Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3)

by Suzanne Collins

“Me, too,” I admit. But I don’t know what to tell him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you.

Finally, the intercom crackles and Haymitch’s acerbic laugh fills the studio. He contains himself just long enough to say, “And that, my friends, is how a revolution dies.”

It’s amazing, really, how long I have survived the cameras. The credit for that, of course, goes to Peeta. Alone, I can’t be the Mockingjay.

For a second, I’m afraid he’s dying. I have to remind myself that I don’t care.

Seam eyes. Gray and deep and ringed with the circles of sleepless nights. “He’s not dead yet, Katniss.” “We’re still in the game.” I try to say this with optimism, but my voice cracks.

take in Finnick — his bare legs showing between his hospital gown and slippers, his tangle of hair, the half-knotted rope twisted around his fingers, the wild look in his eyes — and know any plea on my part will be useless. Even I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring him. So I smack my hand on my forehead and say, “Oh, I forgot. It’s this stupid concussion. I was supposed to tell you to report to Beetee in Special Weaponry. He’s designed a new trident for you.”

FINNICK

Then he whips off his hospital gown, leaving him in just his underwear. “Why? Do you find this”— he strikes a ridiculously provocative pose —“distracting?” I can’t help laughing because it’s funny, and it’s extra funny because it makes Boggs look so uncomfortable, and I’m happy because Finnick actually sounds like the guy I met at the Quarter Quell.

“Well, don’t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.” I decide to go ahead and like Boggs.

“We’re going to form a republic where the people of each district and the Capitol can elect their own representatives to be their voice in a centralized government. Don’t look so suspicious; it’s worked before.”

Cinna, it seems, has thought of everything.

You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?”

“Fire is catching!” I am shouting now, determined that he will not miss a word. “And if we burn, you burn with us!”

“I’ll keep the earpiece in!” I say, loud enough to wake up half the hospital.

FINE DAD

Peeta’s physical transformation shocks me. 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. They’ve still got him groomed. But underneath the paint that cannot cover the bags under his eyes, and the fine clothes that cannot conceal the pain he feels when he moves, is a person badly damaged.

They look relieved. They believe us. No one mentions Peeta.

But if Plutarch thinks it’s just the Capitol line, why didn’t he tell me about it? Why hasn’t anyone let me or Finnick know?

Our eyes lock, and I realize how furious I am with Gale. That I don’t believe for a second that he didn’t see Peeta’s propo. That I feel completely betrayed that he didn’t tell me about it. We know each other too well for him not to read my mood and guess what has caused it.

I don’t care. I’m sick of people lying to me for my own good. Because really it’s mostly for their own good.

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

This is a private place, a sanctuary, already corrupted by the Capitol’s evil. Even after we’ve left behind the charred stumps near the fence, we’re still tripping over decomposing bodies. Do we have to record it for everyone to see?

My guess is it’s the first conversation he’s had in years. Music draws mockingjays like blossoms do bees, and in a short while he’s got half a dozen of them perched in the branches over our heads. He taps me on the arm and uses a twig to write a word in the dirt. SING?

I have not sung “The Hanging Tree” out loud for ten years, because it’s forbidden, but I remember every word. I begin softly, sweetly, as my father did.

Peeta’s right. They do fall silent when I sing. Just as they did for my father.

This makes me SOB

But that’s it. Last verse. In the stillness I remember the scene. I was home from a day in the woods with my father.

not knowing the real meaning of the words.

So, of course, every word was immediately, irrevocably branded into my brain.

because his corpse called out for her to flee.

He’s still in the hanging tree. And even though he told his lover to flee, he keeps asking if she’s coming to meet him.

But then you wonder if he meant for her to run to him. To death. In the final stanza, it’s clear that that’s what he’s waiting for. His lover, with her rope necklace, hanging dead next to him in the tree.

And Pollux has tears running down his cheeks because no doubt my freaky song has dredged up some terrible incident in his life. Great. I sigh and lean back against the trunk. That’s when the mockingjays begin their rendition of “The Hanging Tree.” In their mouths, it’s quite beautiful. Conscious of being filmed, I stand quietly until I hear Cressida call, “Cut!”

The glue of mutual need that bonded us so tightly together for all those years is melting away.

She never loved Gale in the way she loves Peeta

“There’s no one left to hear you.”

DAMN

“This is where you kissed me.”

“Maybe I’ll be like that man in ‘The Hanging Tree.’ Still waiting for an answer.”

“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.” He picks up the box. “Don’t worry, Katniss. It’ll pass.” He leaves before I can answer.

WHAT

The camera pulls back to include Peeta, off to one side in front of a projected map of Panem.

But it’s the look in his eyes — angry yet unfocused — that frightens me the most.

He has seen me on the monitor. He tries to pick up his speech by moving on to the bombing of a water purification plant, when a clip of Finnick talking about Rue replaces him.

Not in the districts. And you . . . in Thirteen . . .” He inhales sharply, as if fighting for air; his eyes look insane. “Dead by morning!”

PEETA

The impact of the blow that’s inseparable from Peeta’s cry of pain. And his blood as it splatters the tiles.

The scream begins in my lower back and works its way up through my body only to jam in my throat. I am Avox mute, choking on my grief.

But this is 13 and that doesn’t happen.

Eyes on the forest, not on the trees. Not on Peeta’s punishment or 13’s imminent blasting. “Katniss, obviously this is a bad moment for you, what with Peeta’s setback, but you need to be aware that others will be watching you.”

It’s all I can do not to slap him.

I knot the pearl into the corner of the parachute, bury it deep in the recesses of the bag, as if it’s Peeta’s life and no one can take it away as long as I guard it.

This is the sort of future a rebellion could bring.

“If he does, he won’t have anyone left you want. He won’t have any way to hurt you.”

“Whatever it takes to break you.”

And it’s under the weight of this revelation that I truly begin to break.

The pain over my heart returns, and from it I imagine tiny fissures spreading out into my body. Through my torso, down my arms and legs, over my face, leaving it crisscrossed with cracks. One good jolt of a bunker missile and I could shatter into strange, razor-sharp shards.