My brain absorbs several facts in an instant and I'm running. The boy from 12, Peeta Mellark, is stranded out on his platform, eyes jerking frantically back and forth. It's clear he can't swim. Cashmere is rapidly rounding the corner of the Cornucopia, a fistful of knives at her disposal, and I see her eyes narrow at the sight of the helpless tribute only 50 meters away, a distance that's absolutely nothing to her. Already she's drawing her hand back, preparing to send the knife whistling through the air and firmly embed it in the boy's chest. He can't die. I can't stop her. Everything takes on a dreamlike quality, everything slows down. He's standing there, unaware of the threat. The knife leaves her hand. There's no other options.
Without hesitation, I take it.
Pain. Cold. Heat. Blood. The knife is colder than ice, taking my breath away. Cashmere throws with such force that I'm knocked to the ground, left there to gasp out my last breaths as my heart valiantly tries to keep me alive. Unfortunately, its pumps do more harm than good as it only accelerates the rate at which my blood streams from my body.
A shadow blocks out the sun, and I strain to make out who it is. Most likely they think I'm dead- even I think I'm dead. Instead, they fall to the ground beside me, yelling.
"Cecelia! Cecelia what were you thinking? Didn't you see me there? Cecelia!"
Cashmere is crouched over me, screaming and sobbing as her hands flutter helplessly over the knife that's firmly planted in my chest. Already the handle is slick with blood.
As much as I want to, I can't be angry with her. Its not her fault she was born in District 1, having no need to join the rebellion. Its not her fault I took the knife intended for the District 12 boy. None of it is her fault. Had our situations been reversed, I would have been the one looking to kill the boy myself. No, anger is not the emotion that fills me. Its remorse. Remorse at the necessity of my act, the pain I'm putting my friend through, my family. Gella, Quinn, Desmond. Their faces cause me indescribable pain. My children. Who will comfort them, growing up without their mother, who never returned from her "business trip." Never seeing them grow tall, never seeing them laugh, never kissing them goodnight again.
I choke slightly on the blood now coating my throat, Cashmere's frantic pleads and apologies fading from my awareness. I'm never going to see my children again. Not my beautiful daughters, not my adorable infant son. Their mother is never coming home. Not to them, not to their father….
Jack. How will he take this, watching me die as he stands hundreds of miles away. My heart aches and my fingers automatically reach for him, but he's not there. Tears flood my eyes for the first time. Jack!
I lunge up with everything I have, just managing to clutch someone's hand. Cashmere. Her face is blotchy from tears and crumpled in pain, but she grips my hand so tightly it almost hurts, paling in comparison with my chest. She's saying something but I can't hear through the ringing in my ears. From the corner of my eye I see the lithe form of Finnick Odair diving in the water, toward the boy, towing him back to shore. Mags is waiting there, along with the girl, Katniss. The Mockingjay. We haven't failed. The words echo dimly in my head. They're alive.
Cashmere is still sobbing over me. "I'm so sorry!" she cries. "I'm so sorry Cecelia!"
"I am too." I can't even hear my voice, but she must have caught something because her face suddenly caves in, a fresh wave of sobbing starting. I stare up at the pink sky, surroundings fading once again as I seem to zoom into the sky. It's not Cashmere who holds my hand now, but Jack. He smiles at me, though I see the sadness in his eyes.
"I'm so proud of you," he says quietly. "I love you."
"Jack…"
The sky grows enormous, pink horizons stretching endlessly. Brightness.
Nothing.