But once I saw Fulvia Cardew crumple up a sheet of paper with just a couple of words written on it and you would've thought she'd murdered someone from the looks she got.
But once I saw Fulvia Cardew crumple up a sheet of paper with just a couple of words written on it and you would've thought she'd murdered someone from the looks she got.
I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there's no relief in waking.
I'm banged up and bloody and someone seems to be hammering on my left temple from inside my skull.
Lady licking Prim's cheek.My father's laugh.Peeta's father with the cookies.The color of Finnick's eyes.What Cinna could do with a length of silk.Boggs reprogramming the Holo.Rue poised on her toes,arms slightly extended,like a bird about to take flight.
Positioned on my dresser, that white-as-snow rose is a personal message to me. It speaks of unfinished business. It whispers, I can find you. I can reach you. Perhaps I am watching you now.
There's no district 12 to escape from now, no Peacekeepers to trick, no hungry mouths to feed. The Capitol took away all of that, and I'm on the verge of losing Gale as well. The glue of mutual needs that bonded us so tightly together for all those years is melting away.
Whatever the opposite of fine is, that's what I am.
But some secrets are too delicious not to share.
I killed you. And you. And you.
I'm going to be the Mockingjay.
Look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they really are.
Real or not real? I am on fire.
Theres not going back. So we might as well move on with things
While I was waiting...I ate your lunch
Buttercup, miserable even with Prim's constant attention, huddles in the cube and exhales cat breath in my face.
I know he was desperate. That makes people do all kinds of crazy things.
I'm in pain. That's the only way I get your attention
Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots.
Roses. Wolf mutts. Tributes. Frosted Dolphins. Friends. Mockingjays. Stylists. Me. Everything screams in my dreams tonight.
They don't know that I'm already asking for the moon.
Why? Do you find this...distracting?
Cleaning me up is just a preliminary step to determining my new look. With my acid-damaged hair, sunburned skin, and ugly scars, the prep team has to make me pretty and then damage, burn, and scare me in a more attractive way.
I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.
I'm not flailing now, as my muscles are rigid with the tension of holding myself together.
Maybe everyone is just trying to protect me by lying to me. I don't care. I'm sick of people lying to me for my own good.
She genuinely likes people. All people, not just a select few she's spent years making up her mind about.
They more than do their work, they take pride in it. Like Cinna.
Yeah, we wouldn't want to lose our little Mockingjay when she's finally begun to sing.
A need for revenge can burn long and hot. Especially if every glance in a mirror reinforces it.
Delly lost her temper at Peeta over how he treated you. She got very squeaky. It was like someone stabbing a mouse with a fork repeatedly.
I miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there's nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here.
I'm on a frosting sailboat, tossed around by blue-green waves, the deck shifting beneath my feet.
Mostly we just add to the piles of rainbow glass that's been blown off the exteriors of the cany-colored buildings.
Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life.
They play in the Meadow. The dancing girl with the dark hair and blue eyes. The boy with blond curls and gray eyes, struggling to keep up with her on his chubby toddler legs. It took five, ten, fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly. When I first felt her stirring inside of me, I was consumed with a terror that felt as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could tame it.
You can't miss your schedule. Every morning, you're supposed to stick your right arm in this contraption in the wall. It tattoos the smooth inside of your forearm with your schedule for the day in a sickly purple ink. 7:00-Breakfast. 7:30-Kitchen Duties. 8:30-Education Center, Room 17. And so on. The ink is indelible until 22:00-Bathing
A verbal promise behind closed doors, even a statement written on paper-these could easily evaporate . . . .
Do you find this...distracting?
I press my ear against his chest, to the spot where I always rest my head, where I know I will hear the strong and steady beat of his heart. Instead, I find silence.
I'm running on hate. When the energy from that ebbs I'll be worthless.
My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They're the ones we naturally remember the best, after all.
Some walks you have to take alone.
They'll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.
You know what I miss? More than anything? Coffee. -- Plutarch Heavensbee
All around the dining hall, you can feel the rejuvenating effect that a good meal can bring on. The way it can make people kinder, funnier, more optimistic, and remind them it's not a mistake to go on living. It's better than any medicine.
Do you really know what's going on And if you don't... find out
I shift on to my side and find myself looking directly into Gale's eyes. For an instant the world recedes and there is just his flushed face, his pulse visible at his temple, his lips slightly parted as he tries to catch his breath.
In other words, I step out of line and we're all dead.
My mockingjay pin now lives with Cinna's outfit, but there's the gold locket and the silver parachute with the spile and Peeta's pearl. I knot the pearl into the corner of the parachute, bury it deep in the recesses of the bag, as if it's Peeta's life and no one can take it away as long as I guard it.
Sometimes when I'm alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories