If He Goes And Dies On Me

I Take His Hand, Holding On Tightly, Preparing For The Cameras, And Dreading The Moment When I Will Finally Have To Let Go.

To The Everlasting Credit Of The People Of District 12, Not One Person Claps. Not Even The Ones Holding Betting Slips, The Ones Who Are Usually Beyond Caring. Possibly Because They Know Me From The Hob, Or Knew My Father, Or Have Encountered Prim, Who No One Could Help Loving. So Instead Of Acknowledging Applause, I Stand There Unmoving While They Take Part In The Boldest Form Of Dissent They Can Manage. Silence. Which Says We Do Not Agree. We Do Not Condone. All Of This Is Wrong.

Maybe . . . Because For The First Time . . . There Was A Chance I Could Keep Him,” I Say. “so Now That You've Got Me, What Are You Going To Do With Me?” “put You Somewhere You Can't Get Hurt.” And When He Kisses Me, People In The Room Actually Sigh.

Winning Means Fame And Fortune. Losing Means Certain Death. The Hunger Games Have Begun.

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.