A/N: This is going to be a 2-part chapter! This chapter has a depressing half and a funny half, and I decided to post them separately so as to (hopefully) make you cry and then (hopefully!) make you laugh, too, separately. Once again, this chapter goes out to any of my readers/friends that are suicidal/depressed/think that they've had enough/self-conscious. I really do love all of you, and even if I don't know you, all of you are in my prayers always. Stay strong. If you ever need to talk, send a PM my way.

I hold the bottle in my hands.

A semi-transparent orange canister filled to the top with pills.

The canister is smaller than I thought it would be. Smaller than I would've liked. Guess they don't trust a depressed Victor with any more meds than he needs. I can't blame them.

They're on to what I'm doing. They know I want to do this. Who wouldn't, after all I've been through!?

Being the Victor of the First Hunger Games is trouble enough. Mix in the fact I choked on my Victory Tour. Mix in the fact that I killed my ally. Mix in the fact I became best friends with Nate McIalwain and killed him. Well, I didn't directly kill him. It was his sword that went through his abdomen. It was my fault, though. I was the one that failed to protect him like I swore to myself. Well, partially my fault. Partially the Capitol's. Mix in the fact that I'm a prostitute: not by choice. Mix in the fact I'm bisexual and my family hates me for it. Mix in the fact that I used to be the school bully and now the whole District hates me. Mix in the fact that District 2 is still mad at me for torturing their boy tribute, Elijah. Mix in the fact that his sister is doing everything in her power to get me killed, anyways. Mix in the fact that I made my only true friends in that Arena and they all died.

Tada, it all codes for one depressed, suicidal little bastard named Platinum Krietzer from District 1.

My District partner and ally Champagne Walker used to call me Platty. I secretly liked the attention it got me but I will never say it out loud. Soon, our other ally Drake Fellington, who I killed in the final 2 in my Games, started calling my Platty, too, and the name kind of stuck. Now that they're both dead, nobody will ever be allowed to call me that. I will kill them on the spot, I don't care who it is.

My other best friend Nate McIalwain was best friends with the 2 boy in my Games, Elijah Crowly. When we first met, he shot rude remarks at me, mockingly calling me "Cupcake." It stuck. Since he won his Games, he called me Cupcake and I called him Cupcake. But now he's dead, too, and it's pointless.

The canister is small and there are only three or four pills inside. I need to mix this with something to make it lethal.

Sometimes I look back on Nate's killing himself and think about how incredibly fast it was. How painless. I bet the kid did it without even thinking about it. He didn't have to make any plans. The only plans he had to succeed in was getting away from me. Which he did well, but not well enough for me to not see it. I'll bet that, in his last moments, he regretted it more than anything he'd ever done in his life. It was such a short one.

The difference between that and now is that I'm mature now. I'm 18, I know what I'm doing. I know what will happen. The Capitol will be the only people that really miss me, and I want them to suffer, anyways.

I collect another bottle of pills from my bathroom cabinet and sit with the two bottles in both of my hand on the bed. I know I've thought about it so much before, but I have to really think about it now. Go through every single person I know and make sure I have no regrets.

As I think, I paw at my hair, playing with it in my fingers.

So soft.

So artificial, yes, but so soft.

I love it.

I always hoped that someday I would find somebody with hair naturally this soft. Somebody that would just spoon with me and let my play with their hair as we watch TV late at night until they fall asleep with their head resting on my chest and I would smile down at them, and then stroke their hair gently until I fell asleep, too. Then maybe the next night I would let them play with my hair, too. And I would be soothed by their even breathing and their fingers ruffling and twirling and stroking my hair until my eyes get tired and I sleepily mumble, "Good night my love." And they would smile and press their lips to the top of my head and whisper in a soothing voice, "Good night gorgeous."

But, then again, here I am, lying alone in bed, staring at the bright orange bangs in my fingers, with no one or thing anywhere near me except for these two bottles of pills that I'll take that'll finally just kill me. Besides, the closest I've ever gotten to any kind of love like that is lying in bed with some naked Capitolite that is clinging to me and sleeping against me. And, trust me, I do not like that.

I want a pair of pretty eyes: naturally pretty eyes: to smile down at me as someone special gently kisses me awake. Someone who would hug me from behind just for the hell of it. Someone who would look on the scars down my abdomen and just whisper, "This shouldn't have happened to you." Someone gentle that would stay up late with me if I had a nightmare, and stay awake until I eventually nestle into their side and bury my face in their shirt, taking in their comforting smell, until I fell asleep again.

Nate used to do that. When the Capitol sold us as a 2-for-1 deal, I'd always find him wrapped up in my T-shirt, taking in the smell. I found it odd back then. I wasn't sure why he would do something like that. But now I know why. I would die for the familiar scent of Champagne when we slept in the same bed, or even the familiar smell of Drake's T-Shirt after we tried the washing machine and Champagne held it against my nose.

When I inhale, all I smell is the Capitol perfumes and colognes that the clients always wore that eventually rubbed off on me and became my own repulsive scent. This is what I've become. I think of those disgusting people again and bury my head in a pillow and scream at the absolute top of my lungs.

I would hear their footsteps run up the stairs and scream my name as they would run into the bedroom. Then I would look up and try to hide the tears forming in my eyes as they sat next to me on the bed. They would sit on a canister and pull it out from under them and scream. They would pull me into a tight hug and whisper in my ear thousands of reasons why I shouldn't do it. I would just bury my face in their shoulder and absolutely sob. Maybe they would even cry with me. They would keep whispering to me reasons that I need to stay alive. And the most important one would be, "Because I need you." Then they'd stay there with me, taking the other bottle of pills from my hand and throwing them far far away from me.

I snap out of it to the phone ringing. My face is wet with tears that I don't remember crying. My voice is raw but I don't remember myself screaming. My whole body feels tired and racked with sadness and I don't remember crying. I unbury my face and pick up the phone.

"Yes?"

I've stopped saying What the fucking hell do you want? After President Augustus called one time and was not very amused by it. I had to sleep with 70-year-olds a whole week after that one. Men and ladies.

But if it's another hater I don't want to deal with their shit so I just say "Yes?"

Luckily for me, it's not President Augustus. I don't think it would even matter if it is because I'm probably going to be dead tomorrow.

No. It's my sister Paradise.

"SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND LISTEN YOU DISGRACE TO MY FAMILY!" she sounds like she's crying.

Oh well. I won't have to deal with her after tonight, anyways.

"Mom and Dad have kicked ME out too!" she sobs.

"You're a lesbian!?" It's half designed to be a cruel taunting method, but it's half-genuine.

"NO, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! YOU AND YOUR KIND ARE REPULSIVE! I'M PREGNANT!"

My mouth drops. "What!?"

"I'm pregnant! There's a fucking baby growing in my uterus and I can already feel it draining me of my much-needed nutrients!"

"Why the hell are you telling me?"

"I need a couch to sleep on-"

"No. Never. "

"SHUT UP JERK! AND TELL ME WHAT TO DO!"

"Like I care." She's lucky I haven't hung up yet, "Why don't you just abort the damn thing? Then, poof! The annoyance'll be gone and you can stop whining!"

She sniffles and squeaks, "I can't! The doctor said a needle's too dangerous and the only way would be for me to get injected and pee out dead baby parts or some shit like that and I don't want to pee out dead baby parts!"

I make a face, "Then quit your whining. It's fucking annoying."

She lets out a sob and screams, "YOU INCONSIDERATE SHITBAG! TAKER OF LIVES, ROBBER OF HEARTS! I HOPE YOU BURN IN HELL!"

Tears drip down my face when I squeeze my eyes shut. My voice cracks as I yell back, "I WAS JUST GOING TO BUT THEN I GOT A CALL FROM YOU! NOW LET ME ALONE AND DON'T CALL ME AGAIN! AND WHEN YOU DO, I'LL BE DEAD!"

I slam the phone down as hard as I can and sob.

Right now, they would be torn between driving to Paradise's house and punching the damn baby right out of her and staying here with me. They decide to stay. If it's a guy, he lifts me onto his lap, but if it's a girl, she crawls onto mine. They pull me close and a silent tear rolls down their face. "Please don't leave me. Not yet. Not ever. Please." "It's just so hard!" I sob, "Paradise is right!" They hug me tightly, and their embrace comforts me slightly. They whisper in my ear, "She's wrong. She's so wrong."

The phone rings again and that snaps me out of it again. There is no special someone out there. I don't deserve one, anyways, because Paradise is right and nobody will ever convince me otherwise. Mostly because nobody will ever try. The phone goes to a message machine as I open the first canteen of pills. All I hear on the other end is sobbing. Loud sobbing. My sister.

She's probably just have pregnancy mood-swings.

I finally get sick of seeing my bangs in front of me and switch off the lights.

I open the other canister in the dark and pour out the pills into my hand. God, I hope this works. This has to work. I hate how it feels. I think of Paradise walking into my body. Will she come straight here? Will she walk in just as my hard-working, broken heart finally gives up on its quest of keeping my body functioning? She'll only cry a month or so, then she'll forget about me.

I've given up on fighting the tears that are falling out of my eyes now. My whole body shakes as I put my hand to my mouth. Instead of taking the pills I let out a loud scream at all of this. When I run out of breath and pant, the screams echo throughout my head.

"LET ME GO! PLEASE!" Elijah. Right before I ran a sword down his back.

"GUYS! HELP ME!" Champagne. She did it to herself.

Her blood-curdling scream when Henry hit her with a knife.

Drake's loud, strained scream as his fingers slipped from the balcony. The pained noise he made when my sword made contact with his chest.

Nate screaming as he plunges the sword through his abdomen. Him crying as I run over to hold his dying body.

Brandt's last loud scream before Jasmine finished him off. Priscilla's angry exclamation when Nate killed her. Ashley's last, high-pitched, ear-stinging scream, cut short when I decapitated her.

They all combine with my tears and screaming. When I put the meds in my mouth, the scream I hear is different. All of them together. "PLATTY! NO!" Champagne's hysterical sobbing, Elijah's voice catching with tears, Nate screaming at the top of his lungs, tears in his voice, "CUPCAKE! CCCCCCUUUUUPPPPCCCAAAAAKKKEEE!" The world fades to black, slowly but surely. "PLATTY!" Champagne screams, "PLATTY!" Drake's voice goes raspy from sad screaming, "WAKE UP PLATTY!" Elijah sobs, "PLEASE! PLEASE DON'T CLOSE YOUR EYES!"

It's too late.

I'm already dead.