I don't remember being taken out of the arena, hearing the victory horns, or any of that. Only awakening in a small, clean but bare room with my hospital bed in it. I'm in a hospital gown, and there's a cast on my right arm. The one I pulled the stick out with. It's numb, and I figure it's probably broken. I must not have yanked my arm back in time.

I'm alive.

My hair has been washed, the dirt scrubbed from my hands, the ache in my ribs gone. My nails clipped short, my skin smooth. It's like I'm new again.

I try to piece together what happened last in the arena. Yanking out the stick caused the rocks to collapse, obviously. My arm must have been broken by a rock, and I probably got hit in the head by one. Somehow the hovercraft retrieved me from the cave, and another was probably uncovering Katniss's body.

Katniss. She's gone now, probably a family mourning back home. The little girl that she volunteered for.

I'm thankfully distracted from my thoughts when a boy brings in a small tray of food, setting it on my lap and raising my bed up so I can eat. I murmur a thank you, and he leaves wordlessly. The door disappears after him.

The meal is small, but I manage to finish it and my stomach is full. The needles in my arm are dispensing something cold, and when I wake again the cast has been replaced with a stiff bandage made of wrapped cloth. I eat again, this time a slightly larger meal, and I lose consciousness after.

It's odd, being knocked out. It's as if my mind wanders off for a minute, and when I wake it's as if no time has passed. The only clue I have is that the bandage on my arm is gone. My outfit from the arena, washed and clean, lays at the foot of my bed. I gingerly get up from the bed, using my left hand to steady myself. I find that my right arm has healed completely, and I don't need to steady my legs. I change from the hospital gown to the arena clothes, nervously anticipating seeing my team again. What will they say? It should be enough that I survived, but I'm still worried.

I stand in front of where the door must be, and it slides open to a long hallway. Figures stand at the end, and I recognize Saria, Claudia, and Medni. I start out walking quickly to them, but I break into a run before hugging Claudia tightly.

And everyone's so emotional, crying and telling me how glad they are to see me, that riding up to our floor and having my prep team added to the mix is all a blur. We eat a meal, and I'm glad to see that it's a real Capitol one, not the tiny servings I got in the hospital. My team congratulates me, telling me how smart I was to use the parachute to trick the others. But someone's missing, and I can't put my finger on who it is until the plates are cleared away.

It's only when I stop to think of where Rift is that the excitement falls to the floor, dead.

I'm locked in silent torment as Medni and my prep team dress me for my final interview. Rift is gone, dead, along with the other twenty-two people in the arena. Katniss, Peeta, Cato. I caused their deaths myself, and witnessed others, not to mention all those in the bloodbath.

Twenty-three other people, dead. Eleven empty floors in the building, probably being cleaned to use for next year. Twenty-three children, with families sobbing back home for the one that will never return. The empty chair at the dinner table, the cold bed at night. The desk at school, the clothes in the closet that will remain unworn. Twenty-three.

I don't really notice what I'm wearing until I trip down a set of stairs due to the shoes I'm wearing. They're flats, but I've worn sneakers for the past few weeks and I'm not used to having my feet showing. It's unnerving.

I'm wearing a mint green dress, somewhat similar to the one from my first interview, but longer and flowing. Having my hair down unsettles me. Shouldn't I have it up? It's distracting, and I need to be focused. A safety hazard, too, it could get caught on something. And then I remember that I'm not in the Games anymore.

Am I? I've heard the whispers, the rumors that the Games never truly end. The victors play a more dangerous game.

I don't remember the recap of the Games, nor my final interviews. I can recall bits and pieces, like staring at Caesar's shoes and wondering why they're so shiny, or the soft material of my dress, but I'm not fully aware of what I'm doing until I realize that it's over, it's all over, and we're on the train home.

"Fenna?" Claudia's voice breaks into my train of thought, and I look up after it registers. The first in days. People have said things, and I've smiled or nodded along like I'm listening. I don't pay attention, just using my short-term memory to have a conversation.

"Yes?" I go back to toying with the little decorative doll I found on the mantle. Claudia has tried to talk to me a few times since the interviews, but I've ignored her. I didn't want to go into this. She'll ask if I'm okay, if I want to talk. I don't want to talk.

"Fenna, snap out of it." Her harsh words jar me.

I blink once before turning to her. "What do you want?" Of all people, I'd expect her to understand. She's a victor herself. How does she go through her life like this? How does she coach tributes every year, watching them die so many times?

"When we get home, you'll have a couple months to yourself. You'll be moving into Victor's Village, and you'll need to pick up a hobby for your free time. Singing or painting or playing an instrument, something like that. But then you'll have your Victory Tour, and you need to be prepared for that. You can't be in a daze, thinking about the Games. You're out of the arena, Fenna. Realize that."

The words fly out of my mouth, the most I've spoken in days. A mix of rage, shock, and everything else. "Don't you get it? We're all still in the arena. Still playing the Games, long after they've ended. I wanted to go home, back to my old life, back to my friends and family. But I can't. They'll see me as a killer, someone dangerous. I didn't want to volunteer. I had to. I can't go back to what there was. There's nothing to go back to, Claudia. I'm still in the arena."

A grim look crosses her face, but she sighs. "And so you are. But what are you going to do about it?"

What will I do? She leaves me with my thoughts.

I will cope. I will escape the memories. I will try to return to my past.

But then again, what's in my past might not be any better than the present.

End of Book 1