Her eyelids parted groggily, thing began to blur into unfocused clarity around her. A dull throb grew stronger, a sharp relentless pain drumming an un-faltering rhythm behind her eyes. Struggling to sit up, a muted crash sounded as a bottle collided with the dirty hardwood floor of her home. Home. That was a start.
She began to slowly recollect facts of the previous night, or whenever she had been awake last. Pushing her blankets off of her with heavy, unresponsive limbs, she struggled to sit up. The smell of pine and stale alcohol burned in her nose as she stumbled forward on weak knees in the direction of painkillers.
Fragments of memory were coming together in her mind like an impossible jigsaw puzzle, recollection fighting to break away from her muddled mind. Cursing in annoyance from pain and lack of progress, she allowed her thinking to stall for a moment as she shook a few tablets into her clammy palm before she swallowed them dry. Dry. Everything seemed dry; her mouth was a desert, her skin parched.
So, with that in mind, she struggled toward the bathroom. Stripping off what clothing she had on, she threw the door open with her hip, sending the knob crashing into the wall behind it. Pressing the button that activated the shower's spigot, she climbed in, the frigid water immediately greeting her, drops cascading over her skin, almost instantaneously seizing her from her daze and the after-effects of alcohol.
The memories were starting to flood back to her. Arena. Quarter Quell. Hunger Games. Victors. Back. She was going back.
Her knees gave out and gravity took over, she collapsed to the bathroom floor. Holding her head in her palms, her dull fingernails bit into the tender skin on her face. She couldn't bring the tears to fall; she was not upset, she was not afraid. She was angry. Furious.
Forcing herself against her bodies will, she recovered, getting to her feet and slipping some dry clothes on. Her legs carried her to the kitchen unconsciously, her hand met the neck of a bottle and she brought it to her lips without hesitation, relishing the bitter sting of alcohol as it swam down her throat. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she tipped back the final swig of her drink.
Before she even knew what was happening, the bottle was in fragments across the room. She knew she was accomplishing nothing, burning no rage off with this. But, in truth, the only thing that could douse her anger was embedding her axe into the government. As the only surviving victor of Seven, she was going back, no questions asked. She was going to die, and she had to face it.