Note: I own none of the characters mentioned in this story; they are all property of Suzanne Collins.

This one-shot is kind of like a prequel to my previous fanfiction, "How to Drown", which is written in Katniss' POV, so if you enjoy this little piece of work, you might like that.

Comments and reviews are always welcome!

O brave soldier march away

For beneath your feet spreads soil

That buries where our home lay

O my soldier won't you stay

There's an old melody they used to sing in the Seam, about those who fought in the Dark Days. It was made up of three ballads, and they floated across generations of District Twelve, being whispered in secret or screamed out in the open.

Today they float in my mind, and as the train conductor stands before me, I nearly spit them at him before realizing he asked me a question.

"District?"

"Excuse me?"

He sighs, as if the weight of the day is enough for him to shut up and leave. "Which District are you heading for?"

The reality of where I am fades into view. Standing with nothing on my back or in my hand, in front of the train station parked in Twelve. I was supposed to have collected all my belongings, ready to head for Two. My suitcases were already packed and boarded onto the cargo car, ready to be taken to the richest district in Panem.

The very sight of the conductor standing with his arms crossed, annoyed with the stupid man standing in front of him, is enough to make my jaw stiff and my hands clench.

"I'll walk," I mutter to him.

It's his turn to watch me in disbelief. "Walk?"

"Yeah." I step off the platform in front of the train doors. "Walking. It's fairly simple to understand."

I hear him swearing behind me even when I leave the station. They sound like accusations, words spat across open air and slammed right into my back, for everyone to see.

It seems as though everyone is thinking of what I've done, whispering and stealing glances. Who wouldn't? I should be their hero. A brave soldier home from war. That's what I am, isn't it?

Murderer.

Apparently not.

O brave soldier stay a while

So you see what you've done

You tore from us all our smiles

And of our lives grew your pile

I take a route through the woods. I know I won't be able to make it to Two on foot, but perhaps I can get as far as Ten, from where I'll board the train.

Each step taken farther away from my home feels heavier. I don't know why I'm leaving. I don't know why I can't stay.

All I know is that I shouldn't.

The ballads sigh in my head like circles, running round and round until they dizzy and fall and stand right back up again. I was never good at singing. Singing is something beautiful, and I cannot do it. I don't believe I'm capable of beauty after it's been destroyed by my own hands.

Oh brave soldier.

Katniss was always so good at it. She didn't sing, exactly; singing is too meagre a word to use. It was the way each word would escape her mouth like a breath, dangle in the air for a split second when the whole world was frozen, and then float away like the very bird she was named to become.

It was beautiful.

Years ago, I was the only one who would hear her, in the woods. I was her best friend and she trusted me with her voice.

And I can still hear her eyes screaming out a question, for which I had no answer.

Was it your bomb?

Dammit, why didn't I answer?

It's like I can hear all their voices at once, calling out inside my head. I can see Prim's lips forming her name, Snow's clever smile stretched and covered with blood, Coin's eyes looking into mine as she nods and thinks, yes, I will use you.

And it hurts, oh it hurts worse than being whipped. I swear to God I can feel each and every single child's breath clawing at my back, dragging them behind me and scratching my spine with words that slip and fall on the ground beneath my feet.

Murderer.

I'm kidding myself. Of course it my bomb. It had to be, of course it did. I was the one who walked up to Coin, back straight and chest puffed out with pride. I was the one who announced the very design that destroyed the rebellion and brought Coin's plan to life. And now look at me, walking frozen in the middle of a forest with nothing but words inside my head and behind my feet and on my lips.

PTSD was for those who fought and had something to maul over.

I had nothing.

Yet I still walk.

O soldier you have no home

Now march away and find a new

We need not here for you to roam

For into a toy you have grown

The amusing part is that I used to be sitting in the Meadow beside her, cursing at the brutality that splashed across the televisions and books and news about the Hunger Games. I used to be so unconditionally livid at the way they took children and delicately placed them inside a game, and watch them all fall like dominoes.

One after another, falling. Down, down, down, until there was only one child. Sometimes they would be only twelve years old, and bathed in the blood of twenty-three other lives that harmed no one, and deserved nothing as horrid as what had been done to them.

And just a few months ago, I was standing in a laboratory, brewing a murder without knowing it. I'm no better than the Capitol.

I will use you.

The ballad was of a soldier, who after the war wanted to return home. But instead of welcoming him with open arms, they snatched as many words as they could and threw them at him, driving him away, but not before he saw what he had really done to them.

Why would they teach that to children?

As I walk through the forest bordering my home, I realize what I've been refusing to understand this whole time. And when I do, each step becomes useless; each breath becomes a raging scream. I turn to the nearest tree and drive my fist against it, striking again and again until the numb thumping against bark turns into howls that escape my mouth. I drop to my knees and drag my knuckles along the rough surface, hitting it one last time before falling against the tree, exhausted.

Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid

I hold my hands up in front of me, covered in blood. Somehow, it doesn't seem like mine. Instead, I see her blood, little Prim who used to laugh when I tugged at her long blond braids after bringing home game. It drips down my arms and falls to the ground, staining me with that same word again.

Murderer.

And then it disappears entirely, and instead of flesh, I stare at plastic. Every part of me is just a goddamn piece of plastic, standing and moving only to the command of someone else.

I rest my head against the tree, closing my eyes and stretching my lips into an ironic smile.

Today I'm walking away from everything that ever mattered to me, and if that isn't the hardest thing I've ever done, I don't know what is. But maybe it counts for something.

And maybe it's enough.