Hermes Massassi, 67 years old

Day Eleven of the 68th Hunger Games

The city looks so beautiful from up here. It looks like a sea of twinkling stars, each one with their own people orbiting it, going about their lives. For once, I can understand why Medea likes to watch them.

Medea. I don't know how to feel about her anymore. I still love her, deep down in some forbidden part of my heart, but after everything that happened, I feel like I'm not allowed to love her.

I kept my distance from her after Leah died. It just felt wrong and sacreligious otherwise.

But it didn't have to. That's the thing that bugs me the most.

I should have ended it with Leah long before Medea decided to end it for me. And it's all my fault. I'm the reason why I am the way that I am. I let Leah boss me around and bully me and get away with it all. I wasn't strong enough to break it off with her.

I was scared. Leah was my first serious long-time partner and I was determined to make it work. I wanted to prove that, no, our relationship wasn't just built on stupid teenage hormones. It was real love.

I let my pride get in the way of my life. And then, once it became apparent that Leah was not who I thought she was, I let fear get in the way too. And now, when all has been said and done with no take-backs, I'm left with all sorts of scars. And not just physical ones, either.

I don't want to be with anyone anymore. Yet I'm so lonely. I want to be the center of attention, to be lavished with the love and praise of someone who I want to lavish in return. But whenever I even think about finding another partner, my chest starts feeling constricted. My hands shake. I start to sweat.

And now I'm just the ruins of a man. I'm just somebody's sloppy seconds.

I'm useless. Weak. Unlovable. What kind of self-respecting woman would ever take me?

I'm not just useless in terms of my love life; I'm not a good mentor or trainer either. I haven't successfully mentored any tributes since Leto, and I'm too old to continue teaching at the Academy. They don't want an old fogey like me, they want the newest Victor to share with them their secrets of success.

And it's sick too, that we're even doing this in the first place. The Hunger Games are horrible. They always have been. I was just too blinded by the prospect of fame and superstardom to see it. But as soon as I was lifted out of that arena, I understood all too well, and I really wish I didn't.

But of course, I'm not allowed to talk about that. Victors aren't supposed to share their feelings and their trauma. Boys don't cry.

But that's what I'm doing right now. Crying. My tears blur the city lights into an unbearable twinkly mess. I'm glad that no one is around to hear me pour my heart out to my lonesome self, with only the wind keeping me company. I'd be looked down upon as pathetic.

Even though I am pathetic.

I won the Hunger Games, and a particularly brutal one at that, and I couldn't get my life together? I couldn't mentor more Victors? I let my girlfriend make my choices for me? What's the matter with me?

The scars on my wrists scratch painfully at the cuffs of my sleeves, and I'm reminded of that night. The night when I let Leah make the biggest choice in life for me. The night when I couldn't handle my problems like a man. The night when I tried to take the easy way out. And I'm so fucking useless that I failed at that, too.

Leah was always hanging over my thoughts like a dark cloud. She moved into my brain when I was what - fourteen or fifteen? - and has been living there, rent-free, ever since. Even when our marriage was annulled and she legally wasn't allowed to come near me anymore; anytime I stepped out onto the streets I thought, Is Leah going to find me today? Is she going to get her way when she does?

My whole life revolved around her. I wasted my life trying to elevate hers. My efforts were rarely, if ever, good enough. I was always a selfish bastard.

She took over everything: my house, my heart, my mind. She left her mark on me, or should I say, she left me with scars. A great big hole in my heart that will never be filled. A confused, distorted brain that no longer seems my own. And those magnolias she always had in the house.

Oh my god, magnolias. Words cannot describe how much I despise them. They represent my failure as a human being: their presence reminded me that I was not the one in charge. I never was. And I never will be.

If I never have to see or smell those fucking flowers again, it would be too soon.

Good thing I won't have to.

I didn't come up to the roof of this apartment building just to admire the pretty lights. No. I came up here to make a big life decision. To make a choice for myself that no one can make for me, or interfere with. One that hopefully won't fail like the last one did.

I sit on the edge and let my legs dangle. The street looks so far away below my feet. At this hour, it's practically deserted, which means that no one has to witness my fall. Good. I don't want anybody to see me now.

They would try and talk me out of it, tell me that suicide is never the answer, say that life will always get better. I can appreciate the sentiment, but I can't accept it.

The only time my life was good was before I started training for the Games. After that, it was all downhill. My heart is a rolling stone, constantly getting scratched, bumped and scraped by various debris in its way. Now it's nearing the bottom, where it will come to a rest forever.

I feel horrible for everyone I'm leaving behind, but I feel like I need to do this. I wrote a note which I left in my apartment that explains everything. I hope they'll understand. I don't want my reasoning to be misunderstood.

I also tried to encourage them not to cry, either. They'll see; it truly is better this way. They will be able to live their lives without me holding them back with my rolling heart. They'll be fine. They're strong people.

I don't wipe away my tears. I don't try to suppress my sobs. I don't hesitate to push myself off from the roof and shut my eyes against the stinging wind.

I just want to stop rolling.