the ruler [THE HUNGER GAMES]¹

Seven.

CLOVE looks just as she did the day I sent her into the arena. The Capitol, as if the Games weren't bad enough already, have cleaned her of the scars she had gained in the time she spent in there. Her hair has been tidied up and put back into a bubble braid. They've changed her into a clean version of the clothes she was given to go in with. Even now, as I lean over the side of the wooden box they will send her home in, I can't get over how sick it is. I would like to think it is shame that makes them groom the dead tributes before they go home, but I know it's just because they are not deemed pretty enough for the Capitol eye anymore. That's why my bruised neck had to be healed before I could go into interviews last year. Why they still do hours of prep on me any time I'm meant to appear on TV.

"Miss Cutler? Can we confirm that this is your tribute, Clove Kentwell, age fifteen, of District Two?" A nurse clad in all-white uniform and holding a clear clipboard asks me from the other side of the coffin. If she is feeling any emotion, I can not see it under the surgical mask that she wears.

"Yes," I croak out in something barely above a whisper. I clear my throat and then nod to make my response more clear, "yes. It's her."

"Thank you," she scribbles something on the clipboard and then hooks it on the end of Clove's box before pulling a blanket up over her face. I get my very last glimpse at Clove before she's gone forever. Two Avox's put the top on her coffin and bolt it down. I am guided to a table by the nurse and she asks me to sign off on Clove's death certificate. After all the legal work is done I am kicked out onto the street.

Capitol people rush past me. I am just an obstruction to them. Some poor, distraught victor standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Nobody stops to check I am okay, and I'm glad because I don't want their pity. I make my way back to the tribute's centre, walking through the large revolving doors into the lobby which houses a bar that is strictly for people on games business. Mentors, Capitol representatives, prep teams and stylists. A peacekeeper stands by on the entrance with a list of names allowed in. Before I won the games, I would not have been allowed alcohol until I turned eighteen. I've heard that in outlying districts the rules are less strict, but for peak tribute form alcohol is strictly controlled within Two. However, now I've won the Games, I am free to consume whatever I wish.

"Fawn Cutler," I say to the peacekeeper. He runs his name down a list, pretending to check, but he instantly knows who I am. I won only a year ago. He would have to live under a rock to not know me. He unclips a red rope that allows people in and out of the bar and bows to me respectfully to tell me I can pass.

The lounge is fairly busy for a Wednesday evening. With five tributes left, but no escort teams allowed back to their respective districts until the Games end, there are a lot of free victors to mingle and talk about our shared unique trauma. I haven't been down here yet. A mixture of shyness and being too busy has stopped me from venturing into the unknown, but all I want now is a drink.