A/N: This story was supposed to be a one-shot, but it grew a little.

"Been there, done that." That's what I thought when I read about Katniss's mother in the first book. I've had people close to me that literally couldn't get out of bed for a long time. It's not laziness. It's depression. It's a disease. It takes more than chastisement and more than encouragement to get people with depression back on track. Ms. Collins had it right.

This first chapter does not reflect the overall tone of the story. The rest are less gloomy and more enjoyable. In this one, however, I tried to create a snapshot of the dreary, hopeless, negative mindset of someone with depression. Depressed people are well aware of their surroundings but interpret them incorrectly, are unable to see very far past themselves and their self-imposed gloom, and can't muster the strength or motivation needed to press onward.

This story begins five or six years after the Revolution. I tried to stay true to the story's characters, but I could fathom Katniss going through bouts of depression after everything that happened to her.

All rights to this derivative story belong to Hunger Games author Suzanne Collins.

I've become my mother. I'm just like she was after my father's death. I couldn't get onto my feet if I tried.

My only thoughts are about the wake of destruction behind me.

I killed you. And you. And you.

How many people are dead because of me?

Prim. Rue. Thresh. Madge. Cinna. Portia and her prep team. Mags. Wiress. Seeder. Chaff. The morphlings. Woof. Cecelia. Blight. Finnick. Castor. Boggs. Mitchell. Homes. Jackson. Messala. The Leegs. Darius. Lavinia. Her brother. The old man at the victory ceremony in District 11. Two others there that I never saw, maybe more. The woman in her Capitol apartment. Ninety percent of District 12. Most of Panem, for that matter.

Cato. Marvel. Glimmer. The girl from District 4. Gloss. Coin. Fewer regrets about them. But they're just as dead.

Several scummy Peacekeepers. No regrets about them. But human or not, they, too, are just as dead. I can't convince myself that they don't count.

Do Gale and my mother count? They might as well. I doubt I'll see either one ever again.

Peeta's leg is dead. Some of his brain is, too. He still has flashbacks, corrupted memories, and missing memories. He says he wouldn't change anything. I suppose that's because he was happy to get me when all was said and done, but he surely got a raw deal. I drift between lethargic, apathetic, depressed, and furious. I never sing, so he never hears what won him over in the first place. That's all that remains of me. I'm Peeta's entire family, and I amount to about half a person. I'm certainly not his better half. Bitter half is more accurate.

Okay, I take part of that back. Peeta's family occasionally consists of three fourths of a person, but only when Haymitch is sober. That's happened only twice in the past six months.

Peeta says we should make another of me. Yeah right. That's the last thing he needs. He deserves more family than a fraction of a person, but only if new family members are more like him than me. It wouldn't work that way. The worst kind of weakness passed from my mother to me. I would pass it on to my offspring.

If Peeta hadn't claimed me, somebody would have claimed him quickly. It would still happen if he were free. If Delly Cartwright didn't have a true love of her own now, she would take him in an instant. If he didn't have to look at me or think about me, he wouldn't have the constant reminders that trigger flashbacks and nightmares. He could have a bigger family and spread the love around. He says he couldn't be happier, which is a lie. I think he could.

Peeta once told Caesar Flickerman a better species might inherit the earth. Maybe he's part of it. I'm a few steps back on the evolutionary scale. It's time for me to relinquish my claim.

"She's a survivor, that one," his mother had once said. Hardly. The only true survivor around here is Buttercup. He still has at least four lives left. I once thought I should drown that darn cat. But holding him under for an hour wouldn't have worked.

My humanity is gone. Yet another thing I destroyed. I'm half dead. I'd be better off completely dead. Peeta would be better off, too. Everybody would.

Could I convince President Paylor to order my execution? I doubt it. Not politically expedient. Probably not right, anyway, in her opinion. They say I'll always be a hero to most of Panem. They even say many people in District 13 hold me in esteem. I think "many" means "two". One of them only admires me for getting away with so much, and the other won't admit it publicly.

I still have plenty of enemies. No doubt a lot are in 13, who I repaid for their hospitality – such as it was – by offing their president. There are sore losers in the Capitol and maybe District 2. Maybe one of them could find me and bump me off. Today, if I'm lucky.

I can still set Johanna off. She would show up today, if I made her mad enough. Is there an axe around here somewhere that I could leave in plain sight? Maybe, but I'm not getting up to go find it.

Do I have enough pills? Maybe, but I'm not getting up to go check.

I sometimes make a mental list of all the acts of goodness I've seen. Most were wasted on me. I don't want to think about that. For that matter, I don't want to think about anything at all. I let the thought of all my sorry deeds wash over me, hoping I'll at least go numb.

There is no reason to endure.