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I blame my mother.
If she had run faster, the mutts would not have caught up with her in the tunnels. She would not have been dragged and swung from the hovercraft which brought her to Snow's manor. They gave her no time to yank even the nightlock from beneath her sleeve.
Therefore, really, it is her fault that I was born. And I don't know what to make of that. The people in Rebel Camp, here with me, they tell me how brave and smart and rejuvenating she was. If she really was, she would not have gotten caught.
Before I had been born, President Snow had decreed I was to be named Hope, so that my mother can watch hope die all over again. My first and last name clashes horribly, like the sound of cymbals clanging and nails running down a blackboard.
Hope signifies a better future somewhere faraway from here. Mellark brings back gruelling memories of a plan gone horribly wrong.
That is right. I am the daughter of the infamous Katniss Everdeen of the Rebellion.
The Darker Ages began after my parents' failure.
And so did my punishment.
I dread winter. It is so deadly quiet, I can hear frequency ringing in my ears. If the Capitol does not kill me, the silence will. Soon.
A sigh bubbles its way up my throat and I swallow. Glitter is looking (Argh, the terrible, terrible names District 2 residents call themselves!). Her Peacekeeper mask, cruelly carved from acrylic, hides her smile, but not her eyes, which are dancing with maniacal laughter.
The snow deepens when I walk straight up to her. Melted ice scalds my ankles.
I pick up the pen to sign the logbook with near-frostbitten fingers, which is required by the Snow Law (snickers) after our short time outdoors. When I am done, I palm the pen, pretending to tie my shoelaces.
Fall for it! Fall for it! Fall for it!
Without warning,I straighten and hurl the pen at her. It rakes her forehead, which bleeds immediately, and she squeals in a way that reminds me of a turkey about to get its throat cut.
"Hah, sorry. Guess your blood's not made of sparkly glitter after all," I say matter-of-factly, "You should apply for a new name."
Usually she is very prepared for attacks like this, but unfortunately for her, not from me. I have a good report from all of the Peacekeepers. In fact, my report states that I am not a threat, considering I cannot shoot straight, nothing like Katniss Everdeen. Besides, I have always been a quiet lil' mouse (I overheard the Peacekeepers calling me that in the pantry)
But if there is a ninety percent probability you are going to die today, you might as well do something incredibly crazy.
When she flares, her nostrils widen and her cheeks are flushed light-blue and red - kind of like soft purple, actually. The image of a turkey is instantly replaced by a bull. A furious, smoke-breathing one.
Then she smiles, wide and crescent like the winter moon.
"Ah. Practicing for the Games later, Hope Mellark? That was a pretty good throw. Maybe Snow will let you live for a few more hours. My kids and I will be all comfy at home, rooting for your… death. I sure hope that it will be gruesome! You can be so entertaining. Don't disappoint us, alright?" Glitter's voice is cloying, sickly sweet. Then she begins laughing, in the pitch of a hyena.
My toes curl around the hot ice in my boots, and I struggle not to slap her with the back of my hand.
I storm, throat pulsing, into the Mocking House. Her laughter follows me all the way down the corridor.
A fair-skinned, black-haired Peacekeeper guard at the entrance to the hall prods my chest with the tip of his rifle, and I fall to the ground, heart thudding. The inflated ground sags under my weight. I crawl back up, and the guard smacks me across the face with his rifle.
My lips swell with blood red tears.
"Don't, Ming. We do not want to be on the bad side of Crusade. He warned us about not harming any of the contestants, remember? She will be at the Games later anyway. No reason to wound her now," the other guard says.
I look up, and grin through the red mess, "I'm telling Crusade."
Ming shakily points the rifle at me, finger on the trigger. "You have no clue how much I want to shoot this freak right now. Daughter of a bitch. Daughter of a murderous bitch."
"My mother is no murderer," my voice, strangely, is full of conviction.
Ming's eyes go cold, dead even. He grabs me by the scruff of my neck, eyes boring into mine.
"Your mother killed my mother. She barged into an innocent woman's house, and shot her through – and clean – with a single arrow," his voice is glacial. "I hope you die a painful death."
Considering I have never met my mother, I am surprised, every time, by the hoards of people who have a grudge against her. Guess who takes the brunt of it?
From my peripheral vision, I catch the hint of a smart, black uniform. Before I can speculate who it is, a gunshot reverberates, and Ming slumps to the ground, a waterfall of red pouring out from between his eyes.
There is only one person here with such excellent marksmanship.
Crusade tucks his gun back into his pocket, and tells Friz, the other guard, to incinerate the body. "Disobedient, undisciplined soldiers deserve no proper burial," he says. Friz must have sensed the threat in his voice, because he immediately flees the corridor to seek out the disposal team.
"Good luck for later, sweetheart. If you can help it, last at least an hour. I am betting a fortune on you, for how long you will last," Crusade flashes me a toothy smile, and walks away, whistling Rue's Lullaby (one of the songs constantly mocked at in the Capitol.)
I bite my tongue to keep my teeth from chattering. It is so cold. As I stagger the rest of the way to my room, my own voice resounds in my head. I am going to die, going to die, going to die.
And no matter how I try, I am unable to shake off Crusade's grin, embedded in my mind.
