I had quite a few requests for an epilogue so I had a good think about how exactly I wanted to do that and well... here it is. I hope you like it. Consider it a belated Valentine's day present from me to you.

Thanks to Kris and Beth for letting me talk about my ideas. I couldn't have done it without you.

If I Let My Heart Go

Part IV- Epilogue

It's been 5 months and things still feel so strange, so different. I guess that's to be expected. After all, you can't just lose someone you care so deeply about and then return to normal. That kind of thing only happens in stories. The main character seems to forget so easily, seems to be able to move on in a heartbeat, seems to be happy in an instant. But that's not reality.

Because in reality that's all just a lie.

I've often wondered if it would ever be possible to manufacture happiness. Pop it in a pill and sell it to the most vulnerable of us all. Although here, in District 12, I have no doubt that almost everyone would need a dose.

The atmosphere here changed the instant that it happened. I can remember it so clearly now. The day we realised we'd lost her.

You'd have thought that the moment she stepped off the train as victor of the 73rd Hunger Games would have been the happiest day of my life, and hers too, but I've come to learn that there are no winners in these games. There can't ever be.

I can still remember it all so clearly, no matter how much time has passed.

The roaring filled the air as she stepped forward, guided carefully by Haymitch who was clutching her arm and whispering something into her ear. I guess that should have been the first clue.

I saw the panic filling her eyes, like a deer trapped in the headlights but completely unable to escape. It was as though she didn't know where to look because her eyes kept flitting from person to person without focusing properly on any of it at all. It was quite clear that the whole thing was completely overwhelming her. Then she began to breathe heavily, shaking her head and looking at the floor. All I wanted to do was go to her but I knew I couldn't.

Effie was stood at the front by the microphone, waiting for Santana to give her speech, but the moment never came. Before any of us could understand what was happening, Haymitch was abruptly pushed to the side and she was gone, sprinting away from the square and to the East.

Everyone around me looked confused, still trying to understand what was happening and where our victor had gone. But I had seen the clues before them. The shaking hands, the terror in her eyes… Something was seriously wrong. I pushed my way through them, catching Santana's mom's eye as I left. Words passed silently between us.

I ran. Adrenaline pumped through me as I sprinted down and through the maze of houses. Frantically searching, I tore through the streets. I knew where she was heading. There was only one location to the East that could be of any interest to her at all: the old mine entrance.

It's still a mess there, a constant reminder of the explosion 5 years ago that killed so many. The explosion that took Mark away from her, from them all. He was just a kid, barely 10. He shouldn't have even been there.

Sure enough, as I turned the corner, I saw her, kneeling on the dusty ground, now adorned with small drops due to the tears streaming steadily down her face.

"Santana?" The word left my mouth as nothing more than a faint whisper, a ghost hanging between us. So many times her name had left my lips, yet never like that.

She said nothing. Not with her voice, not with her eyes and not with her body. Her gaze remained focused on the floor yet I could see, despite her tears, the vacant expression on her face.

Tears were still falling, but she wasn't even there. Not really. I wondered what she was thinking and where she had gone. Back into some distant memory perhaps? Back into the arena?

I walked forward, not entirely sure of what I was even going to do. Crouching on the floor beside her, I gently reached forward to place a hand on her shoulder. Suddenly, she recoiled before my skin even reached hers. Fear flashed through her eyes. She stood up straight and backed away from me as though I was her tormentor and being near me caused her nothing but pain.

She looked at me, turned and ran.

Torn, I followed her but stayed far enough behind that she wasn't aware. It was clear that she just wanted me gone. However, I just wanted to make sure she was safe. I saw her enter her house and I stayed there until Haymitch arrived only minutes later.

It was only a few weeks after that when they took her away once more, to show her off like a prize to the other districts.

I still have no idea how they got her through that process. All those heavily manufactured speeches seemed so robotic in her voice, usually so warm and full of hidden intricacies that I have come to realise I've fallen in love with over the years. Watching her each day only made it all hurt even more.

Then she came back, and the reality of the situation hit me.

She may have returned home but she's never been further away. Even when she was God knows how many miles away in that arena of torture, I never felt so far away from her as I do now.

All I want is to be able to help her but how can I?

How can you help someone who's been through what she has? I can never fully understand it, and I wouldn't insult her by trying. The things she's been through are things that no human should ever have to endure, and really it's no wonder it's left her this way.

I've tried to be there, we all have, but the truth is it just doesn't matter what we say or do because she's not here with us. Not really. The games may have spared her life and she may be here physically, but her mind isn't, a result of the sick nature of the Capitol.

All we can do is hope that one day she'll be ready to talk. Maybe that day will never come but I know for a fact that none of us will give up on her.

I have to stop myself from getting angry because it doesn't do any good. For the first month after the tour I let it consume me, burning fiercely inside until all I could think about was how to make them pay. But I had to stop because I'll never be any use to her like that. Besides, it won't change a thing and it certainly won't bring her back to me.

I walk the familiar path to her house, just as I have every day for the past 5 months. Her mom is sat on the porch and smiles sadly as I approach. This has become part of our lives post-games, just another routine to add to the list.

"How is she today?" I ask, just like I have every day before now.

"The same." Her mom looks back, almost as though she's checking nobody can hear. When she's satisfied she looks back at me, whispering, "Last night's nightmare was the worst she's had this week."

"Mark?"

She nods in response, and I settle myself down on the hard wood by her feet. Just like every other time, she offers me a chair, and just like every other time, I refuse it. I guess it's stupid but I'd rather sit like this, as I did that night after our kiss by the lake. I know I can't go back in time, but it's become so difficult to remember how things used to be, that I'd rather help remind myself in whatever way I can.

It seems like every day is the same. Every day she has been tormented, even in her sleep, by the game makers. The worst thing is that her brother, the very person she admired the most, is now part of her nightmares.

The mutt they created, the mutt that had his voice, his eyes, his smile, has damaged her beyond repair. I don't just mean the scars that its wretched claws left on her body. No, its damage was far worse than physical. But I guess after being forced to listen to it for hours on end, sounding just like him, your mind is bound to alter.

I still remember the moment when it happened, when I saw it on the screen.

She'd been there for at least 2 days, trapped up a tree, helplessly looking down at it while it circled. Suddenly, it disappeared. No more echoes of his voice, no more footsteps patrolling around her. There was only her and one other tribute left, a career from District 2. Her exhaustion was so obvious. She'd been up in that tree for far too long with barely any food or water.

Things were gearing up for the final battle and we all knew it. It was only a matter of time before the game makers forced the two tributes to come together.

Cautiously, after several hours of silence, she crept down, hoping the mutt was gone. Yet as she arrived on the leaf-covered floor, it pounced out at her, pinning her to the ground in one swift movement. As it landed on top of her it stopped moving, and there was a moment of silence as the two creatures, Santana and it, just stared at each other. She reached out to touch it, to touch the creature that looked so much like Mark, and for a split second it seemed like maybe everything was going to be okay.

But it wasn't.

It lashed out, growling and snarling at her, swiping with its vicious claws and teeth. It landed a few blows before she managed to struggle out from underneath it, grab the nearest weapon and plunge it deep into its heart.

We all thought the game makers would hurry things along after that, bring things to a close, but they didn't. They let her sit there, holding its blood-stained dead body while she wept, whispering his name into the night.

Now her whispers have turned into screams instead.

I can only imagine what her mind is doing to her, what memories it is replaying and altering inside her head.

She won't talk about it. She doesn't really talk about anything. But I'm here. I'm always here, in case she needs to. In case she needs me.

I sit there for the best part of the day, and don't even see her. She stays inside, and I've learnt by now to not force my presence on her. Some days she'll sit near us, never too close, and just be there, staring into the distance or writing something in the black notebook she's taken to carrying around, but some days she doesn't. Some days she can't.

I come back after the sun has set, and as I turn the corner by her house I see her closing the front door and leaving. She looks up at me as I arrive and continues walking. For a moment, I think she's just going to carry on going, she normally does, but this time she stops, looks back and nods slightly. I take it as a sign that I can come along. This has only happened a handful of times, and when it does we don't really talk much but that's okay. I cling to the hope that me just being there is somewhat helpful for her.

We walk together through the darkness. I'm standing to her side, careful not to be too close. I'm more than aware of the distance she's taken to creating between herself and others and I don't want to make her uncomfortable.

She dips under the fence, just like we have for years, and begins the journey up the hill. I already know exactly where we are going.

The lake.
Our lake.

I wonder if she still thinks of it that way. I don't know how much of her mind is still able to think about life before the games.

"I'm going to swim," she states as we arrive by the shore, glancing at me briefly as she does.

I don't know if she wants me to follow her so I don't. I just sit on the rock, letting the cool water splash against my bare feet, as I watch her.

The relationship, friendship, whatever you want to call it, that we share has changed indescribably since the moment Effie picked her name out of that stupid, glass bowl. Yet, one thing hasn't changed at all. These moments by the lake, when it's just me and her, are the best moments of my life.

They may be few and far between, and we may not talk the way we used to, but they are still the most precious thing I have. She is still the most precious thing I have.

So I just watch her.

Thoughts flit through my mind and I find myself, not for the first time, admiring not just her beauty but her bravery. This is a girl that has been through hell, a type of hell nobody can ever really understand, yet she's still here. She may be different, perhaps broken as some people have said, but she's here and I'm so proud of her for that. I wish I could tell her so but I'm never sure how much I can say.

As she swims towards the shore and comes out of the water, even in the dim light, I can see those lines that are now a permanent fixture adorning the flesh across her stomach. Scars from him… From it.

Silently, she hops up onto the rock and sits beside me, her toes wriggling into the silt beneath our feet. She stares at the ripples for a while, then looks up and into the distance.

Suddenly, after several minutes, the silence that hangs all around us is broken.

"Sometimes I don't know what's real anymore." Her voice is quiet and is almost carried completely away by the breeze.

"This is real," I say, "Right now."

"I mean him," she looks down at the water again as she responds. Her voice sounds so lost and I can feel my heart physically aching inside my chest at her words, "It's all so mixed up in my head."

This is the most she's said about Mark since she came home. I'm not sure what to do because what on Earth could I possibly say to make it any better? But I try regardless.

"That wasn't him, that thing inside the arena," I say, watching her carefully, "Mark was nothing like that creature."

For the first time since she got out of the water, she looks up at me, her eyes so full of confusion. She pauses, the words struggling to escape her mouth, but eventually they do, "It's all twisted up. Him and it."

She stops speaking yet I can sense there's something more she wants to say. I don't respond, instead giving her as much time as she needs to say whatever it is that has been twisting up her mind. Instead, I just nod slightly.

We sit quietly for a moment before she continues, "At night, he's always there, in my head." She looks back out across the water, her gaze fixed on the moon hanging low in the sky. She swallows before finishing her sentence, "It'll be me and him, playing together or doing one of our stupid plays for mom and dad, and the memory will seem so perfect. Then he changes into…"

She can't finish her sentence, her voice breaking as tears begin to build in her eyes.

"There's blood everywhere. He's dead. They're all dead. I see them, Quinn. All those people, those kids, that I killed… And Mark."

"San, you didn't kill Mark," I can't help but let tears fall from my own eyes as I speak. She's been through so much and I don't know what I can do to make that better. It can't be erased, or turned into something happy. "That thing wasn't him. That was a cruel trick the game makers played on you, to get into your head. You didn't kill him."

"I held it, him, whatever it was. I held him in my arms…" she can barely speak now, her voice thick with tears, "Quinn, his eyes…"

I want to hold her but I resist the urge. I wonder if this is why physical contact causes her so much pain, because it, the mutt, was the last thing she held. I don't want to freak her out so I stay where I am, hoping my words are enough comfort although I doubt they possibly can be. "I know, San. But it wasn't him."

"I held him and he died and I did that to him," her voice is getting louder and I can feel the anger that she's got inside, anger that's all directed at herself.

"You did what you had to. It was going to kill you."

She shakes her head, "Maybe that would have been better. At least then I wouldn't be like this."

"Don't," I say abruptly. Her head turns back towards me and our eyes connect once more. I don't know if anything I'm saying is right, or if it's too much but I suddenly feel like she has to know what I've been thinking all this time. That anger shouldn't be directed at her because she doesn't deserve it. She's amazing, and I know that me being in love with her isn't the cause of this thought. It's just the truth. "San, I'm so proud of you. Do you know that?"

She looks away and I hope to God that I'm not pushing things too far. But when she doesn't say anything I decide I may as well continue.

"You're incredible. You've been through something I can never understand, something nobody can ever understand, and you're still here. They tormented you, tortured you, threw you into those games and you came out alive and you're here. And every day you carry on being here. You're the bravest person I will ever know and none of this is your fault. It's theirs. You have to understand that."

Suddenly, she leans her head against my shoulder, curling her legs up onto the rock and clutching them to her chest. I tilt my head down so that it lightly touches the top of hers.

"I just want it all to go away. Make it go away," she pleads, whispering through the tears that are now streaming down her face.

Her plea reverberates through my body, painfully cutting at me because the reality is that I can't make it go away no matter how desperately I wish that I could. I'm aware that my own tears are rolling down my cheeks and into her hair but she doesn't move away.

My voice feels trapped, my throat constricting around my words, as I whisper, "I don't know how. I wish I did."

I hate that I have no answer because right now she needs me. Why can't I have the magic words that make it all better? Like when you were a kid and your mom knew just what to say to make it stop hurting, at least for a little while. I want to make it stop hurting for her, if only for a second.

The sad fact is that this isn't going to end. There have been 72 other victors before her. 72 other people who have had to murder in order to survive, have had to jump through the Capitol's hoops, and it shows no sign of ever ending. How many more people will these games destroy?

"Just be here. Please?" Her voice is so fragile and I wonder if she actually doubts that I'd be here for her. I don't think I'd know how not to be. She's everything to me.

I wish I could do more than just be here. I wish I could change this world, to make it right again, but I wouldn't even know where to begin. Maybe one day somebody will know, and maybe they'll be able to stand up and fight against it, against the Capitol, but for now maybe the best I can do is precisely this. To be here. To be here for her.

No matter how long it takes, I know that that's exactly what I'll do. I'll be here.

So as she leans against me, the moonlight shimmering against her wet hair, I whisper one word into the night, and I'm positive I've never meant anything more, "Always."