs through my head.

"What's going on?" I whisper, covering my face with my hands.

"Is she awake?" I hear Haymitch call from somewhere downstairs.

"I've got it!" Peeta yells back. I flinch at the loud sound. Are my ears ringing? I can't tell, but my head feels heavy, and I feel a bit nauseous.

"Wh- what happened?" I ask, trying to get my blurry vision to focus on Peeta to no avail.

"You know, when you first got here, I thought I'd walked in on you having what was a normal attack for you," he says simply, dabbing a damp cloth on my forehead. "But then last night happened, and you proved me wrong."

I groan. "What did I do?"

"You didn't hurt anyone," Peeta assures me quickly. "Well, actually, um."

"What?" I ask, suddenly worried. Did I hurt Katniss? Haymitch? Peeta? How badly?

Silently, he holds up a handheld mirror to my face. In shock, my hand flies to the scratch marks on my face without my brain's permission. They're everywhere. The long scar that's been there for years looks almost completely faded next to the red and puffy lines that cover my face.

We both sit there quietly while I glare at my reflection for a minute before there's a knock on the door.

"Peeta, Portia is on the phone for you," Katniss calls through the door. I wonder briefly who Portia is, but don't think much of it.

"I'll be right down. Can you come watch Summer?" he says back.

I begin to protest immediately. I don't need a supervisor or a nurse or something. I'm the same person I was…

"How long was I out?" I ask quickly.

"You've been out for about sixteen hours, I think," he replies as Katniss takes his place on the side of the bed awkwardly.

Right. I'm the same person I was seventeen hours ago. I do not need a bodyguard while I am in bed, for goodness sakes!

So instead of apologizing to Katniss for last night which I am sure was completely inappropriate behavior, I just sit there and glower at the mirror some more while she picks at her fingernails. The difference between our obvious discomforts is that she's most likely contemplating the meaning of life in her head while I'm making a fuss over my face in mine.

Now, I've never really been a person who stresses over how they look, but knowing that I did this to myself, (whether it was out of anger, frustration, etc.) just makes me feel… uglier, dirtier. If someone else had done this, I would run around in the District's town and try to look intimidating. But because I did it, all I felt was corrupted.

We sit there for what might be hours (long enough for the sun to set) without saying a word to each other. I'm not particularly sure why, but I guess that it has something to do with whatever I did last night. After a long time, my stomach growls, breaking the silence.

"I'll go get you something to eat," Katniss announces, jumping up. I smile.

"Thank you," I reply quickly. When she's gone, I breathe a sigh of relief before closing my eyes.

I must've fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes, Peeta is sitting on my bed once again, giving me a sad smile, the rising sun behind him.

"Where's Katniss?" I ask sleepily.

"She's not feeling well, stomach virus or something. Fell asleep on the couch," he replies, his face dropping.

"I'm sorry," I say, closing my eyes again, my head still on the pillow. "Why am I so tired?"

"Just a side effect of punching a hole in the wall," I hear him laugh. My eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"I've never done that before," I admit quietly. "I've never hurt anyone or anything else." He doesn't say anything, but he takes my hand gingerly. "Katniss didn't by any chance mention food, did she?"

"She did," Peeta says, his face lighting up. He stands up and grabs a tray from the dresser across the room. "She didn't have much in her kitchen, and I didn't know when you'd wake up so, so I just made you some beef stew."

"Thank you," I smile at him. It's a genuine smile. And I think he notices because he returns it as he places the tray on my lap. "So who was that on the phone?"

"Portia," he answers as I take a huge spoonful of the hot soup. "She was my stylist for both Games."

"What'd she want?" I ask. After sitting in a room with Katniss for a few awkward hours, I'm suddenly very aware of how easy it is for me to talk to Peeta. The pauses in conversation aren't awkward, neither of us is afraid to make jokes at the other's expense, and we've both probably seen each other at our worst. I say "probably" because I'm not sure what happened last night, and I don't particularly want to find out.

"Actually, she was calling me back," he replies. "I contacted her assistant last week about some dresses."

I give him a look that says "Got something to tell me, Peeta?" He laughs.

"Not for me," he explains. "They're for you. Spring starts in two weeks and the twenty-third is the Spring Festival, so you'll need some new clothes."

"The what?" I ask through a mouthful of bread.

"The Spring Festival," he repeats, smiling. "District 12 does it every year. There's a bonfire, music, dancing… me…" he adds quietly, shooting me a pleading look with his bottom lip jutted out. I roll my eyes.

"How're you gonna get the others to come?"

"With my charm and good looks," he answers, flashing a bright smile. I giggle. "Katniss is going anyway, she does every year. And five years ago, they started serving alcohol in honor of Haymitch, so he won't miss it either."

"And why would I go?" I ask, smirking.

"Because I asked you to," Peeta replies hopefully. I bite my lip, taking the tray off my lap and setting it on the floor opposite of Peeta.

"I don't know, Peeta," I say seriously.

"Come on," he pleads, taking my hand again. "You don't even have to dance or anything. Just come." I look at him hesitantly. "Please? I already have Portia making a dress for you and everything."

I close my eyes. "Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?" I say. He grins.

"You won't, I swear. You'll love it," he promises. I can't help but laugh at the excited twinkle in his eye.

"What?"

"You're just so… different," I say as I stare at him, still beaming. "I mean… from how you were when we first met."

"You haven't changed a bit… besides the wall-punching part," he teases. I frown.

"Peeta, I think I'm ready to tell you," I whisper, looking at his hand, still holding mine. His breath hitches.

"You don't have to-" he begins, instantly understanding.

"No, I do," I interrupt, shaking my head. "But… please don't tell anyone, Peeta. It's… kind of a big deal." He nods, his eyebrows scrunching up.

"This won't change anything, Summer," he vows. I close my eyes. This is it, isn't it? I can't do this. Maybe I should just lie. Maybe I should pretend to throw up or something. Maybe I'll get lucky and any second now, Haymitch will wobble in here drunkenly.

After several moments of silence, I realize that none of these options are reliable. So I open my mouth and speak, preparing for the worst:

"I'm the daughter of Coriolanus Snow."

Holy shizballs. Who saw that one coming? *stares at mszcheeky* Who wants to try and explain THIS CHAPTER? hahaha. Also, can anyone spot the semi-important tie-in with Mockingjay? Yeaaah. I'm clever.

PLEASE REVIEW!