Mocking Jay

My fingers wrap around Gale's wrist. "Do not leave my side," I say under my breath.
"I'm right here," he answers quietly.
I step through the curtain and my senses are assaulted. My first impulse is to cover my nose to block out
the stench of soiled linen, putrefying flesh, and vomit, all ripening in the heat of the warehouse. They've propped
open skylights that crisscross the high metal roof, but any air that's managing to get in can't make a dent in the
fog below. The thin shafts of sunlight provide the only illumination, and as my eyes adjust, I can make out row
upon row of wounded, in cots, on pallets, on the floor because there are so many to claim the space. The drone
of black flies, the moaning of people in pain, and the sobs of their attending loved ones have combined into a
wrenching chorus.
We have no real hospitals in the districts. We die at home, which at the moment seems a far desirable
alternative to what lies in front of me. Then I remember that many of these people probably lost their homes in the
bombings.
Sweat begins to run down my back, fill my palms. I breathe through my mouth in an attempt to diminish the
smell. Black spots swim across my field of vision, and I think there's a really good chance I could faint. But then I
catch sight of Paylor, who's watching me so closely, waiting to see what I am made of, and if any of them have
been right to think they can count on me. So I let go of Gale and force myself to move deeper into the warehouse,
to walk into the narrow strip between two rows of beds.
"Katniss?" a voice croaks out from my left, breaking apart from the general din. "Katniss?" A hand reaches
for me out of the haze. I cling to it for support. Attached to the hand is a young woman with an injured leg. Blood
has seeped through the heavy bandages, which are crawling with flies. Her face reflects her pain, but something
else, too, something that seems completely incongruous with her situation. "Is it really you?"
"Yeah, it's me," I get out.
Joy. That's the expression on her face. At the sound of my voice, it brightens, erases the suffering
momentarily.
"You're alive! We didn't know. People said you were, but we didn't know!" she says excitedly.
"I got pretty banged up. But I got better," I say. "Just like you will."
"I've got to tell my brother!" The woman struggles to sit up and calls to someone a few beds down. "Eddy!
Eddy! She's here! It's Katniss Everdeen!"
A boy, probably about twelve years old, turns to us. Bandages obscure half of his face. The side of his
mouth I can see opens as if to utter an exclamation. I go to him, push his damp brown curls back from his
forehead. Murmur a greeting. He can't speak, but his one good eye fixes on me with such intensity, as if he's
trying to memorize every detail of my face.
I hear my name rippling through the hot air, spreading out into the hospital. "Katniss! Katniss Everdeen!"
The sounds of pain and grief begin to recede, to be replaced by words of anticipation. From all sides, voices
beckon me. I begin to move, clasping the hands extended to me, touching the sound parts of those unable to
move their limbs, saying hello, how are you, good to meet you. Nothing of importance, no amazing words of
inspiration. But it doesn't matter. Boggs is right. It's the sight of me, alive, that is the inspiration.
Hungry fingers devour me, wanting to feel my flesh. As a stricken man clutches my face between his hands,
I send a silent thank-you to Dalton for suggesting I wash off the makeup. How ridiculous, how perverse I would
feel presenting that painted Capitol mask to these people. The damage, the fatigue, the imperfections. That's
how they recognize me, why I belong to them.
Despite his controversial interview with Caesar, many ask about Peeta, assure me that they know he was
speaking under duress. I do my best to sound positive about our future, but people are truly devastated when
they learn I've lost the baby. I want to come clean and tell one weeping woman that it was all a hoax, a move in
the game, but to present Peeta as a liar now would not help his image. Or mine. Or the cause.
I begin to fully understand the lengths to which people have gone to protect me. What I mean to the rebels.
My ongoing struggle against the Capitol, which has so often felt like a solitary journey, has not been undertaken
alone. I have had thousands upon thousands of people from the districts at my side. I was their Mockingjay long
before I accepted the role.
A new sensation begins to germinate inside me. But it takes until I am standing on a table, waving my final
goodbyes to the hoarse chanting of my name, to define it. Power. I have a kind of power I never knew I
possessed. Snow knew it, as soon as I held out those berries. Plutarch knew when he rescued me from the
arena. And Coin knows now. So much so that she must publicly remind her people that I am not in control.
When we're outside again, I lean against the warehouse, catching my breath, accepting the canteen of