“What am I going to do?” I whisper to the walls.
Because I really don’t know.
People keep talking at me, talking, talking, talking.
Plutarch Heavensbee. His calculating assistant, Fulvia
Cardew. A mishmash of district leaders. Military officials.
But not Alma Coin, the president of 13, who just watches.
She’s fifty or so, with gray hair that falls in an unbroken
sheet to her shoulders. I’m somewhat fascinated by her hair,
since it’s so uniform, so without a flaw, a wisp, even a split
end. Her eyes are gray, but not like those of people from the
Seam. They’re very pale, as if almost all the color has been
sucked out of them. The color of slush that you wish would
melt away.
What they want is for me to truly take on the role
they designed for me. The symbol of the revolution. The
Mockingjay. It isn’t enough, what I’ve done in the past,
defying the Capitol in the Games, providing a rallying
point. I must now become the actual leader, the face, the
voice, the embodiment of the revolution. The person who
the districts — most of which are now openly at war with the
Capitol — can count on to blaze the path to victory. I won’t
have to do it alone. They have a whole team of people to
make me over, dress me, write my speeches, orchestrate my
appearances — as if that doesn’t sound horribly familiar —
and all I have to do is play my part. Sometimes I listen to
them and sometimes I just watch the perfect line of Coin’s
hair and try to decide if it’s a wig. Eventually, I leave the
room because my head starts to ache or it’s time to eat or
if I don’t get aboveground I might start screaming. I don’t
bother to say anything. I simply get up and walk out.
Yesterday afternoon, as the door was closing behind
me, I heard Coin say, “I told you we should have rescued
the boy first.” Meaning Peeta. I couldn’t agree more. He
would’ve been an excellent mouthpiece.
And who did they fish out of the arena instead? Me,
who won’t cooperate. Beetee, an older inventor from 3, who
I rarely see because he was pulled into weapons development
the minute he could sit upright. Literally, they wheeled his
hospital bed into some top secret area and now he only
occasionally shows up for meals. He’s very smart and very
willing to help the cause, but not really firebrand material.
Then there’s Finnick Odair, the sex symbol from the fishing
district, who kept Peeta alive in the arena when I couldn’t.
They want to transform Finnick into a rebel leader as well,
but first they’ll have to get him to stay awake for more than
five minutes. Even when he is conscious, you have to say
everything to him three times to get through to his brain.
The doctors say it’s from the electrical shock he received in
the arena, but I know it’s a lot more complicated than that.
I know that Finnick can’t focus on anything in 13 because
he’s trying so hard to see what’s happening in the Capitol to
Annie, the mad girl from his district who’s the only person
on earth he loves.
Despite serious reservations, I had to forgive Finnick for
his role in the conspiracy that landed me here. He, at least,
has some idea of what I’m going through. And it takes too
much energy to stay angry with someone who cries so much.
I move through the downstairs on hunter’s feet, reluctant
to make any sound. I pick up a few remembrances: a photo
of my parents on their wedding day, a blue hair ribbon for
Prim, the family book of medicinal and edible plants. The
book falls open to a page with yellow flowers and I shut it
quickly because it was Peeta’s brush that painted them.
What am I going to do?
Is there any point in doing anything at all? My mother,
my sister, and Gale’s family are finally safe. As for the rest of
12, people are either dead, which is irreversible, or protected
in 13. That leaves the rebels in the districts. Of course, I hate
the Capitol, but I have no confidence that my being the
Mockingjay will benefit those who are trying to bring it
down. How can I help the districts when every time I make
a move, it results in suffering and loss of life? The old man
shot in District 11 for whistling. The crackdown in 12 after
I intervened in Gale’s whipping. My stylist, Cinna, being
dragged, bloody and unconscious, from the Launch Room
before the Games. Plutarch’s sources believe he was killed
during interrogation. Brilliant, enigmatic, lovely Cinna is
dead because of me. I push the thought away because it’s
too impossibly painful to dwell on without losing my fragile
hold on the situation entirely.
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