She doesn't believe me, even now. Ironic. When there is no one she really can trust, you would think she would trust me. Not to do the right thing, of course. But to do that which will keep me alive.
Here I am, in my greenhouse, shackled and bloody, a gentleman still. There may be trackers and chains from my ankles to my wrists, and my own body may be conspiring against me, but I am still here, and I am still laughing. She is not. I am genuinely sorry about her sister, that sweet girl named for a flower. It was such a waste of life, but hilarious. I will get the blame for their murder (who could blame them for that? Who, after I have condoned the Hunger Games?) but it is their precious rebellion, their lucky Coin, that condemned her sister.
It really is ironic.
I start to laugh, but that quickly turns into a cough. I can see in her eyes that my words make sense, but still she won't believe me. Not nearly as clever as her would-be boyfriend or her mentor, that drunkard Haymitch, who had once been full of such promise.
That reminds me of Plutarch.
She is starting to connect the dots. Slow, but powerful. Just like I was, in the end. My failure was being so slow to grasp Coin's plan, to let the Capitol and districts destroy one another, like a buzzard. If I had thought, I would have remembered 13 did the same thing at the end of the Dark Days. I knew they were only biding their time. But I wasn't watching Coin, or even the new Head Gamemaker. I was watching her Mockingjay, and she was watching me. (I left her a rose, after all; a love letter only she could read.)
I'm afraid we have both been played for fools.
She doesn't believe me. Her eyes are clouded with doubt, but she is leaning away from me. Always slow on the uptake, but she will learn. We have so much in common. This is why I tried to kill her. I didn't succeed, but I am almost glad she is to be my undoing. I couldn't stand this from anyone else. I shake my head. I know she understands, more than anyone else would. So long I have been left without a confidante, and losing her breaks my heart. To who else could I be so frank? Tell the morphling addicts of the pleasure I derive from murder? Tell the green-skinned jewel-encrusted citizens of the Capitol that District 13 is alive and well? Explain to the twelve districts my plans to destroy Katniss once and for all? (Would that she had died from those berries!) No. She knows what I am trying to say, and she is a fool for trying to delay the inevitable. We are more alike than she wants to believe. And so when I say our parting words, I am only in part assuring her of my honesty.
Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other.