Alex Mason, District Two
I woke up in the Capitol ready to go home. I didn't really care about the interview or the recap or a crown I barely looked at. Maybe I was making a mockery of the Games but I hadn't volunteered for any of that. All that stuff Two said about glory and making a name for yourself was stupid. Maybe I was making a mockery of my District as well. I could hardly bring myself to care about that. My District hadn't done anything for me when I'd needed it. I didn't want a name for myself. I wanted a life for myself. Myself and Dawn.
The Capitol wasn't too enamored with me either. I'd won fair and square and I gave them their finale but I'd never been flashy. My duel with Whyte ended earlier than it might have when he stumbled on an errant pipe sticking from the ground and I was able to get in a lucky shot. Before that I'd mostly spent my time in the Games sweeping through piles of garbage picking out outliers and quickly killing them. For such a dynamic Arena it had turned out to be a very dull Games. I took some small enjoyment from how the Games had turned into the worst thing the Capitol could imagine: a bad show.
I arrived back at home with a mission far more passionate than I'd ever been in the Games. Though I had a huge new house to move into I went straight back to my childhood home. There was something back there worse than anything in the Games. Violence had come easy to me from the moment the Bloodbath began. The screams and begging didn't affect me at all. It had been the soundtrack of my life for years. Everything I needed to know about the Hunger Games I'd learned from my father.
Anyone who wanted to look could see what Dawn was going through. When my sister ran to greet me there were no bruises on her face. It was only when she raised her arms to hug me that her shirt rode up to show the marks he knew would be invisible in daily life. Anyone who cared could have heard the tremor in her voice or the birdlike jumpiness when she heard our father's footsteps behind us. No one saw because no one wanted to see. It was nothing surprising that a country that sent children to the Hunger Games wouldn't care if they were abused in their homes. I'd shielded Dawn for years and it would be my greatest guilt that for the weeks I was gone she was at our father's mercy.
My father was unimpressed by my return. He drew himself up in the entryway, crossing his arms and drawing himself up to try to reassert his control in the face of my newly proven strength. I would have thought he would have looked smaller after all I'd been through. I'd killed six people and he was nothing but an abusive father. I wouldn't understand for a long time how he was just as terrifying as I remembered.
"I suppose you think you're special now," he said.
I couldn't have cared less what he said or what he thought. "I'm taking Dawn with me," I said. I dropped the bag I was carrying with me, letting it fall open to reveal the bundles of paper bills it was stuffed with. He probably said something about us being worthless as we left. I wasn't listening. I was too busy preparing myself in case he attacked. I walked away one last time wishing my father would love me and knowing it was stupid to hope.
The Games were never the point for me. Once I settled into my new house with Dawn they grew less and less important. I took much more pride in the quiet and peaceful life I had given us. I sat on the porch watching Dawn run out the door to meet new friends she'd made and waited up to see her coming safely home. She'd gone from a struggling student to a vibrant schoolgirl in weeks. The outer bruises vanished quickly and the inner bruises faded with time, though what we'd been through stayed with a child forever. There's no taking back the hurt that had already happened to both of us. All I could do was reassure daily that the future would never be like that again.