Hi! This is how I imagine Katniss, Haymitch, and Peeta's return to District 12. Thank you so much to everyone that has read this story! A special thank you to those of you that have left reviews! You have no idea how much your reviews mean to me and how encouraging they are.

Trigger Warning: Topics of Suicide/ Drugs. My story begins after Katniss has shot Coin and been exiled to District 12. It continues with Suzanne Collins depiction of Katniss as dealing with suicidal thoughts and struggling to cope with her loss.

Disclaimer: I don't own rights to any of the Hunger Games stories or characters.

I enter my home in Victors Village and stand in my kitchen doorway. Everything is still in its exact place from when I visited after the bombing. The only new addition is the layer of dust that has begun to settle on every surface.

I find myself sitting at the table staring at the glowing embers of the fire. I don't remember settling myself here, but I don't leave.

I do nothing. I barely move from my spot at the table. I only rise to meander momentarily to the bathroom and then return to my chair in the kitchen. When I do sleep, it's here, at the table, or sitting on the stones in front of the fire. I never visit the study, where I drank tea with Snow, and he promised to destroy everything I held dear. I can't enter my mother or Prim's rooms, empty and silent, haunted with the echoes of the life we had. I even avoid my bedroom, where Peeta promised to stay with me always. The house is too painful, with too many empty memories. I gaze absently into the fire for hours upon hours. Haymitch does not visit.

Greasy Sae feeds me regularly, but I only eat enough to stop her complaining while she's present. Never enough to give me strength or add weight to my diminished frame. I can't stand to waste the food, but I have no appetite. No hunger for food. No will to survive.

My days are dark and I lose myself often. Lost in the tiny morphling pills I use to fight off my misery and pain. The pills sent home with me from the Capitol in a tiny bottle. I only take the morphling though, ignoring all the other bottles of unknown pills for unknown diagnoses, but I can't turn my back on the morphling. It's the only thing that dulls my pain and eases my hours of surviving into days and eventually weeks. When the pills begin to run out Greasy Sae brings me a box from the mail with my refills sent to me by Dr. Aurelius. But with each new bottle the pills become smaller. I combat their reduction in size by often taking two or three instead of the single dose prescribed.

Often, I wonder why I'm still here, why I haven't ended my life as I swore I would the first chance I got. But some strange feeling, almost as though I'm waiting for something, holds me here.

My thoughts and actions are unlinked. I no longer know hours from days, days from weeks. I spend much of my time sleeping, only to be woken constantly by nightmares. My thoughts are foggy, unfocused. Large gaps of time seem to be unaccounted for. But even if I could remember them, they would be empty and void of anything, because I no longer have anyone or anything.

Slowly, I begin to realize, I am going mad. Losing your mind is a funny thing. You don't notice at first that anything is wrong. You can't see that your thoughts are amiss. But occasionally you are gifted with a brief moment of clarity. And in those moments, you realize that something is not right. You notice that thoughts and movements aren't like they once were, time vanishes and reappears inexplicably, and your visions and nightmares are so real you start to confuse if they are imagination or reality.

"My name is Katniss Everdeen. My home is District 12. It was burned to the ground. President Coin killed Prim. I killed President Coin. I have been exiled to District 12. I am alone." I repeat slowly and quietly under my breath.

One thing I know, other than my name, my district, and which President I chose to murder, is that I will never love anyone again. At 11, I learned a valuable lesson. When I lost my father to the mines and my mother to depression, I learned how dangerous love is. It causes you to do crazy things. It seems like such a beautiful thing when they're here, but when they're gone a piece of your life, of your heart, is missing forever. Sometimes that kind of loss does irreparable damage.

After my father's death, the only person I truly let myself love again was Prim and without her I'm broken- only a shell of my former self. Never again will I be able to love someone. It's too vulnerable, too weak.

Suddenly I'm remembering Snows words to me.

"Mrs. Everdeen, it's the things we love the most that destroy us." As much as I hate to admit it, he was right. But I won't ever make that mistake again.

Soon, Haymitch's words come floating back to me while Finnick told all of the Capitol's secrets— Snow's secrets— as a distraction during the rescue of Peeta, Annie, Johanna, and Enobaria,

"My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Snow had no one to use against me"

And I'm thinking of Joanna in the clock arena.

"They can't hurt me. I'm not like the rest of you. There's no one left I love."

That's the trick. Not to love. Because without it, no one can control you. No one can use you. No one can break you.

I will never let myself become this weak person again. Because I might just not survive it next time— actually, that's assuming I survive it this time.

My madness is fueled by my pain, and there is no reprieve from the pain. It is constant, unceasing—except when I have my morphling pills. It grips my mind continuously during my waking hours and surfaces as tormenting nightmares as I sleep.

But the worst part is not the nightmares. It's the dreams. The dreams I don't deserve. The glorious dreams of giving Prim, Lady the goat, of dancing in our house as my father sings, of collecting dandelions in the meadow. It's the dreams that are so vivid that I think she is still here and when I wake, I find my house empty. With a terrible overwhelming pang of realization, I know that she is lost forever. Never again will we dance, sing, laugh, or talk.

And, so I take more pills. But far too soon, the bottle of morphling has run out, with my refill not expected for weeks. Once again, I'm fighting the tremors of withdrawals. The same shakes that brought me to my knees, crawling across the carpeted floor, desperately hunting my morphling pills during my solitary confinement in 13.

But as my mind begins to clear and my thoughts begin to untangle, I am overcome by my pain and unbearable misery at being entirely alone— at my unspeakable loss.

Without truly making up my mind to do so— really without a single thought— I am at Haymitch's door, trying to find solace. I let myself in and find him spread out on the couch, surrounded by plates of unwashed dishes with half eaten food, piles of filthy laundry, and several white liquor bottles. He's passed out drunk with a ratty blanket pulled over his feet and shins. The tv flickers and murmurs softly from the other side of the room.

I take one of his half-empty liquor bottles and settle myself on the floor, away from Haymitch. I tell myself only small swigs. I don't want to spend my morning throwing it all up like I did after hearing the Quarter Quell's reading of the card.

Each tiny swallow burns my throat and creates fire inside me. Slowly, after several swigs my misery eases and though it's only mid-day, my eyelids fill heavy with exhaustion. I don't make any effort to leave though. I just rest my head against the wall and doze sitting up on the floor.

When I wake, it's to a gruff voice and a foot nudging me in the leg.

"Morning, Sweetheart," says Haymitch loudly, giving me a second not-so-gentle kick.

I look up at him blearily. One eye open and the other tightly closed against the start of a headache behind it. The room has grown dark around me as I slept, but the flickering light of the tv illuminates my mentor standing above me.

"You look dreadful," he says eyeing me.

"Thanks. You don't look so lovely yourself." I say. My words come out a rasping whisper from weeks of speaking to no one.

"What do you think you're doing?" Haymitch asks while accusatorially eyeing the bottle still locked in my hand.

"Came by for a drink," I say with a halfhearted shrug. Trying to make the gesture look as though the drink is of no real importance. Haymitch, who always seems to know me better than anyone else, eyes me with knowing eyes and there is something like pity there. Well, I'm not here for his pity. I'm here for the liquor. I stand up abruptly. I must have slept for a while because my balance is better than I expected after the swigs of burning alcohol.

I make my way towards the door through the dark, cluttered room, still carrying the bottle from Haymitch.

"You don't want to go down this road." Haymitch says abruptly as I reach the door. His voice has softened. No longer accusatory. "Don't fight off your demons with the drink. You might just never find yourself again."

"I don't want to find myself." I say back. It comes out more angry than I mean for it too. More hostile. "I want to forget all of it."

Haymitch gives a sad half smile. Not a real one- but an empty, knowing smile.

I begin to leave carrying the bottle with me, but Haymitch calls after me in a bark "Leave the bottle."

"Fine," I say angrily, stopping at the door to drop the bottle, "But I'll be back tomorrow then."

"Sweetheart," and suddenly it doesn't sound so condescending, "It's not worth all that you'll lose" He says softly.

"I have nothing to lose." And I disappear into the night.

For the next few weeks, it becomes our routine. I eat breakfast with Greasy Sae and then wander through the cold to Haymitch for my numbing drink. I try to make it back to my house for dinner with Sae, but often I am too tired and too weak, so I don't leave. She doesn't ever comment on my absence the next morning, but she often eyes me with concern, wondering where I've been.

At first, Haymitch objects and doesn't appreciate my company.

"I bought these for me. Not to share with annoying house guests." He growls at me. But I don't care. I'm used to Haymitch's snide remarks and grumbling comments. Anyways, I bought plenty of bottles for him when stocking up after our first time in the arena.

Between my starved body, my lack of interest in food, and my newness to the bottle, very little liquor is needed before my head is spinning.

We don't talk much. Neither of us wants to discuss what we are trying to erase with the drinks and neither of us has anything else to talk about. So we sit silently, taking swigs from the bottles until one of us falls asleep.

Occasionally, he wakes me from a nightmare— a screaming, flailing terror— by throwing things at me.

"Wake up girl!" He says gruffly as he chunks stinking laundry at me. I jolt awake panting. Trying to identify my surroundings and remind myself that the nightmare is only that. Haymitch lays back down on the couch muttering about not being able to sleep while people are screaming and annoying visitors disturbing him.

All I can think of is the way Peeta used to comfort me through my nightmares. His gentle reassuring warmth. Not that I'd ever want Haymitch to wake me from a nightmare with a hug. No, having dirty shirts thrown at me is much preferable. But it does give me an empty feeling remembering just what I've lost.

Haymitch and I continue being unusual drinking partners every morning and sleeping it off until evening. This routine goes on for a week or two, until one morning, like all the others, when I come to visit. We've sat drinking in silence for a long time when he suddenly pipes up in a drunken murmur.

"You know people still care about you." I catch his eye for a moment before looking away with a disgruntled shrug. "They call me sometimes you know." He says.

"If anyone cared, they'd be here," I say with a harsh snap in my voice. I can feel the anger building up in my chest, in my head.

"They do care," says Haymitch and he sounds annoyed also. "They call here checking on you. Apparently, you won't answer your phone, so they call me." He says and then in a high, mocking voice he continues "How is she, Haymitch? What's she doing, Haymitch? Why won't she answer my calls, Haymitch? Is she alive, Haymitch?"

I'm on my feet holding my liquor bottle out at him like a sword "Shut up! Shut up, Haymitch!" I'm shouting. My face feels hot as the anger builds in my head.

But Haymitch is on his feet now. He's yelling over my shouts, "Your mother calls me! Peeta calls me..."

"Stop it!" I'm yelling and wanting to throw things and curse at him, but instead I run for it, carrying my bottle of white liquor with me. He's yelling after me, but I ignore him. I run back to my house, down to the basement. I climb into the closet under the stairs, pull the door tightly behind me, and curl up behind the water heater. That's where I stay as the tears finally begin to fall. The tears that I've been holding in since I returned home. I'm so hurt and so mad at them for leaving me here alone, at Haymitch for insisting that they still care, and at myself for needing them all so much.

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! It is a bit dark for the first several chapters... hang in there We definitely get to the "growing back togehter" part!