Mocking Jay

day the parachutes went off, President Coin leads Panem now, and troops have been sent out to put down the
small remaining pockets of Capitol resistance. On President Snow: He's being held prisoner, awaiting trial and
most certain execution. On my assassination team: Cressida and Pollux have been sent out into the districts to
cover the wreckage of the war. Gale, who took two bullets in an escape attempt, is mopping up Peacekeepers in
2. Peeta's still in the burn unit. He made it to the City Circle after all. On my family: My mother buries her grief in
her work.
Having no work, grief buries me. All that keeps me going is Coin's promise. That I can kill Snow. And when
that's done, nothing will be left.
Eventually, I'm released from the hospital and given a room in the president's mansion to share with my
mother. She's almost never there, taking her meals and sleeping at work. It falls to Haymitch to check on me,
make sure I'm eating and using my medicines. It's not an easy job. I take to my old habits from District 13.
Wandering unauthorized through the mansion. Into bedrooms and offices, ballrooms and baths. Seeking strange
little hiding spaces. A closet of furs. A cabinet in the library. A long-forgotten bathtub in a room of discarded
furniture. My places are dim and quiet and impossible to find. I curl up, make myself smaller, try to disappear
entirely. Wrapped in silence, I slide my bracelet that reads mentally disoriented around and around my wrist.
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....
Periodically, I find myself back in my room, unsure whether I was driven by a need for morphling or if
Haymitch ferreted me out. I eat the food, take the medicine, and am required to bathe. It's not the water I mind,
but the mirror that reflects my naked fire-mutt body. The skin grafts still retain a newborn-baby pinkness. The skin
deemed damaged but salvageable looks red, hot, and melted in places. Patches of my former self gleam white
and pale. I'm like a bizarre patchwork quilt of skin. Parts of my hair were singed off completely; the rest has been
chopped off at odd lengths. Katniss Everdeen, the girl who was on fire. I wouldn't much care except the sight of
my body brings back the memory of the pain. And why I was in pain. And what happened just before the pain
started. And how I watched my little sister become a human torch.
Closing my eyes doesn't help. Fire burns brighter in the darkness.
Dr. Aurelius shows up sometimes. I like him because he doesn't say stupid things like how I'm totally safe,
or that he knows I can't see it but I'll be happy again one day, or even that things will be better in Panem now. He
just asks if I feel like talking, and when I don't answer, he falls asleep in his chair. In fact, I think his visits are
largely motivated by his need for a nap. The arrangement works for both of us.
The time draws near, although I could not give you exact hours and minutes. President Snow has been tried
and found guilty, sentenced to execution. Haymitch tells me, I hear talk of it as I drift past the guards in the
hallways. My Mockingjay suit arrives in my room. Also my bow, looking no worse for wear, but no sheath of
arrows. Either because they were damaged or more likely because I shouldn't have weapons. I vaguely wonder if
I should be preparing for the event in some way, but nothing comes to mind.
Late one afternoon, after a long period in a cushioned window seat behind a painted screen, I emerge and
turn left instead of right. I find myself in a strange part of the mansion, and immediately lose my bearings. Unlike
the area where I'm quartered, there seems to be no one around to ask. I like it, though. Wish I'd found it sooner.
It's so quiet, with the thick carpets and heavy tapestries soaking up the sound. Softly lit. Muted colors. Peaceful.
Until I smell the roses. I dive behind some curtains, shaking too hard to run, while I await the mutts. Finally, I
realize there are no mutts coming. So, what do I smell? Real roses? Could it be that I am near the garden where
the evil things grow?
As I creep down the hall, the odor becomes overpowering. Perhaps not as strong as the actual mutts, but
purer, because it's not competing with sewage and explosives. I turn a corner and find myself staring at two
surprised guards. Not Peacekeepers, of course. There are no more Peacekeepers. But not the trim, grayuniformed
soldiers from 13 either. These two, a man and a woman, wear the tattered, thrown-together clothes of
actual rebels. Still bandaged and gaunt, they are now keeping watch over the doorway to the roses. When I
move to enter, their guns form an X in front of me.
"You can't go in, miss," says the man.
"Soldier," the woman corrects him. "You can't go in, Soldier Everdeen. President's orders."
I just stand there patiently waiting for them to lower their guns, for them to understand, without my telling
them, that behind those doors is something I need. Just a rose. A single bloom. To place in Snow's lapel before I