For Starvation. Prompt: Epic.

Epic: Majestic, Great. I stuck with this definition.

Two meanings are exploited: an "epic fail", and "epic".

Enjoy. Remember: I am a reviews whore.

The victor would simply not stop shaking. The doctors could apply nothing, for medicine would be dangerous, and all painkillers before Panem had been washed away, or otherwise became obsolete and non-existent.

"This can't happen." The president said. He immediately sent a group of high-technology scientists to create a new, more powerful painkiller than any before it.

It was called morphling.

Morphling is expensive.

Tell that to Johanna or Finnick. They won't believe you.

The only ones who can afford painkiller in such amounts are us. We are the victors. Not even the high officials could afford to get addicted to the stuff.

All of District 6's victors rely somewhat on morphling. Two of us are severely attached, and the other has daily injections. It was a chain of dominoes, one victor leading another, and then the second leading a third.

When I won the 51st Games, I pledged to myself that I would not be under something's soft narcotic blanket.

I will not become an addict.

I hung the words on the wall, where I could see it well.

I will not become an addict.

Even after I won, the Capitol swarmed me. It took three weeks to untaint myself of cameras and enjoy my victory. Another four weeks, and I regained time to paint.

After I became a victor, I could buy real paint, not berry juice, with my own money, not Malachi's. He is the victor of the 41st Games, and after that, my teacher. The free lessons, along with support, was compensation for his partner's, my sister's, death.

Careful, Esther, I told myself as I drew the flower. I loved drawing big spirals of them, big never-ending spirals that were made up of more spirals. But before the real fun started, I had to draw a good flower. Templates have to be beautiful, original, and passionate at the least. They are usually the biggest, and one splotch can ruin it all.

Weeks of neglect seemed to echo onto my moves. My hand shook uncontrollably.

Oops. One of the petals was too wide. A folded was spoiled by a splotch of dark pink. I reached for the white paint, but I applied it too early, so the pink mingled with the white, forming swirls of color.

It was actually pretty. Maybe I could do it for the rest of the petals-No, I would have to, or it would look out of place. Long time? Yes, but worth it.

I couldn't do it anymore

I couldn't

I couldn't get that color to come back

So I ripped the paper off the pad

Letting my dream go

I burned it in the dinner's fire

It took five seconds to

Burn five days' hard work.

"Ugh!" My mother turned to looks at me, and so did Da.

"Is there sometin' wrong, Esther?" asked Da.

"Nothing. Just had some dangerous ideas."

"You didn't mess up, did you?" asked Ma.

I sighed. "Actually, I messed up epically."

"I'll make you some of your favorite berry cream."

"No. I'm all right."

I should have known I wouldn't be

I could never get any of the pictures right

My leaves were too skinny

My flowers were too uneven

The colors blotched

The paper crumpled.

"Esther! Is something wrong?" Malachi dropped the paint brush in his hands abruptly.

"No, not really." I straightened up. If only my eyes were white, not red, and the bags under them dead. "Just…" Oh, how was I going to say it?

"Paint?"

I laughed nervously. "No, the paint vendors ask me if I eat paints for lunch. I know…You sometimes feel depressed. How do you get out of it?"

Malachi nudged the bottle connected to his bloodstream to me. It hit the floor with a thud, and spilled, but I knew it was daily morphling.

Ma, you were my anchor

Da, you were my mentor

Both of you kept me rooted

In the field of sanity.

But you had to leave.

Oh, no. What happened to him?

Malachi looked worse than me. He had slumped onto the table, paints all over the wood. The walls were pieces of graffiti. I ran to him, and gave him a hug. "Is all all right?"

He looked at me, and rubbed his fingers on my cheek. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. There was a lavishing bloom on my face. I stopped to admire it. "Thank you," I breathed to Malachi, but he simply nodded and held up a canister.

It wasn't pigment. It was morphling.

I lost him to morphling

He stockpiled it in him

When he thought I was lost.

I never knew I was an anchor

Until the day he stopped talking

But only painted and painted and painted.

I knew I was lost too.

I let out a sigh when the morphling goes into my blood. That was more than safe, but it staunched pain. I only took the syringe out when I could think of painting without heart ache, but pleasure.

Where was the paper? No, I didn't need it. I dug my fingers into paint, thick, colored paint. After I finished, I stepped back to regard the wall. It was worse than my first try.

Morphling is a strong narcotic. But it couldn't cover up my sorrow.

After a while, I began to paint in public again, but only with Malachi. He covered my failures with his art. They called us the morphlings. They jeered at us for being so weak. Some of them chased us with inept paint brushes.

None of them can understand, so I just ran.

Timothy makes us come close to the black, glossy paper that changes color. "There's mandatory programming today, you two."

Mandatory programming?

As a reminder to the rebels that not even the strongest can escape the Capitol, the tributes will be reaped from the surviving pool of victors.

What? Which victor lives in paint?

They drag me onto the stage. I am carted onto a train and…and…

I know this train. I am going back to the place where paintbrushes kill.

At least Malachi is here.

"Impress us."

Impress them? What can I do?

I go to the paints. It won't be presentable. And it's all I have.

The goat girl looks at me. She has hair like yellow paint. The thought brings back another ton of sorrow and failure.

"Sorry." She sets down the brush in her hand. It is covered with Malachi's red paint. "Go, Female Morphling. You painted my blanket."

No wonder she'd rather have Malachi.

I hug the orange canister. It wants to kill Peeta, and I can't let that happen: that would damage Painting's wellbeing.

Instead, it rips me.

Yes. This is murder. I remember now. Your body turns into red pigment. People run away out of grossness.

She doesn't. Peeta's friend comes to me, and holds my hand.

I remember this too. It is warm humanity, the last I will ever have.

Peeta himself starts talking. I can't really make sense of what he says, but it's beautiful. I don't understand, but I can see it in my mind. Rainbows beyond me, delicate skin from a newborn child, rhubarbs' cream…

Gratitude. It knocks on my door.

There is only one thing I can give. I dip my fingers into my redness, and draw a flower on his canvas. It has to be perfect, but Malachi isn't after me, to cover up mistakes.

"Thank you," Peeta says. "It's beautiful."

Beautiful? I let out a sigh as I try to sit up.

No. It is the worst failure of all.

Epilogue

Dear President Paylor:

Plutarch reporting. I am in the Victor's Village of District 6.

There are only three houses that have ever been occupied; and even so, two of them are shoddy.

These victors are a mystery: They have not been abused as some victors have been, but they have drifted under the silken cape of morphing; sorry, I have read too much poetry.

I am now in the house of Esther Cade, whom you may know as the female morphling. It wasn't dirty; just not taken care of; and it had thousands of fractals all over the walls: nice eye candy for lunch. After I wiped off some dust, it became a nice house.

You must not destroy it, President. If you do, you will lose my ballot, because this house…this house…this house, these fractals, they are nothing short of epic.

Yours truly,

Plutarch Heavensbee

Don't forget to press the button at the bottom next to the yellow speech bubble.