Mockingjay (The Hunger Games, #3)

by Suzanne Collins

It’s impossible to be the Mockingjay. Impossible to complete even this one sentence. Because now I know that everything I say will be directly taken out on Peeta. Result in his torture. But not his death, no, nothing so merciful as that. Snow will ensure that his life is much worse than death.

My sleep wasn’t peaceful, though. I have the sense of emerging from a world of dark, haunted places where I traveled alone.

A pale gray nothingness that is all my future holds.

If he wants me broken, then I will have to be whole.

Outbursts are short. It’s stories that take time.

The Capitol’s fragile because it depends on the districts for everything.

antidotes don’t always work.

Poison. The perfect weapon for a snake.

The Mockingjay will not lose her voice.

It isn’t possible. For someone to make Peeta forget he loves me . . . no one could do that.

Whatever existed between us is gone. All that’s left is my promise to kill Snow.

Or is my own history making me too sensitive? Aren’t we at war? Isn’t this just another way to kill our enemies?

The Mockingjay at the mercy of a man with nothing to lose.

remind them it’s not a mistake to go on living.

a painted window shatters, revealing the ugly world behind it.

“But people don’t need wings to survive.” “Mockingjays do.”

Snow has won too much already today.

The reality is that he is loosing

A need for revenge can burn long and hot. Especially if every glance in a mirror reinforces it.

The fire inside me has flickered out, and with it my strength.

To believe them dead is to accept I killed them.

“That’s because Plutarch doesn’t care who dies,” I say. “Not as long as his Games are a success.”

As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most.

every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels.

A 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,

Real or not real? I am on fire.

transformed me into something new. A creature as unquenchable as the sun.

A fire mutt knows only a single sensation: agony. No sight, no sound, no feeling except the unrelenting burning of flesh.

I am Cinna’s bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable.

Beating my wings only fans the blaze.

The ones I loved fly as birds in the open sky above me. Soaring, weaving, calling to me to join them. I want so badly to follow them, but the seawater saturates my wings, making it impossible to lift them. The ones I hated have taken to the water, horrible scaled things that tear my salty flesh with needle teeth. Biting again and again. Dragging me beneath the surface.

“Prim, let go!” And finally she does.

Dead, but not allowed to die. Alive, but as good as dead. So alone that anyone, anything no matter how loathsome would be welcome.

I finally have a visitor, it’s sweet. Morphling.

I’m forced to accept who I am. A badly burned girl with no wings. With no fire. And no sister.

The morphling opens the door to the dead and alive alike.

My mother buries her grief in her work. Having no work, grief buries me.

President Snow hates me. He killed my sister. Now I will kill him. And then the Hunger Games will be over. . . .

Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire.

These are her soldiers, not Coin’s.

Bogg’s was right

“The colors are lovely, of course, but nothing says perfection like white.”

He holds a white handkerchief spotted with fresh blood.

We both know I’m not above killing children, but I’m not wasteful.

But I wasn’t watching Coin. I was watching you, Mockingjay. And you were watching me. I’m afraid we have both been played for fools.”

Victory was already in her grasp. Everything was in her grasp. Except me.

everyone I trust is dead.

“Listen to that. The Mockingjay found her voice.”

“You won’t miss.”

Taking my life is the Capitol’s privilege. Again.

I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What’s amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in.

I no longer feel any allegiance to these monsters called human beings, despite being one myself.