Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3)

by Suzanne Collins

I’m still not entirely convinced that I was hallucinating the night the floor of my hospital room transformed into a carpet of writhing snakes.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me. Peeta was taken prisoner. He is thought to be dead. Most likely he is dead. It is probably best if he is dead. . . .

It was my arrow, aimed at the chink in the force field surrounding the arena, that brought on this firestorm of retribution. That sent the whole country of Panem into chaos.

More than ninety percent of the district’s population is dead.

But, of course, I hate almost everybody now. Myself more than anyone.

It’s not wondering what I breathe in, but who, that threatens to choke me.

I could just disappear into the woods and never look back.

it was the center of the Capitol’s nuclear weapons development program.

They would play dead in exchange for being left alone.

One of my few pleasures in 13 is watching the handful of pampered Capitol “rebels” squirming as they try to fit in.

“So . . . you’re calling for a cease-fire?” Caesar asks. “Yes. I’m calling for a cease-fire,”

“Katniss, I’m not arguing. If I could hit a button and kill every living soul working for the Capitol, I would do it.

Foreshadowing

In some ways, District 13 is even more controlling than the Capitol.

Frankly, our ancestors don’t seem much to brag about. I mean, look at the state they left us in, with the wars and the broken planet. Clearly, they didn’t care about what would happen to the people who came after them. But this republic idea sounds like an improvement over our current government.

The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That’s how they recognize me, why I belong to them.

Miners don’t abandon an accident until it’s hopeless.

“I want to tell people that if you think for one second the Capitol will treat us fairly if there’s a cease-fire, you’re deluding yourself.

You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?” One of the cameras follows as I point to the planes burning on the roof of the warehouse across from us. The Capitol seal on a wing glows clearly through the flames. “Fire is catching!” I am shouting now, determined that he will not miss a word. “And if we burn, you burn with us!”

The healthy, clear-eyed boy I saw a few days ago has lost at least fifteen pounds and developed a nervous tremor in his hands.

When I ask Plutarch about his absence, he just shakes his head and says, “He couldn’t face it.”

“I think his actual words were ‘I couldn’t face it without a bottle,’ ”

I have not sung “The Hanging Tree” out loud for ten years, because it’s forbidden, but I remember every word.

“Peeta, this is your home. None of your family has been heard of since the bombing. Twelve is gone. And you’re calling for a cease-fire?” I look across the emptiness. “There’s no one left to hear you.”

“I knew you’d kiss me.” “How?” I say. Because I didn’t know myself. “Because I’m in pain,” he says. “That’s the only way I get your attention.”