A bird without wings is a person without a name..
Chapter 1
Cold. Dark. Dusty. A putrid smell of foul odors and waste. I am shackled to a 3ft metal post. A single thin, dirty cloth covers my body and hangs off of my bones. It offers no warmth or comfort from the cold stone slabs beneath me.
I assess my surroundings three or four times before they actually sink in. I am trapped. No other way to say it, or sugar coat it. I am trapped with no route of escape, no plan, nothing except the skin on my back and this filthy limp sheet of linen.
I inspect the once white walls. Filthy and revolting, the scraps of wallpaper hang off the wall, attached by a single thread. Mold and damp creeps through the cracks and corners of the room, which is already covered with layers of blood and grime. I am repulsed. How can someone have a place like this? How did I even get to be here? Panic accompanies the questions that swarm in my mind. How? When? Why? I take a deep breath as my mind thinks of something I do know. My age. It's not much, but it's the one thing I am sure of. It comforts me to know there is still one bit of me that remains untouched.
I look around the room again, trying to get a hold of myself. There is one door leading to this room. It is a long, dark, mahogany door with a shiny metal handle. I find myself thinking how odd that they only bothered to clean the handle when I realize it is the only thing my captures will touch, whereas I'm so dirty I belong with the grime. Holding up the door to my dirty pit are four walls that I assume where once white and wall-papered, but now are coated in dirt and disease. The floor is unsightly and unclean: wet and sticky to touch, yet my thighs scream that it is rough and dry. The floor scraps my skin, the jagged rocks at the bottom of my pole dig into my lower back and the pole sends fits of electric pain down my spine. I try to think. How long have I been here? How long will I remain? Will someone find me? When? How? Why? My mind whizzes through each scenario desperately, whilst my body slumps at its post.
Suddenly I spot a girl. She looks up at me too, mirroring my surprise. I study her carefully, and I am aware she is studying me too.
Her once fine long brown hair hangs of her head. It's knotted in clumps and looks uneven, almost unnatural. Her head lulls on the ball of her spine, too heavy to hold. She looks lost, like she has given up on life already at just 17. Her body slumps like an old woman's and I see she is tied to a post too. Her shoulders stick out and the bones can be seen right down to her arms. The white sheet offers barely any cover, as it is so thin. Sweat drips from her hairline, but she is covered in goose bumps. Her ribs show though the cloth, looking like a ripple of liquid skin that starts at her collar bone. A shadow drops where her stomach should be. I look up at her face again and closely look into her eyes, hoping it will tell me something. Her eyes give away little, but enough. She watches my every move, almost as if she receives my thoughts. Her eyes scream neglect so painfully I'm forced to look away for a moment. When I look up something else twinkles in her eye and glows. It reminds me of fire. Revenge. Energy. I see a fire that burns inside her, but now it's just an ember she doesn't know how to rekindle.
I ponder for a moment wondering what her story is, and how sad it could be. I wonder if she could talk and help me, but it seems I am tricked by my eyes. I realized that she is no stranger. I know her face, though I may not know what is inside. When I realized her true identity I become a little repulsed. I know one thing is for sure. The stumped poor girl is the person I hate and yet love the most. She is my reflection.
The wall opposite holds a single mirror, so you can be reminded every day of your deterioration. A constant reminder. The more I look into the mirror, the more I remember being here for days and days. I must have been here long before I have woken up. I try to remember falling asleep here and seeing this before. My memory rewards and curses me. I remember every single day of this place so clearly, it hurts to even think. I remember the torture I told myself to forget. I remember everything. With one last curse I look up and the mirror catches my eye again.
Repulsed by my own memories, thoughts and the constant reminder that is my broken body, I try to calm down and recite the things that I know. I am alone, help captive in this room. I have been here a long time, but I don't know how long. I am 17 years old and I have a sister. I can't remember her name, but she was very precious to me. I have a mother also. I can't remember my name, but I know it is a flower or a root. I can't remember my house or my district, but I remember the woods where I used to go. I can't remember what I did there, but I know I swam in the river there once.
I am trying not to focus on the things that I don't know, thinking maybe, the less I remember, the less painful here will be. I hope that one day a rescuer will come, but I doubt that very much, as I remember nothing special about me that would make people care. I don't remember having any friends at school, except one, called Madge, but I'm not very hopeful.
I stare at the floor again. I see that it is made up of hard flat stones. On each of the stones, small markings are smudged. Markings which show a struggle or a fight. I wonder if any of those are mine. I can see a lot of blood was spilled here. I imagine a scenario of screams, shouts and efforts. I look at my arm, and notice tiny pin prick holes, that which only an injection can make. No wonder I can't remember much, I have been drugged continuously. A humming sound fills my ears. No. Not drugs. Stings. Tracker jacker poison.
A cold, hard knock hits my ears and I become ready to face my captor.
Chapter 2
Finally he opens the door , with four people I don't recognize. It seems my memory loss has failed to forget him though. It's no wonder when you look at him. Slick black hair, plastered to his head frames a square, sly face. His dark eye-brows are ludicrously straight above cold narrowed eyes. Black narrowed eyes, that glint suspiciously and maliciously. I shudder as he scans my slumped figure. A smile creases his face. Pale, shiny lips curve like a crescent moon and he opens the gaping and poisonous hole on his face. His mouth.
'Hello there my dear' His voice ripples through my body, causing disgust to scratch my face. He sinks to my level and whispers 'Having fun?' he extends the syllables for added effect. Moves me hair. Breathes in my face. Plays a mind game. It works. Before I know it my tongue spits back at him, pawing and slashing like a desperate animal.
' I can't say that I have really. I can't remember much of course, but then, it's been easy to forget. Nothing special, just a pathetic pair of people hurting a young girl. How many people did it take to restrain me last time? Five grown men was it? 'I sneer at the lot of them, and then sadly remember where I am. How trapped I am. Dread spreads through my muscles and stretches to my face. I realize how much I have over stepped the mark. How much it will cost me. A finger nail. A tooth. A limb.
The snakes slithers back up again, straightening his suit.
'I should cut that tongue of yours missy. An avox sounds a good job for you. Shame it would make you worthless on the market. It's not as if it can help you now anyway, we have acquired what we can use.' He smirks. How much information must I have given away? It much have been a lot, and that's why I cant remember it. Memories removed and stored in their bases. Files. Distributed every where but back into my head. Its like someone plays with your brain and cuts it down to size, then moulds it any way to suit them.
He removes my shackles and pulls me up. Without support, its only a few seconds before I tumble to the ground again. It takes a little while before my muscles jump into action, and when they do, they have me parading around the room in some sort of awful dance. Twirling, twisting, falling. Round and round I go, listening to the jeers of the rest of the crew. I don't care. I only catch blurs of their colours anyway. I embrace the freedom to move- it doesn't last long.
A gun hits my back and pushes me forward. The dance ends and I am lead into a surprisingly comfortable room. This confuses me for a moment, but the scent of vanilla tickles my nose and bonces into my brain. It sends an unfamiliar sensation that swirls into my vocal chords. They squeeze and produce a strange sound. A giggle. Something only the free can have the pleasure of doing. it's the first time in four months I have been able to do that. Four months. Then I realise where I am and choke on the vibrations. Pictures whiz through my brain. People I can't name appear. A small black little girl, with bushy black hair and a smile that reminds me of the brightness of a buttercup. Another young girl, around the same age. 12 years old, blonde and petite and a smile with the same happiness. They are the opposite, but so alike. A boy with soft blonde hair and piercing blue eyes is with then. I smell bread when I see him, and I think of paints and icing. Then I open my eyes.
A tear threatens to leave my eye. I brush it away as I am sat down, gun still pointed. This is no time to think of such forgotten things. I curl up in the small armchair, the patterned flowers bring a wave of pictures through my brain again. I embrace a cushion and look at my room. The small chair is situated in the corner of the room. No other furniture is present and this amplifies the sheer greatness of the room. Cream walls hold a range of delicate pictures and paints, almost a wonder my cell and this room share the same owners, and even, the same building. Yet, it still feels like my cell. Cleaner and more comfortable, but just as lonely and isolated.
The paintings are a constant memory of the thing I crave the most. The outside. The forest. The wild hunt. The bow and arrows, stored in my special trunk. Damp, tall trees, that offer me shelter and protection. Another boy flashes in my mind. A nameless figure again. All I see of him are dark eyes and olive skin. He soon looks away and the picture disappears.
I don't know how long I sit and think before someone addresses me.
'Do you know why you are here?' Asks a blonde woman with impeccable clothes and sharp blue eyes. She spreads out her hands indicating that she means this particular room. I see talons on her fingers, painted a sheer blue, to match her eyes I think. I have noticed , these people, seem very different, yet whatever they have always matches. Green skin, green eyes. Black hair, black clothes. It's like being with a different species. A well-coordinated and blind species to have those colours. She smirks at my silence.
'What's your name girl? Hm?' The red man doesn't hesitate and plagues me with question he knows I can't answer. 'Dumb bitch' He adds with shake of the head and a satisfied laugh.
I force my eyes to focus on the cushion. I notice its intricate weaves and neat fibers. My eyes well up. I work out the pattern of the stitches, a criss cross motion. Made by machine. Manufactured, like everything else here. I stare, trying hard not to let the tears trail down my cheeks. Trying not to look hopeless. I shoot the man daggers. His red skin and hair give him the look of a burning sun. Not burning like the intricate swirls of a flame, but a big scary mass, that hurts your eyes.
A sandy haired man catches my evil looks and almost smiles. I defiantly recognize him. He is not stuck to memory, but I remember him well. In a good way. It makes me confused as to why he is here. The faint line of a smile crosses he lips, and he licks them seductively. Sugar lumps and horses spring to mind, and I force my eyes to the floor again, careful not to show my thoughts. Suddenly a carved, tanned hand clasps mine and sandy hair tickles my head.
'It would be much easier if you would turn that frown upside down sweetheart' A hollow smile stretches over my face, as thinly spread as butter. He pushes a thin strand of hair behind my ear and leans in. 'Much better sugar' he whispers as he winks at me and straightens up. I stare straight at the cushion again, my frown as deep as a canyon. His slick words make me feel uneasy, yet his face comforts me. It was almost like his words meant something too. Sugar. Almost like he was trying to remind me of him.
The doors are opened and now I am lead to a second room. Full to the brim with people. I remember the snakes comment about how I will have no value without my tongue and scan the room to observe my bidders.
After a few minutes people begin to inspect me. I feel like a piece of meat, being sold off to the hungry consumer. A stout man catches my eye. He mimes a bird and then points to his watch. I don't know what it means, but it seems like it was meant for me only. A secret message. From whom or why, I don't know. I personally dread to think.
No further strange actions are made for another hour, so I ignore it. My 'team' of captors meet and greet more people and direct them to me. I forget about the sign and focus on my plan. I try to think where I am. How I was captured. What I saw. I can't. All I remember of my capture was being shot, by a member of the crowd. Pain surges through an old scar. The captors meant to keep me alive for a reason, that's why they revived me. Alive and unhurt are two very different things.
All I can remember after that is that cell, the whip and hard, cold metal.
I look around the room a bit more. A luxurious dining room, with a grand table and over seventy chairs sits to the side of the room through the door. A wall and large, glass double doors block me from seeing anymore. This room is a pale shade of pink and decorated with red and white roses. The furniture is red and the accessories are a crisp white. I am standing on a small white podium in the middle of the room. Four large clear windows tell me I'm in a grand house, with a huge garden. A garden full of flowers. A garden full of roses.
I don't know why but it makes me feel uneasy. Some people stare at me again. I try to make a plan to escape.
More time floats by. I'm hungry, tired and thirsty. I have been here for nearly 3 hours now. My weak body can't seem to take much more. So many people gawp at my filthy body. I feel so filthy, like I'm a patch of dirt on a shiny shoe. Unwanted. Unwelcome. And very, very different.
I'm almost fading from lack of energy. I'm nearly finished.
Window smash and doors are flung open. Hell breaks loose.
Chapter 3
Screaming people run everywhere. It's hard to distinguish who or what they are, it's almost like someone is smearing paint all over a blank canvas that is the room. There strange fashions have betrayed them as the grey uniforms contrast so much with them. The soldiers all look the same; grey trousers, Black boots, black cap, Grey over coat, big, black, metal guns, lasers, machines. Each has a clean face and no hair. It's like looking at an army of mannequins.
Guns are blazing, but none are aimed in my direction. I stand and I watch. I stand and watch like all these people, watching me cry every night, watching the cruel whip lash 50 strokes. I stand and watch because, what goes around comes around. I stand and watch for my family, for other suffers and I stand and watch for me. Revenge, a dish best served cold.
I watch as one woman is captured and dragged away. Petite and pretty, the evergreen skin and gold tattoos framed her features with an air of grace. She kicked and screamed, her eyes locking mine as she is beaten to the floor. Her thick bronze curls cling to her head in clumps as she falls. Now she knows what it is like to be me, I think. I notice that the fighters don't pay any attention to me. The stout man gets into a hover craft outside the house with them, looking pleased. I fall into despair. Maybe he planned this so he wouldn't have to pay for me. That's just what these people are like.
Amidst all the activity, I still stand frozen at my post. The captors have been taken from their places around me and killed. All accept one. The sandy young man stands near me unaffected by the noise and mess. He slowly walks towards me and takes my hand. I pull away.
'Trust me' He whispers. I let him lead me from the podium and he takes me into one of the crafts. Long and narrow, the hovercraft floats of the ground. The shiny metal exterior is shown inside. Metal seats. Metal handle bars. Metal guns. Ammo. I'm dizzy with the gleam of metal. The infantry retreat and the fighters join us. They stare and gasp, and say how happy they are to meet me. I remain still. I have no idea what's happening. People call me 'mocking jay'. I start to panic. I have no idea what is happening.
The sandy haired boy must be able to see the panic in my eyes as he squeezes my hand.
'I know you are confused and maybe even scared' You got that right, I think. 'But I need you to know, there is nothing to be afraid of. You recognize me don't you? The sugar lumps and horses?' I nod silently, wondering how he knew. I have a lot to ask, but my mouth seems too dry to even whisper. 'Do you remember my name?' I shake my head, ashamed, but I still can't speak. 'I'm F-'
He is cut off by a blonde haired boy, about my age, running towards me. I recognize him too. The bread and paint boy. He lifts me up and twirls me round and round. I freeze. He notices my stiff limbs and puts me down. Then he stares right into my eyes, like he is searching for treasure into a deep abyss.
'It's me' he says slowly. I stand silent. After a while I manage to whisper.
'Bread boy. You' I gesture to the sandy haired boy. 'Sugar lumps'
He pauses. 'You remember nothing else?' Says bread boy. I look deep into his eyes, now brimming with tears, and rack my brain. What do I remember? I tear my eyes away and stare at my feet. Slowly, I shake my head.
'Nothing? Nothing? You must remember something else!' He pleads and lifts my chin so I have no choice but to look at his salty tears. He strokes my hair and face and then leans in and kisses me. Warmth spreads to my lips and body. I fall into his arms.
Suddenly, without me even knowing why, I lash out. I kick. I hit. I scream. He lets me go, confused and hurt. I run to the edge of the craft, trying to claw myself out of the sealed doors. The infantry stare puzzled at my behavior. When they realize the damage I am doing to myself, as well as the doors, a doctor is pulled to my position. He stabs my arm and I find myself intoxicated with sleep. I look around me once more and then as the last drop is administered, I am out cold.
Chapter 4
Hospital staff whiz around me. A day feels like a lifetime. People rush past me, talk around me, but never to me. I try to remember where I am. What I am doing here. But I can't. I can't ask any staff either, because no one answers. No one bothers.
I see a crumpled figure sleeping in a chair. His blond hair falls over his eyes. It's the bread boy. His long, thick, curly, blonde eyelashes are glued together. He is curled up on the chair, hanging of the arm like he was holding onto a cliff. His grey shirt is ripped at the sleeves revealing scarred, but strong arms. I remember the warmth that surged through me. Then the hurt I did to him. I feel sick to think that I hurt him so much, but a deeper guilt is there. As if I did something even worse in the past. I wish I could remember it. But I also wish it stays buried forever. As if he can feel my eyes on his, he begins to stir. He puts down on stockless foot and a metal leg. I gasp. Someone of my age with a war wound.
'Oh, you're up.' He rubs his eyes and stretches. 'They said you would be out for at least another day' he smirks. 'But then again, it is just like you to not obey orders' He smiles and walks over to me, sitting on my bed. He begins to talk to me about how much I remember, and eventually, I begin to speak. It feels so good to be able to talk and talk, even laugh. He edges closer, a little more warily, encase of another outburst.
'I'm not going to hurt you, you know that right?'
I do. I really do. 'Of course, what harm could you do anyway' We laugh together and hug way into the night.
He helped me for weeks. He told me his name, and we remembered many things together.
'One night, you told me your favorite colour, do you remember what it was?'
'Peeta, I can't even remember my own name. Do you really think I could?' The funny thing was though, I could remember his.
'It's green. And mine is orange, like a-'
'Sunset' We share a smile. 'Peeta, why does no-one tell me my name? People just call me 'mockingbird'
He grimaces at my question. I can tell he is struggling to find the words. But I'm strong, prepared. I need my name. I need to know my identity.
'Mockingbird, we can't tell you… because…' he frowns.
'And I thought you were good at words' I smirk
'Because' he presses on vaguely aware of my comment. 'Because it might affect your mental health and may cause your memories to become distorted' He finishes with a sigh. My mental health may be damaged. My memories distorted.
I knew I was in the mental part of the hospital, as soon as I woke up. I remember being in a hospital for nursing physical injures, and I knew this was completely different. I admit, the accusation of me being mental shocks me, but I think I really knew it all a lot. I sit silent for a minute. I have physical and mental scars, obviously, but they are so dangerous, that I can't even hear my own name?
Peeta studies my face carefully and then takes my hand. 'You are not mental. You are your own person. Just need to ease you into the process of remembrance.' I look up at him, and he smiles. 'Plus' he adds 'you have always got me'
It's true; Peeta helps me so much, he is more help than I could have dreamt of. He is the only person who has come to find me here in district 13, but he says that it is so top secret and underground only a few people can come down. He tells me my mother and sister are here, and are living in district 13 too. He says that the district is on levels, and that I have been here before. I remember. A supposed nuclear attack was launched on this district and no survivors were found. It was supposed to be a sign for the rest of the districts. A warning from the capitol. No rebels survive.
They were wrong. Recently unsurprising had been achieved by several districts. Many were bombed, but the survivors told refuge in 13. Many believed the place to be dead and ruined, but it was thriving; only it was out of plain sight. Underground district 13 existed and just about pulled through.
I can't say I like being underground but it's better than being with the kidnappers. Peeta explained that whilst promoting peace in an uprising, I was shot and dragged away. Kidnapped and tortured they believe, for information about the uprising and also to dampen the uprising fires that were spreading. I was there promoter, leader of the fires that burn. I was the mocking jay that spurred the uprising on.
I takes me a long time to process all the information I'm being told, but slowly I remember me.
We talk and talk until the doctors force us to rest. Sleep. The worse thing. With the rest, comes a price. Nightmares. Thoughts and pictures of forgotten people. Dead people.
They ask me why I don't know them. Why I don't feel remorse for what I did to them. They keep hurting me and digging me into a grave. They keep asking me what it feels like, over and over. I scream and shout that I don't know and I'm sorry, but they don't hear.
The two girls are the only ones who help me. I learn one of the girls, blonde and blue eyed is my sister, Prim. I wonder why she is with the dead, but she come and helps me out of the grave. She helps me live, almost as if my survival helps her live too. The other girl helps me too. She tells me how I protected her, made her feel safe, and that I helped her. She tells me to listen to her and she helps me out too. Then she Hums a four note melody which it beautiful. Mockingjays repeat it over and over until it becomes a scream. Prim's scream. It rings in my ears and I wake up.
Sweat pours off of my body and I peel of my hospital gown. I splash cold water onto my face and wash my hands. I pick a fresh gown from my drawer. Just in time Peeta comes in. I lie down and without a word, he understands and lays next to me stroking my wet hair from my face.
After all this, with Peeta's arms around me I fall back to sleep.
Chapter 5
I'm making so much progress that the doctors are letting me meet my mother, Prim, my old friend Gale and Haymitch. He was my mentor for something they call 'The Hunger Games' but it means nothing to me. I'm hoping I'll know when I see him.
Peeta takes me by the hand and steadies me.
'It's natural to be nervous' He tells me, leading me down some corridors. A tall dark haired boy takes my other hand. I'm about to protest when I see his face and I instantly know him. It's Gale, the boy who was more of a dark figure in my memory. The one in the forests. He says nothing but clasps my hand and tells me things that words could never say.
Finally after a maze of corridors and lifts I reach a small room. Peeta opens the door for me and I'm immediately hit by a girl with blonde hair. She looks a lot more grown up them how I remember her, but I know this is my sister, Prim. She is beautiful and so much more grown up that I saw her before. I whirl her round and then embrace a blonde woman. My mother. We hold each other in a small family scene for a while, memories flooding through me like my tear flood my eyes.
We eventually realise each other and I look upon a familiar man. Haymitch
'Nice to see you again sweetheart' He grins. He takes a swig from a bottle and slicks back his hair. 'Have fun? Miss me?' I study him. A man in his thirties. A man who has seen too much. A once young man has been poisoned by drink and sadness. Bloodshot and wrinkles eyes sit on a clean and flawless face. Long blonde hair hangs limply from his head. His strong body is slouched in the chair, wearing a smart suit and stale cologne.
We talk for a few hours, sharing child hood memories and fun times, When suddenly Haymitch starts to laugh. A long eerie laugh that reminds me of a sound that a white haired man used to sound like. President Snow.
The room starts to swirl. Peeta and Gale grab my arms as I collapse and I'm heaved onto the nearest chair.
'Breathe Mockingjay. Try and breathe.' Peeta hugs me and I start to feel a bit better. Then I realise why I'm panicking. I remember him. Not the explanation to the dead that plague my dreams that I wanted but this is something. He helped me kill innocent children. The Capitol had a game to watch for innocent children fight to the death. Then a pain hits my head. I remember the cold knife that was embedded in my skull. The burn that seized my leg. Peeta. He tried to kill me, up the tree. Anger boils inside me. The tracker jacker poison leads into me. The I remember helping Peeta's wound. I cool off. More memories flow. Memories of the dead. I shot someone. That little girl that I could not protect. An old lady I could not carry. Someone being eaten to death by dogs. No, wolf creatures with human eyes.
I see my self slashing around the room. Prim is crying, holding my mother tightly. She looks just like a little girl again. I try to stop swaying and stabbing, but I can't stop. I'm crying and crying for help, but no one comes. Darkness starts to hold me. Something hits my head. Death flashes in my brain and faint to the floor. The eye close and I see no more happy reunions. I am only reunited in my dreams with the dead.
A single Primrose floats down the steam. In the distance, a single four note melody is heard and spread by the mocking jay, throughout the forest. It spread to my ears. I breath in relief. This is the sound of safe. I follow the source of the melody, but I keep losing track. Every hour a hidden horror is realised on my path. A thick suffocating fog. A tsunami. Deadly orange monkeys. Someone mutters 'tick tock' In the distance and I know her to be wireless. I call for her help, but she repeats her message over and over. The dream becomes so regular that I almost find my way there. Then another song is sung. A sad tune sung by a man. The forest turns quiet, eager for more, and then repeats the tune. it's the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. Peeta joins in. I'm nearly there when something growls behind me. A girl screams. A horrendous wolf creature chases me and the screams echo through the forest. I try to run to the safe place but the path twists and turns and I never get there. My legs burns and all my wound sizzle. Poison leaks through me and slows me down. Beasts claw and rip at my legs. I'm running and running, but I'm going nowhere. I reach a huge pit and fall right into cold water. I wake up in a sweat and drenched in urine soaked clothes.
I peel off my pajamas and run to the bathroom. I like to think I'm washing away those memories, and I think it helps. I see all the dirt and sadness washed away, back down into the darkness. I wash my hair and body, wrap up in a warm grey towel, and lie on my bed. I start to remember the first time that I met Peeta, or rather the first time I knew who he was. My family and I were starving, I think it was just after dad had died, and I was desperate. I trying selling anything and everything that I had, but no one would take anything. I walked over to a familiar tree, threw down my offerings and sat in the rain. Tears poured down my face, caused by anger, grief, pain and starvation, and once I started, I could not stop. I sat there for hours, wondering how I would tell my little sister that there would be no more food on the table for another day. I wondered how I would drum into my mother's head that she needed to do something, else we would all starve to death and dads work would be wasted. I felt bitter cold and betrayed. Suddenly, I heard shouts and screams from the bakers shop. An angry woman shouting and spiting at her son. I would have felt bad only I was so wrapped up in hunger and grief that I stared stonily at the floor and wondered what it was little to have a stable job, a warm house and both sane parents. The door was flung open and a strong, blonde haired boy stomped out the house, holding burnt bread. Food I thought. He began to feed the bread the pigs, but as soon as his mother disappeared from the doorway, he turned to me. Looking left and right, he threw me two large loafs of bread. Stunned I caught them and stared, he slowly walked back into his house, back to his abusive mother. Those two loafs may not sound much, but we cut away the crispy outside to reveal a perfect center. It lasted us a week. Without that bread I would have died, and I never thanked Peeta. The next time I even noticed him was when his name was called out for the Hunger games.
I felt sick to my stomach. All the things Peeta has done for me and he has never received any thanks. I cut his hands after the interview, I faked my love for him in the arena, I hurt him, shouted at him, ignored him and never once repaid any off my debt to him. I may have saved his life once or twice, but he has helped me many more times. For a moment, I begin to remember a dandelion I picked one night after school, a flower which restored my hope in life. Peeta is my dandelion. Not that I would ever tell him this to his face, but he is my hope and my life.
As my heart stops beating I remember my soul purpose and all there is to know about me. I remember my name.
Katniss Everdeen
Died aged 17
Shortly followed by Peeta Mellark, who took his own life
Aged 17
May the bread boy and the girl on fire finally rest in peace