Title: The Girl with the Ax

Author: animatedbrowneyes

Section: (5/5)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters within the Hunger Games or Glee; I just borrow them.

Thanks for keeping up with this, everyone. I'm happy with this end and I hope you will be as well. :)

Nobody wakes me up so I assume they have hangovers or just sleeping in. The district is in a lull of quiet, but this time it's welcome. People have the day off from the sawmill and other jobs and I know they appreciate the break. A victory is something coveted and everyone reaps the rewards.

I look for something simple to wear and deposit Lysander's creation in my wardrobe, closing the drawer with a snap. I doubt I'll put it on again.

It's early. Seven at the most. I go outside, glad to be alone, at least for now. I kick a rock with my shoe, watching it skirt and skip before rolling to a stop. Reminded of that one day at the arena's ocean, skipping stones and talking with Finn about what we would indulge in if we won, I stop.

I can't stop thinking of him. I want to trick myself into believing that I'm over it. That I've let him go. But, no. That's impossible. I won't let him, the one alive in my memories, the one kept close to my heart, a phantom, a fading shadow of the original...he's locked in my grasp. I'm not ready to accept Finn's death as a natural part of life. It wasn't. It was an injustice. Sure, it was...avenged, more or less, but that won't alleviate the pain.

I stand near Carole's front yard, my hand resting on the old, dilapidated fence. The ring. She knows I have it. It's hers, but I still hesitate.

Another day is better than this one. Not now. Another time is more appropriate. She's probably tired from last night, anyway...

Lost in my thoughts, I realize I've strolled into the town square, where decorations are still up but the place is in total disarray. It's mostly garbage, though, because food would've been consumed fast, not a single piece put to waste nor dropped on the ground. I spot a few snoozing people in alleys and doorways and smile unwillingly. At least we all had fun. Parcel Days are not as extreme, but a party this big is very rare.

I come back at eight o'clock and sit at the kitchen table. Dad's reading again and I receive a vivid, disconcerting recollection of Reaping Day.

Hoping this residual fear and unhappiness does not continue, I twirl a butter knife around with my fingers. So much smaller than what I've handled before. This wouldn't hurt anyone. Not really. Unless you'd hit them in the face or the neck or something. The throw itself is child's play―

I set the utensil down with absurdly delicate precision, biting my tongue. Dad shoots me a look, but it's a not suspicious one.

"Big day today," he says, sounding pleased.

"Hmm?"

"Charlotte didn't tell you?" He queries, helping Mom bring breakfast over for the three of us and then kissing her cheek.

"No," I prompt, puzzled, once he's seated again.

"We're moving you in to your new house," Mom says excitedly. Dad chuckles.

"What?" I ask, lost. Mom laughs.

"Your new house in Victor's Village," she explains. "It's all yours―the groundskeeper has it all ready. You can have it for yourself."

Myself? Not my sister and her husband and children, who are crammed together in a small house and need it more than I do? Me, alone in an expensive part of the district that will make me more isolated than I want to be? A new place that will make me antsy with no one to talk to?

I know they won't take a no for an answer and Capitol won't let anyone else live there without a victor, so I just slap on a smile and agree. They don't see the blatant insincerity on my face. They're oblivious. Prattling about the beautiful architecture or something like that while I chew listlessly on my toast, reaching down to pass some to Daphne. I haven't seen her since Reaping Day. I pat her ears and she whines, delighted to see me. Maybe I can take her to this new, unfamiliar place that I don't want to live in. Having my dog there sounds somewhat acceptable. Sort of.

Once breakfast is over, Mom marches me upstairs and we pack up my things. Charlotte comes in to help and everything fits into three cardboard boxes. Clothes, mostly, are the bulk of it. Headbands take up little space with a litter of toiletries. My victor's crown is tucked with wrapping paper.

I consider chucking the worthless thing at a saw right now (and I wouldn't miss) but I'd get in big trouble, so I don't. Reluctantly.

We head to Victor's Village at nine and arrive just as the gardener is finishing up. He smiles before he departs but I pretend not to see it.

Mom's the first one inside and she immediately starts another tirade about how pretty this is and how ornate that is, wandering in a circle with my dutiful and amused sister at her heels, both admiring Capitol's design. I look around on my own, setting my box on the floor by the stairs.

A house belonging to me isn't as bad as I thought. Puck and the girls can just come over all the time and I'll feel like less of a recluse that way. I flit past the living room―equipped with a television that's unnecessarily large, an enormous couch, and two armchairs―and enter the kitchen. Okay, they've got me here. I'm positive it's been outfitted with more gadgets and appliances than a sixteen year old girl would ever need, but I revel in it because Capitol must've been listening to me in the Games. A kitchen, like I wanted. An indulgence that isn't out of reach anymore.

It's a bribe, but I allow it. What's the harm in accepting a gift?

I pause at the countertops, running my fingers along the smooth surface. All for me and I don't know how to cook well. The arena was a different story; hunting and preparing animals was a skill from training. Creating an actual meal that isn't raw is a task I don't have a clue about doing.

"Wow," my mother says in amazement as she comes into the room, eyes wide. "Quinnie, this kitchen is so―"

"Beautiful," Charlotte guesses grumpily under her breath, and I smirk.

"―perfect," Mom breathes, not hearing our commentary.

"Yeah," I flounder when the silence is too long, waving my hand vaguely. "'S great. Yup."

Charlotte rolls her eyes at me in annoyance and flicks my forehead, avoiding my retaliatory swat as she sidles up to Mom.

They make plans for me to return for dinner at their house and I respond in all the right places, walking them to the door and closing it behind the two. I sit on a step that leads up to my new bedroom, balancing my elbows on my knees and pressing my fingers to rub at my temples.

This house isn't cozy or comfortable. It's empty and too new and too clean and not suited for me yet. Getting used to living here will be a challenge. I've never been on my own like this before and I didn't expect to be anytime soon, at least not until Charlotte could. The Games have done more than make me kill to survive; they've thrust me unceremoniously into adulthood before I was ready and I'm still trying to catch up.

That's not all they've done, I think sourly, recalling my thoughts with the knife. Is that what will happen now? I'll regard life like it's arena schematics again, plotting out my next move? I want to be done with it. I want it out of my head and shrouded in the furthest recesses of my mind, shut away forever because they're not worth remembering. The Games are not worth it but they remain in my dreams and nightmares.

Talking to my mentor seems more appealing now. How did she erase her experience? That is something I need to know.

I stand up and retrieve my box of clothes, ascending the stairs. My new room is empty and sad, I note, finding a seat on the bed, sheets and blankets in my lap. I ought to decorate in here. A task to keep me busy and my mind preoccupied. Painting it would take up a lot of time, too.

Looking for something to engage me, I unpack my clothes and tuck them in the bureau. Stow my toiletries in the bathroom downstairs. Position my crown, with some trepidation and resentment, on the mantle above the fireplace. Although it's too soon, I've finished moving in completely.

I wander throughout the house, studying this and that. Kitchen, basement, living room, three bedrooms. A lot more room than I need.

Irritated, I walk out to the backyard. The grass is cut. Pretty flowers are planted on the perimeter. A bench is at the back with a maple beside it.

It's only after I've walked a small lap around the yard do I realize that I'm really bored. Usually that isn't a common occurrence. More or less, I've always had something to devote my attention to. Homework, chores, spending time with my friends, babysitting...what will I do all by myself?

Fortunately, the day wanes quickly and I amble back to my family's house, sensing a routine emerging from this. Oh, well. It's something to do.

Dinner is a calm event and I revel in the change. Capitol has everything in it to be loud and obnoxious. Here I can unwind a little and relax.

That is until Dad brings up school. Honestly, I don't want to go there again. Of course I should, but to learn what in order to do what? Nothing. I have more money than anyone in this district (more than anyone will ever have) and attending would be a waste of time. I have nothing more to gain from it. I could throw buckets of money at my neighbors every day for the rest of my life and still be wealthier than the mayor himself.

It would be a distraction and an activity to occupy me, but it's schoolwork. I'd rather do something more productive, like redecorating my house.

"No," I state brusquely. I've never been impolite to my father, but irritation slips into my tone.

"What?"

"I don't want to go back to school."

John raises an eyebrow. Mom regards me over her glass. Charlotte snorts.

"Why not?" Dad prompts, curious.

"I don't need to," I answer as impertinently as I dare. "It's not a big deal."

"You're sixteen years old, Quinn," Mom interjects.

"So?"

"You have to finish," she counters firmly.

"No, I don't," I snap back, a lot harsher than I intended. Mom's smile is as sharp as her rebuttal, clearly not taking my attitude in stride.

"You will if I say so."

Her words anger me. Who was she to tell me what to do? She can't boss me around. I don't see a victor's crown on her head. It's pointless for me to reenroll when all it will be is wasted potential to do something else, like learning how to cook or heeding some advice from Julia or Antony.

"We'll see," I respond stiffly, belligerence skulking beneath the surface, irritated with Mom. Charlotte rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

"Listen to your mother, Quinn," Dad orders. Mom nods, as if the conversation is over. It is, but not the way she wants. Not to me.

"I said no," I reiterate coldly, standing up from my seat without being excused. What can they do about it? It's not like I live here anymore.

"Quinn!" Mom calls in frustration as I slam the front door behind me and stalk back to Victor's Village without saying goodbye.

Irrationally furious with everyone, I stomp through the entrance and kick the metal gate shut with my foot, leaving the village locked from the inside. Good luck to any followers on my tail to berate me. I doubt Julia or Antony would want to head all the way over here to let someone in.

Unsure of where this sudden tantrum came from and why, I inhale a deep breath, shoulders sagging. What the fuck was that? My parents have the right intentions; they want what's best for me. Disagreement edges into my head gradually and I sigh. They don't know what's best for me, though. Not now. I've survived without their guidance in an ordeal that had little to do with school except for a few facts that I recalled in a crisis.

Still, that bout of anger―or was it the dreaded darkness I've come to loathe?―was a bit stupid and I should go apologize for it. However, I find that I'm rooted to the spot. Somehow I've gained a lot of pride and the thought of running back for unnecessary forgiveness makes me annoyed.

No, I'll be right over here. Relishing in the opportunity to show some stubbornness, I shuffle upstairs to my room and climb into bed. Too lazy to make it up tonight, I use the pile of sheets as a pillow and untie my shoes, letting them topple to the floor as I lie down on my back. First night in my new house. It's not so bad. This isolation grants me privacy and a place to think in peace. And where I can ignore everyone and be myself.

This might become a pattern. Shielding myself and my feelings. Although, not arbitrarily. I won't talk about my problems. They should know this.

Tired of thinking in agitating circles without a satisfying conclusion, I shut my eyes.

The morning isn't welcoming and nor are the ones of the following days. Rain pummels the district and thunder explodes across the sky frequently, sounding as if it's atop my roof. I don't go outside, choosing to wander around and nap and clean, concentrating on thinking of nothing at all. There isn't anywhere to go, anyway―I'm still mad at my parents and there's food stocked up to last a week or two―and because I am no longer fond of storms. Before, when I was little, they were fascinating to watch, seeing trees splinter to pieces and be set ablaze by lightning. Now, I loathe them. I liken bad things with storms. Submitting to the cruelty of the Games and killing Blaine. Running for my life and killing Sebastian.

On the sixth night of this unending monsoon and my self induced confinement, a sudden knock on the front door nearly gives me a heart attack.

"What?" I demand as Julia stands on my doorstep, squinting through the downpour.

"Come outside," she orders, pulling at my wrist until I comply.

"It's raining," I blurt out unnecessarily, when we're standing on the lawn, being pelted by water. She rolls her eyes.

"Let's go for a run."

"Why?"

"Because I said so," she insists irritably, and I mumble a series of curses before pursuing her retreating figure.

Chilled to the bone in a matter of minutes, I maintain a pace behind Julia, shoes slipping and skidding a little on the street. Nobody's outside (it's approaching eleven at night and the rain deters any excursions) so we are alone for the time being. I can eventually match her speed, an accomplishment to appreciate. The storm bothers me, though, because all this running feels like I'm being chased. My thoughts become woebegone and the darkness doesn't help either. I keep reliving when I was hiding in the thickets with Finn, watching the Careers find Blaine.

But this isn't the arena. The sights around me―the Justice Building, the bakery, the sawmill a ways ahead―are familiar and soothing. It's home.

Home, safety. I am not in the arena. Not right now.

We reach Victor's Village again after a loop in the town square. Julia smirks when she sees my tired grin.

"I won," I cheer weakly, grateful for the rain's constant deluge.

"Let you," she counters, but it lacks animosity. Julia offers a mock-salute, smiling mysteriously, and strolls back into the monsoon to her house.

Mystified, I stay in the yard for a moment, letting the shower cool me down as I take deep breaths. Maybe I can do this again.

I pause, realizing what Julia has done. The rain isn't an obstacle to me anymore. It's a challenge. A running time to beat and my mentor herself.

And endorphins. I feel energetic and almost peppy, probably in the highest spirits I've had since I've gotten back.

"You tricked me," I accuse loudly, voice carrying into the wind, earning distant, muffled laughter before it is indiscernible over the storm.

Maybe she isn't useless after all.

The running exhausts me so much that I get a dreamless sleep, one of the best I've had in a long time. It's not a solution to my problems and is merely a delayer to actually fixing things, but I indulge in it occasionally, on the days were it's hard to look in the mirror. That happens quite often.

Rachel visits on Sunday. I haven't spoken to anyone since...last week, at the infamous spat? I don't know. Or care, really.

Busy in an attempt to make a stew, I sneak glances at her examining the house, taking everything in, silent and contemplative.

"Your mother's worried about you," she murmurs at last, watching for a reaction.

"Oh."

"I've missed you," Rachel admits, tentative. I gnaw on my lip, troubled.

The emotional distance between us is a chasm. It's my fault, I know, but I can't muster the drive to close the gap and open up to her. She's so different from me and the adjustment of experiencing things she will never understand deters any or all confessions. She walks the same, talks the same, acts and smiles the same. I don't. I walk carefully, quietly, always wary of an unseen obstacle, unlike her bold, thoughtless stride. I speak with veiled lies, keeping what I truly think and believe to myself. I hide whenever possible instead of seeking people out. I smile like I have shards of glass in my mouth. I smile without meaning or intent, while Rachel's smile expresses every feeling she can give. She's whole. I am not.

I've changed. She hasn't. I've yet to find a settlement that will work to regain what we've lost. My homecoming celebration to 7 was fine on its own, but being affectionate with Rachel without really understanding how I feel about her is unfair to both of us. As for now, it's at an impasse.

"What's that?" She asks when I don't reply, voice quavering. How do I apologize for my ignorance? I don't know my own feelings just yet.

"Stew," I mumble lamely, wishing I could soften the blow of my earlier lack of response. "It sucks."

Rachel leans over to take a sniff, shoulder pressed against mine. "I can help you...um, with this," she adds hurriedly. "If you want."

This discomfort, this tiptoeing around each other makes me sad. We've never been awkward before, not that I can recall.

"Can you just teach me how to cook?" I ask seriously.

Rachel's unexpected laughter fills my ears and a genuine smile lifts my lips.

"Definitely," she agrees, eyes warm. Our shared unease remains in the background but we've reached a concession, at least for now.

"Okay," I concede amusedly, handing her the ladle and pointing to the unsightly mix of vegetables and meat. "Fix it."

Rachel snickers.

She stays, showing me that throwing random ingredients into a pot and hoping for the best is actually not a good idea as I had once believed. Soon, we have a soup brewing that undoubtedly tastes delicious. Rachel works with my ineptitude easily, but demotes me to cutting vegetables.

I slice a carrot, perking up a bit when I hear her begin to hum. The sound is so sweet, I have to blink at the sudden burning in my eyes.

"Quinn?"

There isn't time to look away; Rachel sees my expression and rushes over, looking horrified.

"Are you okay?" She urges.

A flustered, tremulous laugh escapes me.

"Yeah, I just missed that a lot," I admit. Rachel grins.

"Me?"

"Of course," I smile, truthful. "Every day I was gone."

Rachel returns her to her work without a word, red-faced―like on Reaping Day―and I can almost pretend it's as if I never left.

Our dinner, once completed, is loads better than anything I've managed to make. I collect the dishes and place them in the sink to wash later on.

Rachel lingers in the living room, toying with her jacket. I unlace my apron, hesitating. Would asking her to stay be too much, too soon?

She's talking about something or another but the temptation to request her to spend the night is overwhelming and I blurt out: "Stay here?"

Guess not.

"What?"

"Can you...stay here with me? Tonight?" I question, embarrassed already. Rachel flushes.

"Here?" She asks unnecessarily. I don't say a word and wait. Rachel's studying me closely, searching for something, but I don't know what it is.

She sets down her jacket.

"Okay."

I lead Rachel upstairs, handing her a set of bedclothes to wear. She'll have to stay in my room as well; the spare rooms don't have any mattresses.

Turning around as Rachel changes, I can't help but blush at her chuckle. I wait until she gives the all clear. I climb under the blankets as she does on the other side and settle so I'm lying down on my back. Rachel copies me and I shiver a little, feeling the warmth emanating from her skin, only an inch away. There isn't much said between us but the silence is nice, almost lazy. The minutes of tranquility stretch on but as I feel my eyelids drooping, Rachel's fingers intwine with mine, squeezing a little under the sheet. I squeeze them back and she holds my hand close, rolling over so her back is to me. Understanding her wish, I shift, settling until my arm is draped over her hip and my body is angled to rest behind hers.

This intimacy is strange. I've been without it for so long. The adjustment is difficult. Awkwardness lingers but it lessens with time. Rachel's patience must be endless, because she doesn't balk at the discomfort and waits for me to relax. She runs her fingertips up and down the arm near her waist, the touch a tickle, until I can feel my body unwind. My embrace around her turns languid. I can see Rachel's smile stretch to her ears.

She continues her ministrations until I feel sleep coaxing me into darkness.

Her visit grants me the luxury of freedom from nightmares with no strings attached. No exhausting regimens to force some shuteye nor a fretful sleep riddled with terror, no, I am at ease for the entire night and stir in the morning without the customary fatigue weighing down on my eyes.

Rachel is asleep, still, so I make sure to be as quiet as possible when slipping out of bed and traipsing to the kitchen.

I peer out the window into the early sunlight, unable to stop a sigh from escaping my mouth. I don't know what's brought it on. Sadness or serenity, glumness or peace...it could be any of those feelings. It's just one of those days, I realize belatedly. One where I must grapple for security and anchor myself here, at home, when nothing can hurt me, where there isn't a pack of bloodthirsty Careers lurking about, searching for a kill.

Why now? My night was uneventful but I get stuck with this dullness. It's not fair.

"Quinn?"

I drop a stack of pans, hearing them clatter to the floor, utterly startled out of my wits. Rachel ambles over at once to help pick up the pile.

"Sorry," she says, gaze apologetic, "I woke up and you were gone."

"I was planning to make breakfast," I counter numbly, still reeling from the unexpected gloom that has affixed itself in my mind.

Rachel's brows knit together, picking up on the irregularity of my tone and says, "I can do it."

I let her work alone and sit on a stool, watching her move around the kitchen, assembling this and that to make us something to eat. She's humming again. The sound should soothe me, as it did before, but as I trace her movement with my eyes, watching the spinning of her figure, I get smacked with a vivid image of Harmony in a meadow, murmuring nonsense words to herself and spinning in circles during one of her episodes.

The similarities unnerve me yet again, as I compare my memory to reality. The smile. The energy. The look in the eyes, but not the iris color.

I haven't thought about Harmony in awhile. I've almost forgotten how she beams when she was coherent and engaged.

I haven't thought about Finn, either. The recollection of his laughter seems tinny and distorted, snatched away by time, Careers, and bad luck.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, and her face blurs, shifting between a vague, dreamy phantom to a concerned girl, expression unfathomable.

"Yeah," I lie, aching. The pain of the Games is a smarting twinge and I tune out Rachel's words, accepting the omelet she gives me in silence.

What can I do to fix this, if at all? Julia's running solution and Rachel's presence only work with ridding myself of nightmares but not on working through my troubles. I still get pulled into a wave of bitterness and regret without warning and am forced to tough it out until the spell passes.

I need to ask for Antony or Julia's opinion, urgently. Other victors will understand this predicament.

Rachel holds her tongue until it's around nine o'clock and she's about to leave, leveling me with a stare.

"You were fine last night," she says, quiet. "What happened?"

"I don't know."

"What can I do?"

"I don't know," I repeat helplessly. Rachel nods, her relief at yesterday's understanding already gone, replaced with grim disappointment.

"Okay."

"Sorry," I mumble, desperate. "I'm trying to make this work."

"I know you are. Do whatever you can," Rachel encourages, tiny smile on her lips, clasping our hands together. "I just miss you, that's all."

"I'm right here," I argue lamely. She shakes her head.

"No, you aren't. Not yet."

Rachel walks away without waiting for a reply and I sigh, closing the door behind her. She's right. I'm not one hundred percent focused on anything, always mentally drifting between the past and the present, often abruptly, and leaving those around me in frustration and sympathy.

I miss our old closeness, more so than before. I miss the feeling of knowing where we stand. Nowadays, our communication is strained and weak.

Rallied for a goal, I brush my teeth quickly, drag a brush through my hair, and find some clean clothes. I rush outside, almost sprinting to the furthest occupied house in Victor's Village. The lights are on, thankfully. I knock on the front door, rapping it so hard, my knuckles begin to hurt. It takes me several seconds to I realize that I'm hitting Antony square in the chest, and he glares with bleary eyes. I withdraw my hand, apologetic.

"What?" He grumbles.

"Can I talk to you?" I ask awkwardly, feeling suddenly small. Antony steps aside and I flit past the threshold, surprised that he had agreed.

His house is identical to mine, I notice as I glance around, but the furnishings are a little different, considering he's lived here longer and has a different taste. Antony walks to the kitchen and I follow, finding Julia at the table, sipping a cup of tea. She doesn't look too startled to see me.

"Hi," I greet.

"Morning," Julia replies, expressionless. Antony and I sit and for a minute, they wait for me to say something, silent and expectant.

"I'm not doing well," I admit, nodding in acknowledgement when Anthony passes me a cup of steaming tea, returning to his seat. The words begin to tumble out, unbidden and uncontrollable, as the constricted feeling in my chest lessens with each professed truth. Home for less than two weeks, I have yet to get settled and keep struggling with ghosts of my experience in the Games, unable to properly work through them. I feel trapped, I explain, feeling their eyes studying me without judgement. I want to get over this, but I'm stuck. I can't move forward. I can't heal.

Healing will solve everything. Healing will bring back what Rachel and I shared. Healing will help me learn not to punish myself so harshly. The last note is a recent realization. Not everything in the Games was my fault. I had a fair share of mistakes and bumbled blindly through the arena's evils, but I could not prevent several things that occurred. The attacks of the Careers, the Flytrap...such events were out of my hands. The guilt is still present but not overwhelming nor all consuming. I can separate myself from it, at least for awhile. I can see that I am not entirely at fault.

"This might come as a shock but you'll never actually get over it," Julia says. "I'm not. Antony isn't...we still have plenty of trouble handling it all."

"Oh."

My shoulders sink.

Antony elbows Julia reprovingly.

"It isn't as bad as it sounds," he remarks, shooting Julia a frown. "You get better at managing yourself, in time."

"How?" I ask, puzzled.

"Talking about it, like we are now," he answers. "With the ones you love. They won't understand most of what you're saying, like the times where you want to curl up and hide for days on end, or the ones where you're so angry, you want to break things. But they will listen, because they care. They'll listen to you because they know you're still in pain. There isn't one person in Panem that doesn't know about the ramifications of the Games. The issue is that most disregard it, like Capitol orders us to. Except the people you trust. They will be patient, hopefully, for your benefit."

His explanation is so obvious, I feel a bit embarrassed. I should've realized that before. Elaborating on how I feel will make things a lot easier.

Maybe that's why nobody's asked about my time in Capitol or in the arena, not once. They were just waiting for me to bring it up myself.

I stir my tea, silent for a minute. I wonder how I can bring this up to my family and friends, most of who I haven't spoken to in awhile.

"What about the nightmares?" I ask. Julia looks sullen. Antony looks resigned.

"They won't go away," my mentor says, almost inaudibly. "But that's expected. A trauma that repeats itself year after year won't just disappear."

"I exercise to ward them off," Antony chimes in. "When you're that tired, you don't usually get bad dreams."

"Find a hobby," Julia instructs. "It keeps you occupied during the day, or sometimes at night, depending on the hobby. But if that can't hold your attention during tough times, talk when you're upset and be alone when it's too much to deal with. I know victors are supposed to be invincible and people to admire, but it's impossible for someone to both deal with their inner demons and keep up a facade. You can't. We can't. No one can."

"We're slaves to the Games, Quinn," Antony proclaims, grave. "They are inescapable. We can only learn to adapt and grow past our low spirits."

"You can't get over them," Julia adds. "You can't forget them. But if you let others know how you're feeling, days will become less of a struggle."

"But it feels like I need a crutch," I argue. "I don't want to depend on people to get by."

"You're not depending on them. You're letting them in occasionally and see a glimpse of what you feel. It's very different," Antony counters.

"Will they think less of me?" I query, voice small and afraid. That fear one of my biggest concerns, ever since I killed Blaine. Julia purses her lips.

"Maybe. But if they love you enough, it won't matter what you did, like what any other tributes have done. It will matter that you're home."

I absorb this with a nod, mind cleared. All I can do is open up and let everyone see what they can do to help me get through the day.

Thanking the pair of them for the advice, and the tea, I part with a wave, rubbing my arms at the wind that hits me, once I reach the street.

What to do, now? What can I do that will actually start my campaign on moving past things? What's my primary dilemma at this moment?

It's not until I'm walking from the Village do I realize where I'm standing. Rarely do I go here. No reason to, before. Nobody I know would lie here.

But today, there is a cause. I have someone I love in this place, waiting to be visited. He's been waiting for a long time. Three weeks or so, maybe.

Biting my lip, I push at the gate of the only graveyard and pull it shut behind me.

My grandparents are buried somewhere in this site, but both sets died when I was very young, so I deign from walking to their graves. My eyes flit around, searching for a new pile of soil. There, on the far left, by an oak tree. My feet carry me quickly, shoes slipping a bit on the morning dew. The sight of Finn's name etched in the stone makes a lump rise in my throat. His funeral must've happened when I was still stuck in the arena.

Uncaring of ruining my pants, I sink to my knees. My fingers grasp a handful of dirt and I inhale a deep breath, but it doesn't calm me down.

"Hi, Finn," I greet softly. His gravestone is simple and basic. Not a lot on it. Not enough words to make people remember who Finn Hudson was.

I transfer clumps of earth back and forth between my hands, fumbling to correctly reveal my thoughts, like Julia and Antony said I should do.

"I miss you," I get out, looking at my lap. "It's...really hard waking up and realizing that you won't hang out with me because you aren't around anymore. I keep expecting us to meet in the backyard and look at the clouds again, or go to school together and sing with Rachel and everyone else. I don't know if I'll ever get used to you being gone. It's just...you were always here and now it's like I'm missing something. I can't get it back because there isn't someone that ever can take your spot," I add, voice quavering. "It's so hard to remember that. It's so hard to miss you."

"I hope I can get to a good place with you. I want...I want to think of you and be happy that you lived and how you were my best friend and not be upset that you died. That's it, there. You died and it sounds so wrong. I just...you're dead and gone and you're never coming back and I can't ever joke around with you or let you copy my homework anymore. I don't know if I can ever accept it. I should but...I, I won, for you, like you said," I choke, groping desperately for a new topic. "I came home. I'm sorry that I couldn't take you with me. I bet you'd love the party. You deserved it more than I did, anyway."

I don't speak for a second, rubbing my stinging eyes.

"Rachel and I...I don't know what we are," I admit. "But I care about her a lot. I hope I can make myself good enough for her. I'm getting there."

The wind ruffles my hair, almost consolingly. There isn't much else to say, I suppose. Finn died knowing my apologies. He's still free, unlike I am.

I stand up and brush off my knees, folding my arms over my chest to quell the building sobs. The ache is horribly painful and seems to be endless.

"Sorry I couldn't save you," I say hoarsely, looking down at his grave. The situation finally hits me. I'm taller than Finn. In life, he towered over me. Now, I dwarf him. Or the body. It lies underneath me, but it's just a corpse. My Finn has vanished. "But you're home, like you should be. Where you belong."

"Thanks for giving this ring to me. Thanks for caring about me so much and thanks for just...being you," I conclude, voice cracking. "Bye."

Tears begin to fall but I let them. Breaths are tedious and severe. I ache everywhere. I feel raw but that's good. I'm not burdened with his shadow anymore.

I walk away as I did in the arena, but this time, I am lighter and sadder.

Carole seems to know where I was when I stop at her house. We sit on her porch for awhile, rocking chairs creaking a little.

She smiles cheerlessly when I hold out her husband's ring, but shakes her head in refusal. She has enough possessions to remember her men.

"Keep it," she says, one hand on my shoulder. "He would've wanted you to have it."

I wait a day before I attempt something more. I don't want to overexert myself.

The following dawn―the early hour revealing my restlessness―I just about run to my old house and rap on the front door.

As soon as my mother appears in the doorway, tying a bathrobe around herself, blinking in tired confusion and astonishment, I throw my arms around her and babble apologies in her ear, holding on as tight as I can while she stumbles a little before embracing me back. I blurt out anything that comes to mind, desperate for her forgiveness. Sorry for being so absent, sorry for yelling at her, sorry for leaving, sorry for being so ungrateful. She cries and I cry and we're a complete mess until we can compose ourselves. I'd feel embarrassed for the lack of dignity and break in my decision to be tough, but Julia and Antony's words rattle around in my head. I should let this happen. Mom loves me and wants to help.

I spend the day with my parents, sister, John, and my nephews. We don't have a huge talk but I explain over dinner that sometimes I'll need them and sometimes I won't. It's unpredictable and flighty, so I doubt they will understand entirely. Sometimes I'll seek any one of them out, depending on my mood, and ask for chatter or silence. Maybe whoever's I pick will take a walk with me or just sit while we do absolutely nothing.

I'm not repaired. I won't ever be. The Games broke me and rebuilding is not an easy process, nor can I wholly complete it. I lost part of myself in the arena and it can never be returned. I compare it to replacing a damaged table leg. The substitute can't compensate for the original and it's not the same, but you manage it. I'm not myself. I'm not Old Quinn or Victor Quinn but some amalgamation of both. Quinn Fabray, recovering tribute.

I decline a companion for the walk back to my house, but the solitude is welcome. I've covered a lot of ground, mentally.

Being composed isn't an issue anymore. I know Julia and Antony are right. Sometimes I can lean on people. Sometimes it's okay to be weak.

Letting myself rely on others is part of the coping procedure, according to Charlotte's infinite, twenty-two year old wisdom.

I allow another break when I talk to Puck, Brittany, and Santana. Those three were one of the many I avoided most. They get it, though. The four of us spend time together while Rachel's still at school, being tutored in some subject. It gets awkward but we push through it and I answer a few questions, like how I felt in moments in the arena, watching the Games recap, dealing with Capitol people and wearing the elaborate costumes.

The issue of not returning to school doesn't surprise them. They suspected of it already. Me at school again, Brittany says, would be an odd picture.

Santana wonders if I'm at a good place. I shrug. I really don't know right now. Maybe. I'm not as guilty as I was. Not as remorseful, just at ease.

"I have an idea," she wheedles, "but you might not like it."

"A haircut?" I blurt out in a yelp, when Santana returns, armed with an old pair of scissors. Puck chuckles, lounging on the couch.

"Yeah," Brittany smiles. "It's like...you're not you. You've changed a lot. Cutting your hair shows everybody that you're...different now."

"And that's a good thing?" I question, batting away Santana's hands.

When Puck nods, wearing an uncharacteristically serious expression, I cave in.

I wait alone for Rachel outside the school about an hour later, goosebumps rising on my neck. Santana chopped about four inches off (cackling as she did, joined by Puck and Brittany in response to my horrified face), so instead of my hair reaching the very top of my ribcage, it tickles the skin of my shoulders. It's a strange adjustment to get used to and I have to hold in laughter when Rachel exits the building and zooms toward me.

"Wow, Quinn," she mumbles, surprised. Her gaze lingers on me and I grin at her blush. She withdraws her hand, stopping herself from running her hand through it. She's wearing red today―raincoat, boots, headband―and I remember wearing a similar headband on the train to Capitol.

"What do you think?" I ask, eyes dancing. Rachel scowls.

"It's nice."

"Only nice?"

"It suits you," she admits in a grumble. "Happy?"

"Very happy," I acquiesce, linking our fingers together. Rachel smiles a little.

We walk for a ways in silence and I swing our arms in the air, rewarded with her melodious laugh.

Things seem simpler now that I've worked through some things and acknowledged what I need to do. Not all, but enough to feel more comfortable around her. I don't have a label for us yet, but Rachel doesn't mind. As long as we're together, she says, then it's fine. I agree.

I successfully make something edible for our dinner tonight, product of my new hobby, and Rachel cheers mockingly with a kiss to my cheek.

"Excellent work," she teases.

"Why thank you," I jeer. Rachel snickers.

She's allowed to spend the night but we aren't very tired, so we lie down, talking for awhile. I give her the same speech I gave to everyone else.

"Sometimes I'll need you with me, others not," I point out, leaning all weight on my elbow. She's lying on her side beside me but watching intently, gaze electrifying, like her touches and kisses. "I might randomly ask you to go running with me in a thunderstorm or something. Or stay in the kitchen and watch me cook. I don't know. I don't even know how I'll feel tomorrow, to be honest. I just need you to be here to help."

"I will," Rachel promises, and kisses me.

It's a promise more than a token of affection, but I appreciate it just as much, reveling in the elated feeling she creates by just being herself.

Rachel's fingers tug playfully on her necklace around my throat when she pulls away, leveling a smile in my direction.

"Still wearing this, aren't you?" She asks as she regains her breath, amused, hand gently grazing my skin beneath the chain.

"Can I keep it?" I ask longingly. "It's gotten me this far and I really―"

"Of course," Rachel interrupts quickly, catching me at the very cusp of an approaching bad mood. "It's yours now."

I sigh, smiling in relief. "Thanks."

It's silent for a second and I find a comfortable position, Rachel cuddled up against my side. I wouldn't mind living exactly like this forever.

Can I? I wonder, toying with a tress of her dark hair while Rachel traces nonsense patterns along my arm, breaths warm against my collarbone.

Can I stay at peace like this with Rachel, living in my house, together? I might love her. Not yet, but I will allow myself to eventually. Once I'm happier with my progress. The feelings are there and strong, though, pressing in on our conversations like a storm. I catch my eyes landing and lingering on her constantly, along with my mind. There isn't a single day where my thoughts don't stray to her once. I admire everything about her and only hope that I am enough for her. Being a victor means little in this case; it's what I can do to show my regard that will hold Rachel.

"What are you thinking about?" She mumbles, drowsy.

"You," I admit. She smiles adorably without opening her eyes.

"Interesting," she murmurs, opening her eyes and sending me a suggestive look. I laugh.

"Whatever you say, Rach."

"Whatever I say?" She parrots, climbing so she's straddling my hips, hands placed on either side of my head, wearing a mischievous grin.

"Uh―" I squeak.

"Nah," she muses, resuming her old spot before I can stop her. "You're right. Too soon."

"That was unfair," I grumble in displeasure, and she laughs.

This is what I've been missing for so long. Our easy, light-hearted repartee, punctuated by kisses and sweet words, like on the eve of Reaping Day.

We fall asleep not long afterwards, hands interlaced between us.

Rachel shepherds me downstairs in the morning and I sit silently as she makes breakfast, humming yet again. I smile.

This isn't a hard life to live. The two of us, here, working through each day one step at a time. I have awhile to go before it's acceptable, though. There are plenty of things I haven't addressed yet, like the four Careers and that other boy who I killed in the arena, on the first day. Those ghosts are still locked inside, whispering poison in my ears and making my stomach flip with terrible regret, forcing me into hiding and thus, suffer. I haven't settled with the memories of them, but I will at some point. The Victory Tour will just bring new pain when I visit the districts, but I can push past the grief. I may not be strong enough at home, but to others, elsewhere, I am Quinn Fabray, victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games.

I possess numerous distractions. Hobbies, activities, people...I'm not alone, not anymore, like in the arena. Company is something I own now.

And Rachel. I value her above everything else.

Capitol may have crippled my mind but I can rebuild, with the help of people who care enough to be shoulders for me to lean on.

I started these Games as just Quinn from District 7, frightened and trapped in the Games with my best friend with twenty-two tributes aiming for the same goal. Since then, I fought my way out, losing Finn in the process and Harmony, an ally I treasured for sentimental reasons. Sent home broken and sad but crowned as Quinn Fabray, a victor, an icon to admire, I was able and fortunate enough to have a mentor―and the mentor of my best friend―to begin my push toward recovery. Assisted by my family, friends, and Rachel, I've come a long way in a matter of months.

This isn't an end. The Games have not ended and will not end. Still faced with them, I will be stuck training children like myself in several years.

I must keep moving, and I will. If the arena has taught me a single thing, it is to continue on, even if things get difficult.

"My dad wants you over for dinner," Rachel says from the stove. "How's Tuesday?"

"Tuesday's fine," I answer sincerely. She smiles a little, returning to her work.

There'll be bad days and good days, that much is obvious. But as I watch the figure of my little songstress move around the kitchen, mumbling lyrics under her breath to a beat only she knows, I rest easy, because I know with completely certainty if I wake during the night in a cold terror, shaking with the remnants of a nightmare, I will always have someone to anchor me in the present. I am not alone and I never will be again.

The Games insist on a lonely victor and Capitol endorses a solitary champion. Such a practice creates isolation for the winner. That will not be me.

I am Quinn Fabray, victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games, but alone I am not. Here, at home, is my sanctuary, and here I have dependable allies.

"What are you smiling about?" Rachel asks when we've finished eating and walking outside, along the very boundaries of 7.

"Nothing," I reply, stopping to examine a large sycamore. I can hear Finn's amused voice in my mind, pointing at one made of clouds in the sky.

"What are you thinking about?" Rachel presses, squeezing my fingers.

"Climbing this. Come on," I goad, teasing. "Let's go. Once we're up there, I can tell you about my good friend Lysander."

"The stylist?"

"Yeah."

Rachel climbs up after me without complaint, and we sit on a branch, looking to the heavens. I look to the future, and it is as steady and stable as my crown.