Making History


Katniss Everdeen killed a gamekeeper.


He stumbles against the table, glitter falling from his silver hair onto the golden pig. Whimpers, tinged with a Capitol accent, sound like a flute. The other gamekeepers groan.

"Oh, come on, not in the pig!"

"Told him not to drink so much."

"He didn't knock down the champagne, did he?"

An older woman grabs him by the shoulder, tells him to wake up before he permanently stains his suit. She's the first to see the arrow.


That was all that mattered.


They're panicked as they pull him from the table and lay him on the floor. They don't notice that all the jostling is worsening the wound. There's an arrow dug into his neck, half-blocking his windpipe, and some gamekeeper, naïve and desperate to help, pulls it out.

The arrowhead shreds his throat. Blood flows. One of them shrieks for a doctor.

For the first time since I entered the room, the gamekeepers notice me.


That was what traveled through whispers across districts.


I haven't moved since I released the arrow. The bow is still pointed towards the roasted pig, one hand trembling on its smooth grip as the other hangs uselessly behind.

Tearstains shine on my cheeks. Anger fueled them, anger at the gamekeepers for ignoring me and the Capitol for turning my life into a popularity contest. I was blinded by anger, blinded by tears and by arrogance. For the first time in years, I shot an arrow and missed.


That was what started the rebellion.


They're looking at me like I'm a monster, like I'm one of those victors who torture the other tributes or eat their hearts. I drop the bow so that my hands are empty. The fingernails are still perfect and glossy, buffed and trimmed by Cinna's team. That feels like a lifetime ago. Of course, so does the moment when I snatched up an arrow and stupidly, childishly fired it into a crowd.

The words tumble out, stiff and terrified. "I was aiming for the pig."


That was what went down in history.


Paramedics and guards alike rush in, scattering like a herd of deer at the first scent of blood.

I'm weaponless and dull-eyed. A single guard could have arrested me, so there's no sense in bringing twenty. The paramedics aren't needed, either; I've hunted enough to know that the man's already dead. But both groups are eager to do their jobs.

Their gunfire shakes the room, and I think they missed me until the exit wounds start burning. I wonder if this hurts as much as an arrow to the throat.


If a gamekeeper killed Katniss Everdeen, well…


"I bet on her," a man says peevishly.

I hate the gamekeepers for being cruel, self-centered, and oblivious. I hate the Capitol for kidnapping, manipulating, and killing me. I hate myself for losing my temper, letting down my sister, and dying so slowly.

Someone sighs. "We'll have to get another girl from District Twelve."

A woman giggles. "One's already picked out, at least."

I force out one last whispered apology.

"Prim…"


Panem was used to dead children.