time hasn't been kind to me // patricia.

The Capitol sets me on edge, like I can't get comfortable inside of my own skin. Like I'm suffocating and I can't breathe, and everything goes black when the gravity of it all pressed down on my fragile reality. There was a time where I'd bask in it, walk through the pristine halls of the Training Centre like I owned them. Like I had won the right to do so - and in my eyes, back then, I had. I prided myself on putting everything I had into those kids, so that they'd have the very best chance of making it out of the arena alive. They never did. That was fine, I supposed - so long as I did my best for them. Then, one year, no one died. The kids did come home, and things were never the same.

Five was torn apart, it's own Tributes had killed each-other, and people blamed the Capitol, they blamed oil-rich families, they even blamed the Victors. I got death threats, which I thought was funny. Phelix then got yelled at in the street, I almost throttled a man. Lethe exploded at Denali. I've seen the consequences of caring too much about who they send into the Games, it's nothing but pain. Now whenever I sit on that train, and some poor hopeless kid is staring at me with empty eyes, I feel nothing. In the end, it's all out of our control.

I breathe in two three four, and out two three four, pulling my shoulders back and expanding my diaphragm. The damage to my sternum is pretty irreparable, and my chest aches, but it's far more dull a pain than it used to be. My hands, shaking, squeeze into fists, then relax, then squeeze. The ringing alarm in the back of my head quietens, and the black walls closing in on the edges of my vision seem to fade. There's quiet.

I stare at the bottle of clear alcohol on the glass table in the middle of the room, and the urge burns until my top lip starts to quiver.

Patricia Valfierno is not as invincible as she used to be.

I'm supposed to write things down every day, five things that made my day good. Something to reflect on, and talk about when I'm back in Five. There was a time where I would think this was dumb, but I understand that I need support. Talking about how I feel, is maybe good. Snow allowed me privacy in the Capitol for a few years, on account of what happened - this is the first time I've wandered these halls in a long time, and I'm not sure if I'm ready.

The Dining Hall is as magnificent as ever, and largely empty. In denim dungarees and my platinum hair balled up in pigtails, I couldn't be more out of place, but that's nothing new. I've missed supper, and Avoxes move swiftly to clear up empty plates and half-drank glasses. I float through, trying not to get in their way, not entirely sure where I'm going or why.

I hear my name, and I turn eyes-wide to see Saffron Lowe. She's much older than the last time we saw each-other, her jaw more defined and her eyes brighter. Her accent is as thick as ever, and a wave of nostalgia fills me as I think back to Ansgar's Victory Party, when everyone was trying to imitate the District 10 twang. That was one of the few Victor Parties that I actually enjoyed myself. Saffron smiles, and offers me a drink, pouring herself a generous glass of wine. I stare at the bottle as she walks away to stare out at the skyline, and exhale a shaky breath.

She chatters on about the Games, which I didn't watch, mentions tributes who I don't know and it quickly becomes white noise, like it always does.

Glad to see you're still alive.

I exhale through my nose, and take the notepad out of my dungaree pouch to write down: Still alive.

"Rumours?"