Author's Note: So, this was written for the Starvation Monthly Challenge. The prompt was "envy." It's a really fun forum with some really cool people and good writing, so check it out!
I'm all dull neutral colors—black and white and shades of grey—from my silver hair to my grey eyes and my pale face. Even my face is plain; there is nothing particularly spectacular about my round face with a blunt nose and a mouth that always sits in a flat line. Admittedly, this is not the face that launched a thousand ships, nor is it suitable for being the face of a rebellion. This is why we have the others—our attractive surviving victors—to be the faces of the rebellion. They're pretty, though they have no deeper understanding of the way things work. They don't understand that they're disposable, that long after they're dead and gone, their faces will continue to be symbols of our cause. But while they're rotting in the ground, the rebels will still need me. They'll still need someone who knows how to play the game, how to shuffle the pieces around the board to get the outcome that we want.
Once or twice, Heavensbee has accused me of being jealous of our little Mockingjay, and he doesn't believe me when I tell him that I'm not. I don't think that he realizes just how disposable the child is. If she's alive and helping us, she's great for morale; if she tragically dies, she becomes a martyr and gives our cause something to fight for. Whether she's alive or dead at this point, she's served her purpose. But me, I'm more than a symbol. I'm the brains of the operation—a master game player—and that makes me invaluable. So no, I can't say that I'm jealous of the Mockingjay.
I finger the cold, metal arrow in my hand and study it one last time before I have to send it off to the preparation room where the Mockingjay is getting ready to execute Coriolanus Snow. While it might seem like I'm only living up to the deal I made with the girl, I'm also making a sound tactical decision. The rest of Panem will see the child who "started the revolution" killing the man who has oppressed us for so long. Symbolically, it will be a beautiful moment. It also shows that I'm a good, just leader, and I stand by my promises. It will help repair the damage that the firebombing did.
"President Coin?" It's a young man—everything about him tells me that he's from District Thirteen from his short, military haircut to the way that he's standing at attention—waiting to escort me. "They're ready for you."
We walk down the corridors and out onto the balcony where the others—Heavensbee, Abernathy, and several of the victors—are waiting. When our little Mockingjay walks out onto the terrace, looking very tired despite the makeup on her face, the audience cheers. They cheer even louder for the next person who appears. There, in the middle of the tiny terrace that is on the front of the president's mansion—what a shame that it couldn't be on a grander, larger stage like the one at the Training Center—is Coriolanus Snow, former president of Panem. Guards are tying him to a wooden post, and for the first time in a long time, I have to fight to keep my face neutral.
As far as words go, I generally don't have trouble with finding the right ones. I've spent years to learning how to say exactly what I want to say just as clearly and concisely as possible, but I still can't find the right words to describe my feelings for Coriolanus Snow. He is a brilliant man. For the past twenty-five years, he has ruled Panem unopposed because he knows exactly how to play the game. He built his reputation on poison and secrecy, which lead to a paranoia that had never been seen in Panem before. Everyone believed that he had spies everywhere, that he knew everything they were saying, and they didn't know who to trust. It's brilliant playing, and an opportunity that I don't get to have.
I'm staring at him—looking so small tied to that simple, wooden post—and I'm struck with a bolt of envy so strong that I'm certain it's burning all the way down my throat and into my stomach. This man—this tiny man that is about to shuffle off this mortal coil—is making me jealous. He got to have all the opportunities that I can never have. He can be the perfect Machiavellian ruler, and I will never have that luxury. He got to rule in fear, with absolute power, and I never will.
"President, have you considered how you're going to respond to the parachuting incident?"
"Madam President, are you sure that the end justifies the means. Those are our people…"
"That's cold, ma'am…"
He never had people second guessing him, because they all knew that if they did, they would be dead before the week was up. I don't have that luxury; when people question me, I can't have them killed because I'll immediately be compared to Snow. I have to prove that I'm everything he's not, when I'm everything that he is. I'm everything that he is and better, and no one else will know it. None of them will realize what I'm capable of, and that eats me up inside.
I am a master of subtlety; I know how to work the cameras and how to make the public believe everything I say. I even look the opposite of Snow. He has a face that begs to be distrusted; his features are slanted and flat—far too snakelike to be trustworthy. Mine is dull—all greys—but far too dull to be untrustworthy. It's a face that will have them all eating out the palm of my hand…except that's not any fun. I think that's what I envy the most. His rule of fear was fun, and mine can never be. Not so soon after his. I envy him that, and because of that, I plan to take in all the joy I can from watching him die.
The little Mockingjay raises her bow and takes careful aim, deep in thought. With all eyes on her, and can I let a small smile sneak over my face. I can take comfort in knowing that while my reign—because even though I'm president, it will be a reign—might not be as fun as it should be, but I will go down in the history books as the president that pulled this nation together after our Darkest Times. They will remember me for years to come as the savior of my country. He will be the tyrant that tore the country apart, and I will be the better one—the one who put it back together again.
The Mockingjay pulls back her arm and lets the arrow fly. It isn't flying the way it's supposed to—
There's a sharp pain in my chest and the floor is rising up to meet me—
Me. She shot me. She killed me—
Faintly, I hear Snow laughing while he chokes on his own blood. He thinks that he's beaten me, the snake. But no. I'm still the savior. I saved this country. I saved my country.
They'll remember me for that, right?