Check out my one shot The Hunter's Mind!

Also, I've been chosen for an amazing opportunity. A Hunger Games fanfiction from 24 perspectives-24 Authors, 24 Tributes, 24th Hunger Games. I'll be representing District 7 Male-Aspen Chekhov. Stay tuned for more details soon! The life of my tribute MAY depend on YOU!

Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead.
Joss Whedon quotes

I am happy.

Every morning, I wake up in Ivan's arms awoken by his hot breath. I can't get enough of him, I can't drink him in enough. There is not enough of Ivan for me at all because I love him so completely. For the first time ever, things are okay. Is this what it feels like to have a normal life?

Maybe it is. But I try not to dwell on it too much, because I'm too busy being happy. Our relationship has changed—well really all my relationships have changed. I'm not hate or despised in town, people don't talk to me, seek me out or worship me—they just know that I'm the victor. I have some sort of power that even they didn't realize I had. It doesn't hurt that they know I have a weakness for trinkets—or well a supposed weakness. I try to buy them from talented but poor families, because it's my duty as a Victor. It's what Blight should have been doing all these years. Never mind the fact that I would never have done this if I wasn't so perfectly happy with Ivan though I do my best to show I'm not mushy at all.

I walk home from the bakery, and drop a bag of coins after I see a little boy looking dejected and skin and bones. He'll pick it up as soon as I leave, I mean it's fair game if I drop it like that. But I haven't walked a dozen more steps when I feel him tugging on my hand. "Ms. Mason?"

I glare back at him, "What?"

"You dropped this?" He holds the bag out to me.

Stupid little kid. It's all well to do that, I mean it's even polite. But we don't have time to be polite like that here. "Get your filthy hands off me kid, that's not mine." I pull away.

"No, I saw you drop it," he insists.

I turn back and glare at him, "I told you it's not mine. If you know what's good for you, you'll scram!" I swing my arms and the kid is running off toward what I assume is his home.

I shake my head, what is District 7 coming to if that boy won't just take it and go?

…

Blight and I aren't friends exactly. I don't know what you would call us. But he comes over everyday while Ivan is gone to work. We don't normally talk, but he cooks for me which is great because I can't really cook anything good. My waffles are absolute failure, eggs turn into mushy, blanked ill tasting food—but in my defense, I never had any of these before I was a Victor. Give me a side of beef, some bread—I can make something that's hearty and tasteful enough so that you don't even realize it's not a full meal. I'm an expert at making that kind of food. But this rich faire is different.

Blight takes me around to the other Victor's houses. There are four of them—all male. They're ancient, and by ancient I mean—they're almost as old as the rebellion. I learn their names, not that I really care to. Haemon Svet, Igor Kaine, Adam Idel, and Nicholas Isoph. Unprecedented they had won back to back games—17, 18, 19, and 20th. There wouldn't be another victor till Blight's game—the 44th. I hear about the first girl victor, a girl that Blight mentored the year after his games—Katerina. But they don't speak of her at all, except in passing. They tell me about what an honor it was to have my grandfather as a mentor. It was twelve years before he brought any home—and then he brought home four in a row.

It makes me proud to be his granddaughter. They talk about how hopeful they are that I'll bring back his streak like they've failed to do. And I really hope they're right. I don't know how they did it as long as they did. They're twisted and frail—much sooner than they should have been. As far as I can remember, they've always looked this old. They have tired eyes, tired voices. But they are the only ones who understand me completely except for Blight. They know what I've been through. One look tells me that they've been through it to.

So we visit them everyday, and Blight teaches me how to cook—and cook for them. Because they don't like to associate with the rest of the town. They feel it's too harmful, they'd rather be amongst Victors. It's easier that way.

…

Ivan and I are talking about marriage, not as some distant unattainable thing like before. He's talking about soon. Sometime next year, and I can feel the butterflies in my stomach as he I realize that I'll have him forever. That his promise will finally come true. I'm terrified and thrilled at the same time. He'll be mine forever, and ever. I'll wear his ring. We'll share our home—and everyone will know I am his and he is mine. I feel so foolish and girly—something I've never been before. But I'm so happy, for now.

I'm not sure why when I'm so happy that my hands always wander to the box while he's a way. It's a small wooden box, something my grandfather got as a gift ages ago from his grandfather. It's survived the Rebellion. It's made of cedar and the design is carved like the top is a forest of trees. My fingers rove over it and feel the glossiness of it. How expert my great-great grandfather's hands must have been to have carved this and made it last. It has survived a war, and probably it could survive another.

In it, there are a few items that I treasure. Treasure isn't…exactly the right word. My hands glide over the items—a photograph of my family before my grandfather died, there's Liam and I so young back then. There's no pictures of my little siblings, there's only this one faded photo that I have. A letter from Sven. A ribbon from Greta's hair. A ball of Sven's. My grandmother's thread box. My mother and father's rings. My grandfather's token—a small wooden bird that I've come to realize is a phoenix. Not mine like I thought, but his too.

Then there are the other things. Precious to me in some sick way. There is Griffin's small coin, there's Riley's bloody ribbon, there the small wooden bird and, the small black stone, and the coin with a face of a victor….the tributes I took something from. I look down at my hand, the stitch marks still noticeable on the side as I focus on Feora's ring. She was a smart girl, some type of honor this ring was—she could have been someone if they games had not taken her away.

But they games had destroyed her, destroyed me, destroyed everything. My fingers slide over the artifacts and I know that it wont' be long before I'm on my tour. "Victory" tour, Ha! What a stupid name. This isn't victory…But I can give their family's back the items I've taken from their children. I can let them have at least a piece of what's been taken from them. It's not the same, but it's something at least. More than what I got back with my brother's body.

So I close the lid of the box and slide it back under my edge of the bed, before I go back downstairs. I'm still lost in thoughts of what to do now when I hear it. A shudder runs up my spine as the phone rings again and again.

I can feel my mouth go dry, and Blight has just come in when my hand picks up the phone. I stare at the blue ring of Feora's that I never take off. How much easier it could have been if she had slit my throat instead of me slitting hers? It's amazing how things can go down hill so quickly. A few minutes ago, I was happy and in love. And now…

Something in me dies. I feel sick, and I have to grip the edge of the table. It's the call I've been dreading. I'm going back to the Capitol.

I knew I couldn't be happy for long.