Mocking Jay

25
Real or not real? I am on fire. The balls of flame that erupted from the parachutes shot over the barricades,
through the snowy air, and landed in the crowd. I was just turning away when one caught me, ran its tongue up the
back of my body, and 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. Perhaps there are periods of unconsciousness, but what can it matter if I can't find refuge in
them? I 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.
Finally, my wings begin to falter, I lose height, and gravity pulls me into a foamy sea the color of Finnick's
eyes. I float on my back, which continues to burn beneath the water, but the agony quiets to pain. When I am
adrift and unable to navigate, that's when they come. The dead.
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.
The small white bird tinged in pink dives down, buries her claws in my chest, and tries to keep me afloat.
"No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"
But the ones I hated are winning, and if she clings to me, she'll be lost as well. "Prim, let go!" And finally she
does.
Deep in the water, I'm deserted by all. There's only the sound of my breathing, the enormous effort it takes
to draw the water in, push it out of my lungs. I want to stop, I try to hold my breath, but the sea forces its way in
and out against my will. "Let me die. Let me follow the others," I beg whatever holds me here. There's no
response.
Trapped for days, years, centuries maybe. Dead, but not allowed to die. Alive, but as good as dead. So
alone that anyone, anything no matter how loathsome would be welcome. But when I finally have a visitor, it's
sweet. Morphling. Coursing through my veins, easing the pain, lightening my body so that it rises back toward
the air and rests again on the foam.
Foam. I really am floating on foam. I can feel it beneath the tips of my fingers, cradling parts of my naked
body. There's much pain but there's also something like reality. The sandpaper of my throat. The smell of burn
medicine from the first arena. The sound of my mother's voice. These things frighten me, and I try to return to the
deep to make sense of them. But there's no going back. Gradually, I'm forced to accept who I am. A badly
burned girl with no wings. With no fire. And no sister.
In the dazzling white Capitol hospital, the doctors work their magic on me. Draping my rawness in new
sheets of skin. Coaxing the cells into thinking they are my own. Manipulating my body parts, bending and
stretching the limbs to assure a good fit. I hear over and over again how lucky I am. My eyes were spared. Most
of my face was spared. My lungs are responding to treatment. I will be as good as new.
When my tender skin has toughened enough to withstand the pressure of sheets, more visitors arrive. The
morphling opens the door to the dead and alive alike. Haymitch, yellow and unsmiling. Cinna, stitching a new
wedding dress. Delly, prattling on about the niceness of people. My father sings all four stanzas of "The Hanging
Tree" and reminds me that my mother--who sleeps in a chair between shifts--isn't to know about it.
One day I awake to expectations and know I will not be allowed to live in my dreamland. I must take food by
mouth. Move my own muscles. Make my way to the bathroom. A brief appearance by President Coin clinches it.
"Don't worry," she says. "I've saved him for you."
The doctors' puzzlement grows over why I'm unable to speak. Many tests are done, and while there's
damage to my vocal cords, it doesn't account for it. Finally, Dr. Aurelius, a head doctor, comes up with the theory
that I've become a mental, rather than physical, Avox. That my silence has been brought on by emotional trauma.
Although he's presented with a hundred proposed remedies, he tells them to leave me alone. So I don't ask
about anyone or anything, but people bring me a steady stream of information. On the war: The Capitol fell the