Toss. Turn. Wake up in a cold sweat. Go back to sleep. Toss. Turn. Wake up in a cold sweat. Go back to sleep.
It was an endless cycle that repeated itself.
He would bid good night to daughter and go to his room, alone since her mother had died a year ago, and then try to escape into the confines of sleep.
But that escape never came.
He would toss and turn in his sleep, reliving the moments of his Games, reliving the moments when he turned himself into a monster. He would relive the moment when he was crowned Victor and wished with all his might that he had died.
Then he would wake up in a cold sweat, his fists so tight that sometimes he drew blood, not knowing where he was. Heart pounding, shallow breathing, panicking and wondering when the next tribute would jump out for him to kill, until he would calm down.
Then he would try to get back to sleep only for the cycle to resume, hour after hour after hour. Finally it would be morning and he would get up to greet the new day.
He could never shake off the nightmares though, never get them out of his mind. They would always linger, pressing at him, taunting him, telling him this is what you've done before, this is who you are.
They were right to say that whatever doesn't kill you in reality kills you in your dreams.
He was Chaff.
And he was scared.