If you have not read Mockingjay, I strongly advise you not to read this, so - spoileralert!
I was not happy with the way Mockingjay ended so I decided to write my own ending.
Note that this happens after the book so everything that happens still happens.
It's just a way to assure myself that if Collins decides to do a fourth book; this writing is a possibility.
Or something like it at least.

Enjoy,

A few days after my 15th birthday, my parents told me everything about their unwilling participation in the Hunger Games and the aftermath; the berries, the Quarter Quell, the Mockingjay, the Rebellion. Of course, the Games were no mystery to me – it's no mystery to anyone in any district. The wounds are still fresh and I don't think wounds that deep can fully heal. I don't think there's anything time can do. And if they somehow do heal, I think ugly scars will be left in their wake.
My parents' scars have still not healed, despite the time that has passed since the Games – and I know now that they never will. That my parents were in the Games is something I already know. There is no way they could have kept that away from me. Their names are in the history books and on everyone's lips. It's just that, before they told me, I didn't know how the Games ended. Why they ended. I knew with absolute certainty that they had played a role in it - they seemed too shady about it when I asked to not have been - I just didn't know how big or small those roles were.
So that left me with unnumberable questions - what can their nightmares possibly contain for them to wake up screaming in the middle of the night? Why does mom lean against the kitchen counter and stare at the kitchen table until tears start streaming down her face and I have to comfort her without knowing what caused her tears in the first place? Why is it so hard for mom to tear her eyes away from the primrose bushes in the yard? Why does dad have burn marks on his face? Why are there patches on mom's head that won't grow hair?
And then at last – what's the source to my parents' courage? What is it that brings them to take a kitchen knife and go out in the middle of the night to inspect the strange sound that scared me or my little brother, instead of just doing what normal people do; lock the doors and stay put?

That day I got my answers to every question. But it's a fact well known that answers tend to rise questions on their own.
I read the book they made. I read about Rue and Finnick, about Boggs and Snow – there was also ever minor detail of how my mother felt and what she thought when she shot Coin.
Everything was in that book; another question I had was who the father of aunt Annie's son, Finnick was. Apparently, Finnick. Well, you know, he's named after his father. Finnick the father was a lively guy who loved to flirt, according to mom, and he was very handsome. I saw the portrait my dad drew of him and then the picture of him standing next to a smiling Annie on their wedding day. He was definitely good-looking.
But besides his looks and his flirtatious ways, he was brave and he "always faced challenges head on".

There are days when I wish I could meet him and all the others and this… rage would rise at the fact that Snow stole that chance away from me.
Maybe other hands killed Finnick and Rue and Cinna but you've got to ask yourself; if Snow hadn't ordered them to – would any of it happened? There is always of course a possibility – but I choose to believe; not likely.
He's the reason that meeting dad's parents is impossible, the reason I've only seen Grandma a few times – the reason I will never meet my mother's younger sister Prim, have a real aunt.
I exhale in attempt to stop the familiar rage that's creeping towards my chest.
It doesn't really help, but I do what I can do.

I try to sort it out, sometimes – why did Snow do it? How could he bring himself to do it? What was his motivation? Power? Blood- lust? Like always, I'm left with so many questions I have to take a deep breath to sort all my thoughts out. Sometimes I do what mom used to during the time she was mentally disoriented after her second Games.
My name is Ignis. I am fifteen years old. I like to hunt and paint. I have a younger brother who's twelve. Both my parents participated in the Hunger Games and they both made it out alive. And then I continue on with whatever is making my head spin.

I was up an entire night watching the Games mom and dad were in – I cried when mom sang to Rue at the brink of her death, I saw how she left dad and to get him his survival in a bottle and I closed my eyes at the kisses and way too intimate hugs shared between mom and dad. I also realized how much I looked like mom when she was younger.
And finally I watched when they both were the last survivors; stretching out their hands to show the pretty, round deaths tucked in there. The countdown and the panicked shout when the berries reached their mouths.
After seeing the tape, I locked myself up in my bedroom – it was simply too much to take in. So much death and pain – for what? I heard the roars during the interviews with Caesar just before the Games started; the excited shouts, the prettily decorated cut- out cardboards with We love you, Peeta! written on them. How could they be so joyful when the deaths of 23 children were certain?

Watching the other tape of the Quarter Quell; this time, dad told me, he took Haymitch's place just like mom took Prim's when her name was had been called.
This time I viewed not only my parents' bravery but also Finnick's. I heard his witty comments; when he flirted with mom, when he teased dad and I was once more overwhelmed with the rage of never having met him.
I take a deep breath and try to once more calm down the tumbled feelings inside me.
I basically know about everyone who's been in my parents' life. Except for one person.
Gale Hawthorne.

Mom's long lost best friend, who's also a guy.
I notice how she and dad always tense up when I bring him up – which naturally, only makes me want to know about him all the more.
All I've managed to squeeze out of them is that he used to be my mom's hunting buddy and best friend. I have my suspicions of that he was more than a best friend but I haven't gotten that confirmed yet.
Once I asked mom what he looks like. She actually smiled a little bit. "Well, at the time he had the same tone to his skin as mine. His eyes were gray, like mine, and his hair was black, like mine. People who didn't know us would mistake us for siblings and we never told them otherwise. That's why we managed to be 'cousins' in the public eye during the Rebellion." She went silent. "But they always made a note that he was more… handsome. He got a job on TV due to him playing such a big role in the Rebellion, but being attractive definitely did him good. They could have gotten Peeta. Or Haymitch. But Peeta's too scarred from the fire and Haymitch… well, Haymitch is too wasted to say his name."
I laughed at the dirty look he cast mom.
He comes to visit every now and then with a bottle of liquor accompanying him.
Despite his sarcastic manner, I love him. And even if he won't admit it, I think he loves me, too.

I stretch my arms above my head and yawn.
I was supposed to go out with Finnick and my little brother, Cinna, to hunt, but I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. Even when Finnick himself stepped into my bedroom and raised an eyebrow at me. It struck me just then how much he looked like his dad, and I froze, staring at him. Of course, he interpreted it the wrong way. "I know I'm gorgeous, but it's rude to stare, Ignis."
Even his personality reminded me so much of his dad that I smiled. It occurred to me that in a way, I had gotten to know Finnick – through his son. And of course, through aunt Annie.
"Don't flatter yourself. I was just staring at the huge zit on your forehead." I wasn't. Finnick never gets zits.
"Please." And of course, he knows this.

Suddenly the door rings and I groan. Dad's painting and my mother is in the balcony, singing. I could hear her all the way in. It's such a pleasant voice singing words that were forbidden to utter.
Thanks to her, they no longer are.
I throw the covers away from me and stand up.

Are you, are you coming to the tree?
Where they strung up a man they say murdered three
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree, my mom sings.

When my parents are doing what in their eyes are their only escape from their gory memories, there's no disturbing them.
So I walk down the stairs to open the front door.
I look through the magic eye and frown at the man behind it.
When I was old enough, I understood that District Twelve is over- populated because the Girl who was on Fire and the love of her life lives here.
But despite the people here, it's such a small place, you can't help but know everyone.
I do not, however, know this man.

I decide to open the door anyway, and if he attempts anything, then mom and dad have taught me every piece of self-defense they know plus the little more I've learned myself.
The man is dressed in clothes a bit more formal than what's common here in District Twelve. He's taller than dad – hell, where dad is day, this guy's night.
His hair is dark – black – and his eyes are dark too, but from this distance I can't make out the exact color. His skin is olive- tinted, like mine but he's gotten a bit more sun than I have.
And he's staring at me.

By now, it would have been appropriate to mention his name, say what he's doing on our porch.
Then a thought hits me; what if he's Avox?
Dad told me about his and mom's encounters with three people who were slaves with no tongue. Literally.
But then the man swallows and I notice there is nothing strange about it. "I'm sorry. Who are you?"
He shakes his head a little bit, so little that it's barely noticeable, and looks down at his shoes, then back up at me. "I'm looking for… Katniss. Or Peeta?" He says, addressing my parents by their first names. I notice how deep his voice is and try not to grin at it.
I don't fail to notice how gorgeous he is. He's old enough to be my dad, I know, but he's just one of these older men you can't help but find attractive. And this one most definitely is.

That's when my suspicions set in. It can't be…
I notice all the similarities from what I've heard but I don't draw any conclusions. Not yet.
"Mom!" I don't look away from him and seeing me studying him, he tries to mask his reaction at the word.
Not good enough for me, though.
"Who is it?" Mom yells, her voice more distinct while she approaches us. Her eyes are on her computer that is the size of her palm when she enters the hallway.
The man, whose broad shoulders fill out the doorframe, turns rigid at the sight of her and I turn to see her reaction just as she looks up from her computer.
Now, it's her time to freeze up. I'm half- expecting her to drop the thing from her hand but she manages to hold onto it.
For a moment there is nothing but absolute silence – it's as if sound just suddenly ceases to be.
No chirping, no wind – it's so silent I can hear my own pulse.

I can't turn away from mom's face to see how the man next to me is reacting; she has me hooked. It's like her face can't settle on one facial expression; anger, hurt, love and betrayal, hatred and sorrow, happiness and yearning. It's such a tangle of emotions that interpreting them exhausts my mind.
And the second before she speaks, my suspicions are confirmed.
"Gale."