It was hard. The pain, mainly emotional, was excruciating. The worst part was I could do nothing to stop it from happening. I could only sit back and let them slander the only life I've ever known. Slander it until even I couldn't tell what was true and what wasn't. What was once associated with love was taken over by fear, anger, pain.

I knew, in my heart, she wasn't evil. And yet, whenever I saw her, my head was whispering the tiny words, Kill her, kill her. And even though I knew it was wrong, my head wouldn't listen. And it launched me into her open arms, ready to kill.

The only thing that ever mattered to me was her and her safety. And now…I have nothing. I can't bring myself to care about her or I'll feel the hatred, the terror tearing through me. Who am I? Just the baker's son, the artist. I am nobody of importance. She is Katniss. The Mockingjay. The Girl On Fire. She is my enemy. She is my love.

I don't know how to deal with the pain, the craziness I feel. I know it's rooted deep within, that it's not just a surface crazy. The Capitol did this to me. And I let them. I let them soil the memory of her, until the only memories I had were bad ones.

My heart was telling me everything I felt was true. She's good, strong, beautiful, fierce, independent, amazing, clever, real, loving, gentle, adventurous. She's Katniss.

My head was telling me everything I knew was true. She's bad, too strong, unforgiving, disobedient, clever, careful, evil, a killer. She's the Mockingjay.

It doesn't matter what my heart says, my head is the one that controls my actions. My head is the one that's telling me the things I hear. My head is the reason I believe Katniss must die. By my hand.

And yet, when the chance arises, I cannot bring myself to do it. I get so close to killing her and then…something stops me. It's a glitch in my system, one the Capitol wasn't expecting. They were probably expecting everything inside of me to die so that I could be a killing machine, a robot, doing their dirty work. They didn't count on my conscience surviving. And they surely didn't count on a tiny sliver of love surviving. The last thing they wanted was for their robot to be in love with their enemy. And yet, it wasn't something they could completely erase.

And as the days grow longer and turn into weeks, which turns into months, which turns into years, I realize that there will always be a tiny part of that robot with me. No matter how much I love her, for saving me and for staying safe, there will always be a tiny part in me that wants to kill her. No amount of running away, or baking, or painting, or playing with little children will change that. I may always hate her.

There's a fine line between love and hate. I seem to be teetering on that line. One foot in love, one foot in hate. And yet, I'm putting more weight on the foot that's in love, and that's all that matters.