The Hunger Games (The Hunger Games, #1)

by Suzanne Collins

“You have to win,” she says. “I’m going to. Going to win for both of us now,” I promise.

But if this is Prim’s, I mean, Rue’s last request, I have to at least try.

It’s old, very old I think. Made up long ago in our hills.

Past harm, but seeming utterly defenseless. To hate the boy from District 1, who also appears so vulnerable in death, seems inadequate. It’s the Capitol I hate, for doing this to all of us.

Rue’s death has forced me to confront my own fury against the cruelty, the injustice they inflict upon us. But here, even more strongly than at home, I feel my impotence. There’s no way to take revenge on the Capitol. Is there? Then I remember Peeta’s words on the roof. “Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to . . . to show the Capitol they don’t own me. That I’m more than just a piece in their Games.” And for the first time, I understand what he means. I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them accountable, to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a part of every tribute they can’t own. That Rue was more than a piece in their Games. And so am I.

But I told Rue I’d be there. For both of us. And somehow that seems even more important than the vow I gave Prim.

I hear Gale saying, “How different can it be, really?” Amazingly similar in the execution. A bow pulled, an arrow shot. Entirely different in the aftermath.

Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It’s the final word in camouflage.

“Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl. You and me, we’re even then. No more owed. You understand?” I nod because I do understand. About owing. About hating it. I understand that if Thresh wins, he’ll have to go back and face a district that has already broken all the rules to thank me, and he is breaking the rules to thank me, too.

The last thing I remember is an exquisitely beautiful green-and-silver moth landing on the curve of my wrist.

I know I’ll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there’s one thing being a victor doesn’t guarantee, it’s your children’s safety. My kids’ names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else’s. And I swear I’ll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises,

“Hold them out. I want everyone to see,” he says.