Mocking Jay

27
In the stunned reaction that follows, I'm aware of one sound. Snow's laughter. An awful gurgling cackle
accompanied by an eruption of foamy blood when the coughing begins. I see him bend forward, spewing out his
life, until the guards block him from my sight.
As the gray uniforms begin to converge on me, I think of what my brief future as the assassin of Panem's
new president holds. The interrogation, probable torture, certain public execution. Having, yet again, to say my
final goodbyes to the handful of people who still maintain a hold on my heart. The prospect of facing my mother,
who will now be entirely alone in the world, decides it.
"Good night," I whisper to the bow in my hand and feel it go still. I raise my left arm and twist my neck down
to rip off the pill on my sleeve. Instead my teeth sink into flesh. I yank my head back in confusion to find myself
looking into Peeta's eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped
over my nightlock. "Let me go!" I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp.
"I can't," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep
violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna's last gift get crunched under a guard's boot. I transform into a wild
animal, kicking, clawing, biting, doing whatever I can to free myself from this web of hands as the crowd pushes
in. The guards lift me up above the fray, where I continue to thrash as I'm conveyed over the crush of people. I
start screaming for Gale. I can't find him in the throng, but he will know what I want. A good clean shot to end it all.
Only there's no arrow, no bullet. Is it possible he can't see me? No. Above us, on the giant screens placed around
the City Circle, everyone can watch the whole thing being played out. He sees, he knows, but he doesn't follow
through. Just as I didn't when he was captured. Sorry excuses for hunters and friends. Both of us.
I'm on my own.
In the mansion, they handcuff and blindfold me. I'm half dragged, half carried down long passages, up and
down elevators, and deposited on a carpeted floor. The cuffs are removed and a door slams closed behind me.
When I push the blindfold up, I find I'm in my old room at the Training Center. The one where I lived during those
last precious days before my first Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell. The bed's stripped to the mattress, the
closet gapes open, showing the emptiness inside, but I'd know this room anywhere.
It's a struggle to get to my feet and peel off my Mockingjay suit. I'm badly bruised and might have a broken
finger or two, but it's my skin that's paid most dearly for my struggle with the guards. The new pink stuff has
shredded like tissue paper and blood seeps through the laboratory-grown cells. No medics show up, though,
and as I'm too far gone to care, I crawl up onto the mattress, expecting to bleed to death.
No such luck. By evening, the blood clots, leaving me stiff and sore and sticky but alive. I limp into the
shower and program in the gentlest cycle I can remember, free of any soaps and hair products, and squat under
the warm spray, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead. It would be best for everyone if I
were dead....
When I step out on the mat, the hot air bakes my damaged skin dry. There's nothing clean to put on. Not
even a towel to wrap around me. Back in the room, I find the Mockingjay suit has disappeared. In its place is a
paper robe. A meal has been sent up from the mysterious kitchen with a container of my medications for
dessert. I go ahead and eat the food, take the pills, rub the salve on my skin. I need to focus now on the manner
of my suicide.
I curl back up on the bloodstained mattress, not cold but feeling so naked with just the paper to cover my
tender flesh. Jumping to my death's not an option--the window glass must be a foot thick. I can make an excellent
noose, but there's nothing to hang myself from. It's possible I could hoard my pills and then knock myself off with
a lethal dose, except that I'm sure I'm being watched round the clock. For all I know, I'm on live television at this
very moment while commentators try to analyze what could possibly have motivated me to kill Coin. The
surveillance makes almost any suicide attempt impossible. Taking my life is the Capitol's privilege. Again.
What I can do is give up. I resolve to lie on the bed without eating, drinking, or taking my medications. I
could do it, too. Just die. If it weren't for the morphling withdrawal. Not bit by bit like in the hospital in 13, but cold