Chapter 1: First Day of Forever

I squint my eyes against the early morning sun as I stare up at the great marble statue before me. The sculpture is one of 75 here along what is known as the Avenue of Victory. This, of course, is not to be confused with the Avenue of Tributes, down which I traveled as an offering to the Capitol only six months ago, along with 23 other boys and girls.

22 of those boys and girls are now dead. And I am no longer just a tribute. I am a Victor of the Hunger Games, same as the depiction of this man before me, cut from stone. I squint my eyes to read the plaque featured on the statue's base:

"Orchus, District 11. The Victor of the 3rd Hunger Games. Triumphed in The Arena, the coliseum which housed the first seven Games, located 2 miles east." Frowning in curiosity, I crane my neck back up to take in the giant monument. Orchus is posed with one arm flexed, marble muscles bulging, while his other hand is thrown out, as if he is trying to halt something hurtling into his path. Like an oncoming train.

The train... thank goodness the Victory Tour is finally over, and all that's left to do is board the locomotive back for District 12 in a few hours. With the free morning, we were extended a special invitation to the Avenue of Victory to see our statuesque likenesses, already cut and on display. Private, thankfully. The entire expansive boulevard is deserted save for me and my two companions.

Perusing, I stroll to the statue on Orchus's immediate right: Platinum Wesley, District 1. The Victor of the 5th Hunger Games. Of course. One of the very first Career Victors. But did such a thing as a Career exist back then, in those earliest fights-to-the-death? I try to recall lectures from Hunger Games History Class - one of my least favorite subjects in school. My frown deepens as I double back to Orchus's likeness. Odd.

"There's no last name," I report to the presence sidling up behind me. I can feel the alcohol on his breath assault my nostrils with the force of a solid punching jab.

"No. Not much is known about Orchus, and I think the Capitol prefers it that way," Haymitch rumbles, studying the plaque.

In my mind, I instantly flash back to a clump of purple berries in my palm and I feel my stomach clench. It's surprisingly small comfort to know that there are other Victors whom the Capitol might call 'cheaters'. Of course, what does cheating mean, when you're fighting for your life? "Oh, yeah? Why's that?"

"According to discs of his Games back in the National Library, it is said that Orchus won his Games with only his own two hands. As in, a shove."

I turn back to my alcoholic mentor, blinking in shock. "He won... with a shove?"

"Supposedly. Never even moved from his plate, allegedly. Just stood there into the Top Two. His final opponent leapt onto his pedestal to finish him, startling him so much he threw her right off. That was the first year the Gamemakers employed booby traps, so the ground opens up, swallows the girl from Four and she lands on some sharp spikes. They say Orchus was... a simpleton. Quietly went back to the Victors' Village in Eleven, and disappeared some time after."

I wince, though my eyes are wide with intrigue. How I wish I could do what this Orchus fellow did, more than 70 years prior!

But, I could never do that, as I glance at the sandy blonde-haired boy at the end of the thoroughfare, nothing but a speck at this distance. Still, his voice carries:

"Hey, guys!"

Haymitch and I go at a light jog until we've finally reached the other end of the Avenue of Victory, where my district partner and Co-Victor, Peeta Mellark, is waiting for us. Sporting a boyish grin, he points up at the likeness of himself - strong stance, a spear held aloft. His eyes are just as expressive as the blue ones I gaze into now. Somehow the sculptor managed to capture in their essence the stare of a boy lost in love, as he beholds the marble beauty across the way and to the left from him, fiercely aiming an arrow in the direction of... I check the plaque: Odysseus Wheeler, District 4. The Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games. I remember that Games from two years ago, set in a ruined city. Odysseus triumphed by bashing his last enemy's head in with a brick.

I turn my attention back to the statue of Peeta. He looks sinfully handsome, cut from stone so beautifully, he appears carved by angels. His flesh-and-blood counterpart looks just as glorious, and I bristle at the way my heart constricts when I once again find myself peering into his dancing blue eyes...

"What? You don't like it, boy?" Haymitch is smirking in amusement.

"No, I really do! It's just that... regrettably, the entire numbering system will now be off forever after. The 75th Victor will go in the place meant for the 76th, and so on..."

I scowl. "It's a small price to pay," I dismiss flippantly. As opposed to Peeta losing his life... to me losing him forever... I couldn't have killed him in the arena. I refused to, and somehow, in my defiance, managed to save him.

"Besides," Peeta is saying to me. "Your statue is much more beautiful than mine... even if it doesn't fully do you justice." He is gazing at me in that adoring way again, the one where he somehow manages to communicate just how beautiful he finds me. My cheeks flush pink, and I tug at loose strands of my brown hair. "Thank you," I mumble. I glance back at my statue behind me. They certainly committed to capturing me accurately. Even my scowl is on point. I look like a warrior princess...

... even if my real flesh-and-blood self doesn't feel like one. Even if I continue to wake from night terrors at all hours, screaming over the flashbacks of children dying in my place. Those dreams which have now begun to include depictions of angry people in burning districts, daring to challenge Peacekeepers during a just-concluded Victory Tour that I have already judged to be an unqualified disaster.

I wonder how long it will take until I end up dead. Or worse, Peeta. For what we have done. Death can't be much worse than living with the guilt, or knowing you will and must be a Victor who will be forced to train future children for the Games, only to almost certainly watch every single one of them die. The way that Haymitch did for 23 years... how is he still standing? How will Peeta and I stand?

"Haymitch, please, just help us get through this trip... Please, just help us get through this trip..." I am standing in the attic of the Justice Building in District 11. The sunlight washes my face in fire as tears stream down my cheeks, imploring, begging.

"This trip - whoa, Sweetheart, wake up! This trip doesn't end when you get back home! You never get off this train!" Haymitch snaps his fingers in my face, expression disbelieving at my breathtaking naivete. "You two are mentors now! Your job is to be a distraction so that people forget what the real problems are..."

"... Sweetheart? Ready to go back home?" Haymitch's voice carries me back to the present. "The train is due at the station. Effie just hologrammed; she's going to meet us there."

Blinking back the moisture in my eyes, I nod numbly. Haymitch grins softly. "Let's go home."

And as we turn to make that long walk down the Avenue of Victory, knowing that somehow, somewhere, the cameras are watching, when Peeta holds out his hand, I don't hesitate to take it.

At noon, we are pulling out of the Capitol station. The locomotive's high speeds help us make great time in only the most luxurious comfort, and by the time we are pulling into Donner Train Station in District 12, it is only barely evening. I feel grateful that the camera crews deemed it not necessary to film this last leg of our return journey, as Peeta, Haymitch and I disembark off the platform and into the dirty streets of slush and snow.

"I bet your mother and Primrose are anxious to see you," Peeta makes light conversation. I smile weakly at him, my heart a jumbled mess but still plagued with guilt over how I treated him on our first return trip from the Capitol.

"Prim will be peppering me with questions," I hypothesize, as our sludgy trek briefly turns into the cobblestone streets of Town, pockets of snowdrifts blanketing the bricks.

Peeta grins. "If you want, I can bring you ladies some fresh bread later..."

"PEETA JOSEPH MELLARK!" The screech of his mother, the Baker's Wife (more commonly known in some Seam circles as "the Witch") carries clear across the street. All our gazes snap up to see the Witch flagging down her youngest boy, apoplectic rage on her face. "Finally, you decide to come crawling back! Get your ass in here! We need you on the dinner rush!"

Peeta sighs, smiling at me apologetically. "And here I thought I'd at least get the first night back off. See you both back at the Village?"

At Haymitch's and my nod, Peeta manly hugs the drunk goodbye. Then he pulls me close. Though my eyes go wide, I permit him to kiss me farewell. I hold it, letting my eyes flutter shut and even make a show of kissing him back a little, since I know his mother is watching and it will drive her crazy.

Peeta draws away gently, smiling. It has felt strangely natural, kissing him every day, even though a mere two weeks ago we had shared our first kiss in months. And unlike that first kiss outside of the arena, on our backs in our snowy front yard, Peeta's subsequent smile now reaches his eyes, which are sparkling with something like... hope.

"Good night."

"Good... good night." My smile is once again weak as my district partner turns and heads up the path towards the Bakery.