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“When I’d watch you kissing him on the screen. Only I knew I wasn’t being entirely fair. He can’t see that.”
Roses. Wolf mutts. Tributes. Frosted dolphins. Friends. Mockingjays. Stylists. Me.
possible. Because an angry, independently thinking victor with a layer of psychological scar tissue too thick to penetrate is maybe the last person you want on your squad.
A token of the boy with the bread.
That I’m of more use to her dead than alive.
“But you’ll throw support to someone. Would it be President Coin? Or someone else?”
“If your immediate answer isn’t Coin, then you’re a threat. You’re the face of the rebellion. You may have more influence than any other single person,”
“Outwardly, the most you’ve ever done is ...
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If you’d been taken by the Capitol, and hijacked, and then tried to kill Peeta, is this the way he would be treating you?”
“You and me, we made a deal to try and save him. Remember?”
“These last couple of years must have been exhausting for you. Trying to decide whether to kill me or not. Back and forth. Back and forth.”
“Friend. Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. I’ll add it to the list of words I use to try to figure you out.”
“The problem is, I can’t tell what’s real anymore, and what’s made up.”
Finnick’s voice rises from a bundle in the shadows. “Then you should ask, Peeta. That’s what Annie does.”
Worthless. I’m worthless.
But more words tumble out. “You’re a painter. You’re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.”
Jackson has devised a game called “Real or Not Real” to help Peeta.
When I look up, I see it has taken Gale differently. His expression says that there are not enough mountains to crush, enough cities to destroy. It promises death.
But his next words are an order. “The Holo.”
“Don’t trust them. Don’t go back. Kill Peeta. Do what you came to do.”
“Our next move . . . is to kill me.”
I’ve never seen myself like that before. Katniss is right. I’m the monster. I’m the mutt. I’m the one Snow has turned into a weapon!”
The one where the man wants his lover dead rather than have her face the evil that awaits her in the world.
How happy, how hungry, how close we were when that picnic basket arrived outside our cave.
see. Why can’t I just let him go? Slip him a pill, pull the trigger? Is it because I care too much about Peeta or too much about letting Snow win? Have I turned him into a piece in my private Games?
I realize what was so remarkable about the exchange. Peeta sounded like his old self, the one who could always think of the right thing to say when nobody else could. Ironic, encouraging, a little funny, but not at anyone’s expense.
“But people don’t need wings to survive.”
It’s the first time I have voluntarily touched him since the last arena. “You’re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers. “Real,” I answer. It seems to require more explanation. “Because that’s what you and I do. Protect each other.” After a minute or so, he drifts off to sleep.
It’s as if I’m Finnick, watching images of my life flash by. The mast of a boat, a silver parachute, Mags laughing, a pink sky, Beetee’s trident, Annie in her wedding dress, waves breaking over rocks. Then it’s over.
slide the Holo from my belt and choke out “nightlock, nightlock, nightlock.” Release
circumstances, I will really have to kill him. And Snow will win. Hot, bitter hatred courses through me. Snow has won too much already today.
“Don’t let him take you from me.”
“No. I don’t want to .
“Stay wit...
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“Always,” he murmurs.
I’m running on hate. When the energy for that ebbs, I’ll be worthless.
To believe them dead is to accept I killed them.
But the others lost their lives defending me on a mission I fabricated. My plot to assassinate Snow seems so stupid now. So stupid as I sit shivering here in this cellar, tallying up our losses, fingering the tassels on the silver knee-high boots I stole from the woman’s home. Oh, yeah — I forgot about that. I killed her, too. I’m taking out unarmed citizens now.
“Well, we never have,” Gale says.
I think it’s unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it’s Katniss’s problem. Who to choose.”
“I wonder how she’ll make up her mind.”
fur. “Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without.”
just conduct an unfeeling assessment of what my potential mates can offer me. As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most.
can survive just fine without either of them.
thousand moments surge through me. All the times these arms were my only refuge from the world. Perhaps not fully appreciated then, but so sweet in my memory, and now gone forever.
Real or not real? I am on fire. The
am Cinna’s bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable. The feathers of flame that grow from my body. Beating my wings only fans the blaze. I consume myself, but to no end.
badly burned girl with no wings. With no fire. And no sister.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. There is no District 12. I am the Mockingjay. I brought down the Capitol. President Snow hates me. He killed my sister. Now I will kill him. And then the Hunger Games will be over. . . .
When they released the parachutes?
