concrete feet . Patricia

As far as birthdays go, this is probably one of my worst. I don't know exactly what about it that makes it so bad - Every year since winning I have had to spend my birthday in the Capitol, and by now I am used to it. Maybe it's the crippling weight of having to try and sail two more Tributes through the absolute maelstrom that awaits them, but again that's nothing new. Fuck, maybe I'm just getting old.

Twenty-four is a pretty good age when I more-or-less accepted that I was going to die at Eighteen. I genuinely struggle to believe that it's been six years since I was cast into that cave and made to fight for my life. That's a quarter of my life ago. Ripred.

I stand out on an open concourse, somewhere between the living spaces of the training center and the commercial complex. It is busy in the Capitol today, with hoards of people swarming from building to building in a hyped Hunger Games frenzy. They look like ants from up here. For a moment I pretend that I can lift a boot and stamp on a large group of them, just so they can feel how the rest of Panem feels for once. I'm not that big, though. Winning the Games doesn't make you important or powerful.

Instead, I reach into the pocket of my jacket for a stray carton of cigarettes. I've started smoking again for the first time in eight years. I'm not particularly proud of it, but it's the only thing that seems to relieve the sinking anxiety that twists in my chest. I pluck a lone cigarette from the cardboard box and let it rest between my lips as I watch the murmurations of people fluctuate below me. It's almost therapeutic, but I can never quite shake the opinion that they are all monsters, every one of them, collectively dangerous, and that's a far more disturbing thought. I spark up the neatly rolled joint and take a few puffs from the sides of my mouth, staring up at the ordinarily grey sky.

Chilly days like today take me back to District One. I despised doing those training demonstrations, but it was my punishment for being such a threat to Snow's Victor ideology. He was determined to make sure I wasn't some kind of symbol. Trying to escape that arena cost me three years of embarrassment in the wake of my victory, but at the same time, I met Diamond. Cold winter mornings showing Careers how to fight, and then getting lunch with the sister of Pearl Millison. I'll admit it was absolutely bizarre to begin with, but once I got used to the schedule - seven days, once a year, I kind of liked it. Not the demonstrations, of course, but meeting with Diamond.

I don't even know how we came to be together, it's one of those things that just happens without you planning it. My stomach drops when I think about her. What is that? Guilt? Anguish? I haven't seen her in three, no, four years now. Am I just expecting her to be waiting on me? I take a long, unsatisfying drag of my cigarette and let it burn in my lungs. Has she found someone else? Part of me hopes she has, because I'm not worth waiting for, and I've been so horribly unfair to her. In her eyes, I might never go back to District One.

Selfishly, I hope she hasn't, because god I miss everything about her. She's one of the few people who actually understands what I've been through, and what I'm still going through now. I miss her soothing voice that all-but extinguishes my fears. Her almost-inquisitive personality that constantly wants to know more and more about me, and discover things about me that even I didn't know were there. I miss her gentle touch and her soft lips, and the way she would wrap her arms around me when I woke up in a mad panic from whatever hell-filled nightmares I would be having. She was, and still is the most important person in my life, and yet I can't see her. She deserves to be happier, because I can't give her anything back. Real love isn't as one-sided as this.

"Hey," Comes an all-too familiar voice from behind me. I don't have the energy or enthusiasm to turn around, but I know Leon Krigel is standing somewhere within ten feet of me. I can smell his overbearing perfume from here - I presume not his choice, he doesn't go for the lavish fashion that he once did, not since losing his siblings.

"Been a while." He follows up, and this time I do turn around to meet eyes with him. The first thing I notice is that he has shaven his hair down to a buzzcut. Is that something to do with his grief, or again was it pressed upon him by countless fashion advisers? Leon is far more desired by the general public than myself. He can't fade out of the limelight like I can, which means he has to maintain certain standards, even if he doesn't want to.

"Where have you been?"

And it's a terrific question, because I've been under house arrest for a year through no choice of my own. I beat ten shades of shit out of Kirito Miristioma. In reality, I shouldn't have been punished at all. The dickhead attacked Lethe out of nowhere, and I was doing what any decent person would have done and defended her. Maybe I took it too far, but still he wasn't going to let up unless I did. That was the day that I realised how much I care for Lethe, and how much I need her. A far-cry from the immature hatred I felt for her in previous years. I guess I really am growing up.

"Surviving." It's a standard answer for me, it might even be tongue-in-cheek these days. I don't have much warmth in my voice, but that's probably because I haven't spoken to Leon in about two and a half years and I don't really know what state of mind he's in. Grief turned Kirito into a fucking lunatic, and I don't know what it's done to Leon other than make him shave his head. I'm not good at sympathy either, I try to smile, but it's more of a twitch of the mouth. I offer the carton in my left hand towards him.

"Smoke?" I ask. He looks like he needs it.