I had almost forgotten how beautiful the city really is. Historic buildings line the main roads, while tall, narrow townhomes stretch down the side streets in every direction. I always thought it was funny that a perfectly maintained home was right next door to one with plywood over the windows. Sometimes I wish there was just a quick fix for the city; a way to get rid of all the violence that plagues the nightly news. Better help for those left to sleep on the cold park benches and alleyways. I'm sure at one time all of the Captitol was a lovely place to live. To be honest, I often thought about moving here once I got through school.

Cato would never allow it. He hated the city. Even visiting the Harbor Center was a chore for him. I can't see why, it truly is a beautiful sight. War time ships stationed in the water, brick and cobblestone walkways, leading to shops and restaurants. From the top of the hill overlook, the lights reflect off the water, shining brighter than the moon itself. I know the city gets a lot of bad press, but to me, it's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. I guess it's like anything else in the world, people are afraid of what they don't know.

Of course, who am I to judge? Here I am, stuck in my own worst nightmare, afraid of change. Seriously? What could possibly be worse than my life as of present? But yet, I'm utterly afraid of the unknown. What would become of me if I tried to rid my life of Cato? Sure, I'd like to image he would go willingly, leaving me free to live my life. Who was I kidding; he would never give up that easy. I couldn't even change my hair style without his permission. I guess it's pointless to dream of a life other than mine. The reality of it is that I was caught in a state of hopelessness and self pity, a place no one will ever truly understand. Capitol City, I feel your pain.

As I exit the train car, my nose fills with the familiar city smells of food carts and bay breeze. At first the sounds seem to blend together, but once I stop to listen I can distinctly hear the pulsing of the crosswalk light warning pedestrians not to cross, the humming of idling cars waiting at a busy one-way intersection, and the sounds of people talking and laughing, just going about their day. I wonder if this was what it was like to live here. You would think the combination of so many senses would be overwhelming, yet I find it soothing. For once, my constant worrying is not the foremost thing in my mind.

I don't really know where I want to go, I was just happy to be here. I take a right off the train and begin my way down the dense city sidewalks. I used to love going for walks. Trekking through the lightly wooded area just beyond my childhood neighborhood; my music player on repeat with my favorite album; the wind in my face, alone with my thoughts. God I miss those days. There is something relaxing about exploring, guided only by my own two feet.

Before I realize, I have stopped in front of the Capitol Mockingjays Baseball Museum. My love of the Mockingjays showcased within a historic row home-turned-museum. And free admission on weekdays? Now I just have to go in.

Brick covered walls and exposed beams display the history of baseball in our city. Industrial lighting shines like spotlights on each piece of memorabilia. The Capitol greats immortalized, I'm in awe of the sights before me. Brutus Hancock, perhaps the greatest Mockingjay of all time. From his record breaking streak of consecutive games to his contributions to Capitol communities, he is defiantly a hometown hero. Just seeing this brings a tear to my eyes. My grandfather loved Brutus. I remember the back room of my grandparents home, the walls covers in Mockingjay photos and such. Chaff Decanio and Brutus were his favorites. When he passed away, my grandmother took down most of the mementos and they were given to my mother. My father claimed most of them and gave the rest to my sister. I don't know why, she never even liked baseball growing up. Heck, I was the one who played softball 6 days a week for 7 years straight. But I guess that is neither here nor there. Anyway, granddad had this plaque commemorating Brutus' record breaking consecutive game streak. I remember that day like it was yesterday. Back then I was determined to be the first woman to pay for the Mockingjays. I was such a wonderful memory in my life. So, once my father received the memorabilia, I stole the plaque from the box and kept it hidden all these years in my closet, tightly tucked inside a fitted bed sheet. One last piece to remember my granddad. If he could only be here now, I'm sure he'd knock me upside the back of the head for not sticking up for myself.

I break my train of thought and move on. About 20 or so feet down the way, I see a life-sized cut -out of Woof Fogherty, and I can't help but smile. "Woof is my hero." Oh my god, I can't believe I used to tell that to everyone. A fellow lefty, he's the whole reason I started playing softball. Growing up left-handed, I was always uncomfortable in the world ruled by right handed sportsman. In soccer, my coaches made me lead with and throw dragging my right foot. In basketball, free throws were only taught with ones right hand under the ball and the left on the side. Even bowling balls were only made for right handed bowlers at the local alley. But when I saw Woof, a left-handed baseball player, thriving in a predominantly right-handed sport, I knew I wanted to play. My father was thrilled. "Left handed batters are the best follow up hitters, because the hit the ball behind the running on first, and a left-handed first basemen is unstoppable in the field.", he told me. So that's what I did. I practiced every day. I stretched into near splits to catch shortly thrown balls, ran drills for backing up the pitcher in the event of a bunt, and even learned to switch hit, just in case the opposing team decided to shift their players in anticipation of a left-handed batter. Yep, it was Woof Fogherty who inspired me. I guess he really was my hero, because playing softball was probably the only time in my life where I felt sure of myself. Thanks Woof.

After seeing Woof, nothing else seems to stand out as I walk aimlessly around the rest of the museum. I miss the feeling of joy softball used to bring me. The rush of a double play, the taste of sunflower seeds and Gatorade, dirt in my cleats and the tan line at my knees caused by my mismatched blue and yellow socks. I miss it all. It's just another joy that Cato stole from me. "You're spending too much time practicing." He said. "You are my girlfriend!" I stop myself, not wanting to remember the physical side of that fight.

Oh how things have changed. I used to have so much fun. And my friends, what it was like to have friends. In hindsight, they couldn't have been really true friends. Most of them were only worried about taking my place as first-baseman as soon as I told them I was quitting the team. A few of them genuinely cared about me, but then once Cato gained control over me, I lost touch with even my closest friends. That's how he wanted me, all to his self. And now, I have no one left, except him. And I have let him do it to me; I have no one to blame but myself.

Even now, I'm here, somewhere that should only bring my happiness, and he litters my innermost thoughts. Can I not have even one pleasant memory without Cato tainting it? What is wrong with me? I have got to stop letting him in my head. How did it get this bad?

No more. I'm here to enjoy myself. I'm here to…. Why am I here? I mean seriously, I went all the way to the city and I don't even know why. At least I remember how I got here.

After briskly viewing the remaining exhibits in the museum, I exit out the same door and once again find myself on a crowded street. I can tell it's getting late as I head to the harbor, as I remember I hadn't really eaten since the gas station 6 hours early. There are at least a dozen restaurants circling the water, most of which I have been to before. But I've always wanted to try this Italian place, Casa Dei Sogni. It's this little family owned restaurant that's been passed down 3 generations. I think it means "Dream home" or something. The original owners opened the restaurant with literally every dollar they owned so that they could live out the dream of owning a restaurant. I've wanted to go there ever since I first came to the harbor, but Cato hates Italian food.

Stop it Katniss. He's not here. And you know what? Italian sounds great.

The doors open to an elegant yet casual main dining room, topped with a dome ceiling. Faux stucco and replications of Italian art covers every inch of wall space. The hostess breaks my gaze and seats me in booth near the kitchen. Before I can even open my menu, the server comes by.

"How are you doing tonight, my name is Finnick, I'll be taking care of you this evening. Can I start you off with something to drink?" he says so effortlessly.

"Just water please." I respond. He nods gently then recedes back into the kitchen. The menu is filled with choices and I become instantly overwhelmed. I haven't picked out my own food at a restaurant in years and it's been even longer since I've had authentic Italian food.

Finnick reappears within a few moments with my beverage. "Do you need a few minutes to look over the menu?" he asks his voice calming and firm.

"Surprise me." I reply with a smile. I know my one chance to pick my own dinner and I blow it. But honestly, the idea of taking such a chance with my food gives me a small rush.

"Excellent choice!" And with that he takes my menu and once again disappears around the corner.

Across the restaurant sits an elderly coupon sitting next to each other rather than across the table. They are holding hands while sipping wine, gazing out over the water through the window. They look unbelievably happy together. Oh what I wouldn't give to be that happy with someone. But as it stands right now, I'd rather just be alone.

I must have been staring at them for a while because the next thing I notice is Finnick bringing me my dinner. "Our 'Bay View Pasta', my personal favorite. Enjoy." I thank him with a subtle smile and begin to twirl the pasta on my fork. It's a delicious melody of fettuccine noodles tossed with lump crab meat and shrimp, covered in a rich white wine and cream sauce. I couldn't have picked a better dish myself. Its absolute perfection.

"This is amazing!" The words jump out of my mouth before Finnick can ask me upon his return.

"I'm glad. It's the cook's personal creation. He's been asking the owners to add it for months."

"Well they would be stupid not to! It's perfect!" I've never been so excited about food. In fact, I must sound ridiculous to this man, gushing about pasta like it's made of gold. "Thank you."

"No, thank you! Can I get you anything else?" I shake my head and he lays the check on the corner of the table. "No rush!"

I finish my pasta and leave cash for Finnick, including a 25% tip. I've been a server before and I know how hard he must work. Quite honestly, he deserved much more than I could give him. He didn't just serve me dinner, he made me feel comfortable, which is more than I could have hoped for.

I gather my jacket and make for the door, sorry to see this night coming to a close. But a quick peek at my watch shows that it is almost 8pm and surely someone will begin to wonder where I am. I guess all good things must come to an end.

The sun has just about set and the warm sun casts an orange glow on the bay. A few more minutes won't make that much of a difference. Besides, if Cato is going to get mad today, I might as well make the most of it.

Making my way to Capitol Hill isn't too far of a walk, just crossed a few streets and up the many stairs really. It's all worth it once I reach the top. This is the city you see in all those landscapes. It's breathtaking really. As the sun leaves the sky, the moon gently reflects on the water. The lights of the surrounding buildings glow in vibrant shades of blues and oranges. There's something about the lights on the harbor that just scream "Capitol". Majestic in every way, I am captivated by way sights which lay before me as I sit just below a canon on the edge of the hill.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" An unknown voice calls. I look over my shoulder to see an older gentleman, who I take to be homeless due to attire and overstuffed backpack.

"I wish I could look at it every day. Pictures really don't do it justice." I want to keep eye contact with him, but I simply can't turn away from the cityscape.

"You know, a lot of people here, they don't take the time to notice. They're too busy wrapped up in their lives. But if they just stop and look around, they'd realize, 'hey life ain't that bad'." His words are unexpectedly wise and bring a smile to my face. Breaking may gaze with the water, I glance at the man; a modern day philosopher. A middle aged man, clad in cargo pants and a faded blue tee shirt, with his worn sneakers repeatedly repaired by duct tape. I've never worn out a pair of shoes. I suppose its because I have so many. Its an compulsive addiction really. Heck, I still have shoes from middle school, barely any scuffs and the bottom soles still bare the company logo. My shame directs my eyes off to the middle distance.

But something brings me back and I once again turn to face him, suddenly more intrigued by this stranger. "Sometimes we don't have a choice. Life doesn't always work out the way you planned." The words flow from my mouth, before I have time to think about them first. God, how spoiled I must sound to him. Who am I to argue the unfairness of life with him?

"You're preaching to the choir young lady. I never thought I'd be here. But you know what? I am here, and that counts for something." His smile catches me off guard. I can't look at him anymore, and turn my gaze back to the harbor. How selfish I must sound. I clearly appear to be someone with a home and means, yet here I was telling a homeless man, a very kind one at that, that my life sucks, wallowing in self pity.

"We all have a choice… it's just some of us don't have the strength to make it." And with that, he turned and walks away, leaving me speechless without meaning. My own silence confirms his theory. I am weak, and undeserving of the pity I had previously placed on myself.

This place has quickly become unbearable, clouded by my own inner demons. I bid goodbye to the city from atop my perch and make my way down the hill to the nearest train station. The station is much more crowded, filled with miscellaneous retail and restaurant workers heading home to their families.

Once onboard, I begin to drift off once again, my eyes fixated on the ever changing view outside the window. A dream of life here in the city, free to live out my days as I please, blending in with the thousands of lucky souls who call it home. Wishing one day to be as content as the stranger from the hill.