Mocking Jay

To broach the subject at all will be a risk. But while I think Haymitch might gamble with my life in the arena, I don't
think he'd rat me out to Coin. Whatever problems we may have with each other, we prefer resolving our
differences one-on-one.
I scramble off the tiles, out the door, and across the hall to his room. When there's no response to my
knock, I push inside. Ugh. It's amazing how quickly he can defile a space. Half-eaten plates of food, shattered
liquor bottles, and pieces of broken furniture from a drunken rampage scatter his quarters. He lies, unkempt and
unwashed, in a tangle of sheets on the bed, passed out.
"Haymitch," I say, shaking his leg. Of course, that's insufficient. But I give it a few more tries before I dump
the pitcher of water in his face. He comes to with a gasp, slashing blindly with his knife. Apparently, the end of
Snow's reign didn't equal the end of his terror.
"Oh. You," he says. I can tell by his voice that he's still loaded.
"Haymitch," I begin.
"Listen to that. The Mockingjay found her voice." He laughs. "Well, Plutarch's going to be happy." He takes
a swig from a bottle. "Why am I soaking wet?" I lamely drop the pitcher behind me into a pile of dirty clothes.
"I need your help," I say.
Haymitch belches, filling the air with white liquor fumes. "What is it, sweetheart? More boy trouble?" I don't
know why, but this hurts me in a way Haymitch rarely can. It must show on my face, because even in his drunken
state, he tries to take it back. "Okay, not funny." I'm already at the door. "Not funny! Come back!" By the thud of
his body hitting the floor, I assume he tried to follow me, but there's no point.
I zigzag through the mansion and disappear into a wardrobe full of silken things. I yank them from hangers
until I have a pile and then burrow into it. In the lining of my pocket, I find a stray morphling tablet and swallow it
dry, heading off my rising hysteria. It's not enough to right things, though. I hear Haymitch calling me in the
distance, but he won't find me in his condition. Especially not in this new spot. Swathed in silk, I feel like a
caterpillar in a cocoon awaiting metamorphosis. I always supposed that to be a peaceful condition. At first it is.
But as I journey into night, I feel more and more trapped, suffocated by the slippery bindings, unable to emerge
until I have transformed into something of beauty. I squirm, trying to shed my ruined body and unlock the secret to
growing flawless wings. Despite enormous effort, I remain a hideous creature, fired into my current form by the
blast from the bombs.
The encounter with Snow opens the door to my old repertoire of nightmares. It's like being stung by tracker
jackers again. A wave of horrifying images with a brief respite I confuse with waking--only to find another wave
knocking me back. When the guards finally locate me, I'm sitting on the floor of the wardrobe, tangled in silk,
screaming my head off. I fight them at first, until they convince me they're trying to help, peel away the choking
garments, and escort me back to my room. On the way, we pass a window and I see a gray, snowy dawn
spreading across the Capitol.
A very hungover Haymitch waits with a handful of pills and a tray of food that neither of us has the stomach
for. He makes a feeble attempt to get me to talk again but, seeing it's pointless, sends me to a bath someone
has drawn. The tub's deep, with three steps to the bottom. I ease down into the warm water and sit, up to my
neck in suds, hoping the medicines kick in soon. My eyes focus on the rose that has spread its petals overnight,
filling the steamy air with its strong perfume. I rise and reach for a towel to smother it, when there's a tentative
knock and the bathroom door opens, revealing three familiar faces. They try to smile at me, but even Venia can't
conceal her shock at my ravaged mutt body. "Surprise!" Octavia squeaks, and then bursts into tears. I'm puzzling
over their reappearance when I realize that this must be it, the day of the execution. They've come to prep me for
the cameras. Remake me to Beauty Base Zero. No wonder Octavia's crying. It's an impossible task.
They can barely touch my patchwork of skin for fear of hurting me, so I rinse and dry off myself. I tell them I
hardly notice the pain anymore, but Flavius still winces as he drapes a robe around me. In the bedroom, I find
another surprise. Sitting upright in a chair. Polished from her metallic gold wig to her patent leather high heels,
gripping a clipboard. Remarkably unchanged except for the vacant look in her eyes.
"Effie," I say.
"Hello, Katniss." She stands and kisses me on the cheek as if nothing has occurred since our last meeting,
the night before the Quarter Quell. "Well, it looks like we've got another big, big, big day ahead of us. So why
don't you start your prep and I'll just pop over and check on the arrangements."
"Okay," I say to her back.
"They say Plutarch and Haymitch had a hard time keeping her alive," comments Venia under her breath.
"She was imprisoned after your escape, so that helps."