Mockingjay Ending Revisioned

[Author Note] After finishing Mockingjay, I was not completely happy with the ending. Although I understood that Collins was likely trying to leave the reader with certain feelings (some of them raw), I found that I was left not only raw but also empty. In reflecting on the series as a whole and specifically the characters of Katniss and Peeta, I felt that there were some updates that could have been made to the ending after Katniss arrived back in District 12 that would leave the reader feeling some hope while not minimizing Collins's themes (e.g., the costs of war). Thus, this is my attempt at a new ending to soften the blow but to stay true to the themes.

[Disclaimer] Suzanne Collins owns these characters and all themes. The italicized text is from the book.

In the morning, he sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother, dial the phone number, and weep with her as well.

Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life. I try to follow Dr. Aurelius's advice, just going through the motions, amazed when one finally has meaning again.

I cling to the comfort of my routines. Each morning, I wake up from my nightmares to the smells of Greasy Sae's breakfast. I am quiet in the mornings, exhausted and heavy with thoughts from tossing and turning at night. Greasy Sae mostly leaves me alone, recognizing that I need my space. After breakfast, I force myself to head into the woods behind my house in Victor's Village, zombie-like, bow in hand. But once I am there, wandering the forest, hunting and gathering, the traces of the last night's nightmares fade out of my mind, even if just for a little while.

In the evenings, I bring back my haul. I try to time my return as late as possible so that after dinner I don't spend much time by myself before laying down for another restless night. Inevitably, though, I can't stay awake any longer, and so I eventually fade to sleep. I dream of those I killed, of hospitals blown up by the Capital, of children screaming in agony. Sometimes I wake up and rush to the bathroom, the imagery and memories so vivid that I vomit hysterically.

Lately, I also dream of Peeta, of him being tortured, of his blue eyes looking at me with hatred. Sometimes these dreams haunt me the most, and I wake up feeling empty. I have not seen Peeta much since he planted the beautiful primrose bushes outside of my house. We pass each other sometimes quietly on the street, saying our greetings but moving on quickly. I am not one for much conversation right now, and I can tell that Peeta is not there yet, either. But in the evenings, I sometimes look out my window and observe the lights on in his house. Seeing the glow, I feel something beginning to stir within me, but I push it away, not knowing what to do with those feelings.

Initially I just give the food from my hunting trips to Greasy Sae, who clearly cannot use all that I have killed in meals she cooks for me. In time, though, she suggests that I take the rest of my food to her in town, and then she'll bring what she needs to my house for dinnertime. I am hesitant, as my existence since I have been back home has been primarily confined to my house in Victor's Village and the woods immediately behind it. But she insists, and I give in, mostly because she has been so silently supportive of me. And I know I need to open my world up eventually.

When I walk into town late that afternoon, I see signs of life, of reconstruction. It's still a mess, of course—it would hard for things to be otherwise given how much was destroyed—but several of the storefronts have been cleared out. Although it's starting to get dark, I still see people outdoors, moving the wreckage into a horse-drawn cart. They look like they've been working outside all day, dripping with sweat, but they seem determined to continue. They recognize me and say hello, but I sense some hesitation. I guess they think I might be crazy. And tonight I must look it, too, given my shock to see the changes in town again.

Behind me, I hear Greasy Sue's voice, "Katniss! Over here." She is standing in one of the doorways to a cleared out storefront. I tread obediently into what reminds me a lot of Greasy Sae's old place in The Hob. There are kettles on several burners, and it smells delicious.

Greasy Sae takes my catch out of my hands and says, "Thanks for this," as I stand there in amazement.

"Who are you cooking for?" I ask.

She takes the rabbit I caught and slaps it on the table to begin breaking it down. "People are coming back, working hard, putting things back together again. They gotta eat somehow." She looks up briefly and grins. "You should check out the rest of the block. I'll bring over some dinner later."

As I walk out the door, a couple of familiar people walk inside, I guess to get some soup. More smiles and hellos. I force myself to smile and say hello in return, but no one stops to chat. Fine by me.

I walk past a few more storefronts, somewhat in a trance. Last time I was here, the town still felt like death, with corpses piled in the back of carts. Now that those are gone, the rubble is being cleared away. It is still eerie, knowing what it used to be like here. But this is progress.

Suddenly I realize where I am. It's the bakery that Peeta's family owned. And a light is on.

I find myself drawn to the window. Peering inside, I see Peeta is baking bread. He is kneading the dough, and then placing the dough in pans for the oven. He seems to be completely absorbed, and his face and eyes seem engaged and whole in a way that I haven't seen since before the Arena last year. I stand quietly, captivated watching him engrossed in his work, feeling like I'm in a dream. A good dream.

As Peeta turns to put a batch of bread in the oven, he sees me and pauses. Our eyes meet, and I find my lips curling up into a smile. He smiles back and nods hello, puts the bread in the oven, and then gestures me inside.

I push open the door and walk slowly inside, looking around. "Wow, this place looks great," I say, genuinely impressed. The front area has been cleaned out of all the debris, and the kitchen looks completely functional.

"It's getting there. People need bread," Peeta says, wiping his hands on a towel. He turns towards me, looking deep in my eyes, seeming to try to decide whether he wants to talk to me and if I am really there. I guess he finds what he is looking for, because he continues, "And it gives me something to do. Keeps me going. Something about having this to come to every day…" his voice trails off.

I nod, thinking about my trips to the Meadow. "Gives you some since of normalcy. I feel that way about hunting."

We stand looking at each other silently for a moment. I can tell we're both still hurting. What we've been through isn't going to just fade away overnight. But for the first time since I've been back in the district, I feel a sense of hope for us. Maybe.

A thought seems to have come to Peeta's mind, and he looks down with a small grin on his face. He then reaches towards a tray beside him and picks up a loaf of bread.

"Hungry?" He asks, handing me the loaf.

I take the loaf, turning it in my hands and remembering back to when he saved my life so long ago. The boy with the bread.

I smile.

When Greasy Sae brings me dinner that night, I start asking her questions. About her store. About the rebuilding process. About people. I've kept myself sequestered for what feels like so long, but now that I have seen what is going on, I am driven to understand more. She stays longer than she ever has, and after she leaves, I go to bed feeling different somehow. For the first time in ages, I find myself thinking about the future instead of the past. It's a nice change.

But the nightmares don't care about that. I wake up at some point after a particularly vicious nightmare, breathing heavily and shaking uncontrollably. As my quivering recedes, I find that like most nights, what remains is an all-encompassing emptiness. Tonight, though, instead of becoming absorbed in the void, I want to do something about it. And this makes me think of Peeta.

Immediately, I know what I want to do. Tossing a robe over my pajamas, I walk across the street in the darkness to knock on his door.

Peeta opens the door surprisingly quickly, which makes me think he must have been awake himself. He stands somewhat awkwardly, seeming to be unsure what to do with his hands. So I reach one of my hands towards his.

We stand there wordlessly for a few moments, and then I pull his hand towards my heart. Looking up at him, standing there, holding his hand so close to me, I don't want to let go. I find myself flooded with emotions. I manage to choke out, "I've missed you."

Tears begin to form in the corner of his eyes. He grabs my other hand and slowly pulls me in tightly, wrapping his arms around me, burying his face in my hair. "I've missed you, too."

We stand there, holding each other. I lose track of time, but I don't care.

At some point, though, we pull apart, and Peeta quickly looks back towards his living room. For a second, his eyes look distant, and I am worried that he has forgotten that I am there or gotten absorbed in the hijacking haze, but then he looks back at me.

"Nightmares?" he asks.

"Yeah. You?"

"Not tonight. I haven't been sleeping much," he admits, looking away again. "Come in."

When I enter his house, I immediately see what was catching his attention. Aligning his walls, stacked against his couch, everywhere I look, I see paintings. I recognize a few of the paintings from the ones he made for his "talent" for the Capital. Others are unfamiliar, but seem to be of the Capital. A small dark room that looks like a jail cell. Darius and Lavinia looking frightened. Bizarre objects that looked devised to inflict pain. I know these are paintings from when he was captured and tortured a few months ago.

And then some of them are somewhat familiar, but clearly very wrong. The painting that grabs my attention is unmistakably from the end of our first Hunger Games. It's of when we were being attacked by the Muttations, except something is amiss. Instead of me helping Peeta climb out of their reach, I am looking down at him, shadows carving into my face, a sinister gleam in my eyes, seeming to be ready to push him into the mutts to be slaughtered.

Peeta is watching me, seeming to monitor my response. I am both disturbed and drawn to this painting, and as I look around the room, I see others like this. Other paintings that are a blend of the real and the fabricated. They are horrible. They are shocking. And if I thought they were real, I'd hate me, too.

He points at the first of the paintings. "This one is not real. Right?"

I nod. "But parts of it are… we did see the mutts… and we did have to climb up the Cornucopia… but I was trying to help…" My voice trails off.

He nods. "That's what I thought. That's good."

He gestures to another painting. "What about this one? Not real, right?" I am pushing Peeta into the force field in the second arena. The one that almost killed him.

"No. You ran into the force field, but I wasn't nearby."

We go through several more paintings, and Peeta is right about all of them.

My eyes wander back over the array of artwork in front of me. "So does painting seem to help?" I ask.

"Yeah. It's kind of like with the bread, I guess."

I look at the last painting, the one he must have been working on tonight, given the easel and paintbrushes next to the canvas. This one is of me shoving the tracker jacker nest directly at Peeta and the Career pack. It makes me shake my head. "How can you even stand to be around me? With those kinds of memories… even if you've figured out they aren't real… they must make you sick."

He slowly shakes his head. "It's hard to explain." He stands there quietly for a moment. "I still have moments when I'm near you when I'm… when I'm not so sure. But there's something within me…"

His voice trails off, but then he looks back at me, his voice sounding confident again. "I have memories like this one," gesturing towards a painting in the back. "And those memories are the ones I cling to… that are making me feel human again."

I follow his gesture to a painting that I must have missed before. It's from before the Quarter Quell, the day we spent up on the roof on our own in the Capital. My head is in Peeta's lap, and he is playing with my hair while I make a crown of flowers. I think back to that day, how despite our belief that we would soon be marching into the arena to our deaths, we found a way to make the most of our time together, spending a day on the roof on our own. Relaxing in the sun, playing games, watching the sunset together. Towards the end of the day, as I lie in his lap, I remember how Peeta said he wished he could freeze that moment and live in it forever. And I remember how despite the fact that I had previously felt uncomfortable when he made comments like that, this time, it felt right.

As I look at the painting and think back to that day, I feel a little pull in my stomach, one that I've only felt twice in my life amidst kisses with Peeta.

I don't say anything. I don't really know what to say, but I don't really feel like I have to say anything. Instead, I reach over to his hand, and we stand together for a few minutes in silence. Eventually, Peeta yawns, and I find myself smiling.

"Tired?" I ask.

"Yeah. I haven't slept much lately. Haven't really felt like it, but I could probably use some sleep." He pauses and looks at me. "Do you want…"

Even though his voice trails off, I know what he is asking, and I nod. We walk up to his bedroom hand-in-hand, crawl into his bed, and immediately fall asleep.

My nightmares don't disappear. They still haunt me. But they do so less frequently now that I wake up and have Peeta beside me.

Peeta has nightmares, too, it seems. Unlike before his torture in the Capital, the nightmares now occasionally lead him to thrash and shake in his sleep. Sometimes he wakes up with his fists clenched and eyes disturbingly dilated. The first time this happened, I worried that he might have forgotten who I am, and so I actually jumped out of bed and stood up, trying to keep a safe distance away. Looking at his face, though, I could see the turmoil, the battle going on inside him, and I had a strong urge to do something to comfort him. So after grabbing onto one of his hands, my instinct was to sing. And as I did, I watched the tension slowly release from his face. Afterwards, we didn't speak much, but it was clear that I had found a way to bring him some comfort.

After seeing Peeta's paintings, and thinking about some of my own emotions and memories, I tell Peeta my idea about the book. He suggests I tell Dr. Aurelius, and a large box of parchment sheets arrives on the next train from the Capitol.

I got the idea from our family's plant book. The place where we recorded those things you cannot trust to memory. The page begins with the person's picture. A photo if we can find it. If not, a sketch or painting by Peeta. Then, in my most careful handwriting, come all the details it would be a crime to forget. 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. On and on. We seal the pages with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count. Haymitch finally joins us, contributing twenty-three years of tributes he was forced to mentor. Additions become smaller. An old memory that surfaces. A late primose preserved between the pages. Strange bits of happiness, like the photo of Finnick and Annie's newborn son.

Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But now, we are here to comfort each other.

On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.

So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?"

I tell him, "Real."

EPILOGUE

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, almost fifteen years for me to agree. But Peeta wanted them so badly, and in time, I started to want them, too. It took some time for me to believe that, given that I had been so against having children for so long, and given what we had been through. But time, and my love for Peeta, mellowed my fears of bringing children into this world.

That's not to say those fears disappeared. When I first felt Prue 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. Carrying Finn was a little easier, but not much.

The questions are just beginning. The arenas have been completely destroyed, the memorials built, there are no more Hunger Games. But they teach about them in school, and Prue knows we played a role in them. Finn will know in a few years. How can I tell them about that world without frightening them to death? Our children, who take the words of the song for granted:

Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes

And when again they open, the sun will rise.

Here it's safe, here it's warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you.

Our children, who don't know they play on a graveyard.

As I sit on a rock watching the children play, Peeta walks over and kisses the top of my head, back from working in the bakery. He wraps his arms around me, and I lean back into him. The children are initially absorbed in their game, but once Prue sees her father, she squeals, "Daddy!" and runs over to give him a hug. Finn toddles closely behind, as always.

Peeta gives Prue a hug. "Did you have a good day?"

"Yes!" she says enthusiastically. "We are learning about animals at school, and we went over to farm and I got to milk a goat!"

Peeta smiles. "Mmm, that sounds delicious—did you bring any home for us?"

Prue giggles. "No, silly! You have to buy the milk from the store."

"Oh, well, then, we may have to go buy some tomorrow. Maybe we can find the milk that you helped get from that goat today."

Finn pulls at his father's shirt, and Peeta immediately kneels down next to him. "Hey there, Finn, how are you doing?"

"Up!" Finn requests. Peeta grins, "Yeah? You wanna go up high?"

"Up up up up!" Finn says excitedly. Peeta picks Finn up by his waist and lifts him up in the air above his head like an airplane, with Finn giggling hysterically.

"Again!"

After a few more rounds, Peeta sets Finn down and encourages him to play with his sister. Finn runs happily over to Prue, and they continue their playing.

I have always been amazed by Peeta's way with words, about his ability to stir a crowd. A long time ago, I imagined that he would use these skills to lead a rebellion. How could I have known back then that those skills would serve him so well as a father? He is so good with the children.

I smile up at Peeta from the rock where I'm perched, and he comes around and sits beside me. I put my head on his shoulder.

"How are you doing?" he asks, reaching over to grab my hand and pull it up to his lips for a kiss.

"I'm all right, all things considered," I respond. My sister died twenty years ago today. Soon, there will be celebrations in the old Capitol in honor of the anniversary of the overthrow of the government. I expect the festivities will be especially grand this year. As always, Peeta and I received an invitation from Plutarch, who still manages to stick around, to attend as special guests for the parade. We turned it down, as usual. I feel relieved that Plutarch, despite all his obsession with appearances and showmanship, has been willing to make do with us just sending in a few pictures over the years. So our story is broadcasted each year around this time of year, with extensive video footage of our time in the spotlight, closing with just a few still pictures of Peeta and me from the past 15 years. Perhaps it heightens the mystery of the Mockingjay and her mate, but I don't really care.

I haven't sent in any pictures with the children. And we do not own a television. I want to protect them from it all a little longer.

Needless to say, this is not an easy time of year for me. In the past, I could hide my feelings from the children. This year, though, as I was dropping Prue off at school, she asked if I was feeling sad. She must have heard me crying last night.

My nightmares usually flare up most intensely around this day. I flashback to seeing Primrose helping those children in the Capitol, her turning towards me before the explosions went off. But I also have nightmares of more than two years before that. I hear Effie calling out my Prim's name as the tribute for the Hunger Games, and I see Prim stiffly walking towards the stage, her untucked blouse grabbing my attention. I feel myself screeching out that I would volunteer in her place. I so wanted to save her. And I'm the reason she's dead. I'm the reason so many people are dead.

Peeta knows this line of thought very well. Many times, we have gone through thinking about what would have happened if I had not taken Prim's place. If Peeta and I had not defied the Capital and survived the first Hunger Games together. If the rebellion had not taken place and the Capitol had not been overthrown. If I had not shot President Coin.

I can replay our conversation in my head. Amidst my sobs, Peeta reminds me, "It was not all for nothing. They died as a part of making this a better world." I croak out, "But they didn't have to die." And at that point, if Peeta isn't hugging me already, he reaches over and holds me, knowing that there is nothing else that could be said that would be helpful.

Today, Peeta softly touches my cheek with his hand and pulls my face towards his to kiss me. Then, he sits back and looks into my eyes, embracing me in his steady, supporting arms. "I am here. You know that."

I nod.

"Always," I say.

Later, as the sun is setting, we walk back towards our house, Prue skipping ahead of us wearing the wreath of flowers she and I made together earlier, and Finn on Peeta's shoulders, Peeta holding my hand. Someday, our children will ask questions. Peeta says it will be okay. We have each other. And the book. We can make them understand in a way that will make them braver. But one day I'll have to explain about my nightmares. Why they came. Why they won't ever really go away.

I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do, every positive thing in my life. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after twenty years.

But there are much worse games to play.