I miss her more than I thought I would.

We were obviously never perfect siblings. Could never stand each other for more than a couple minutes. But still, it's odd, sad, knowing that the person with whom I shared a womb for nine months is dead.

It was a closed-casket funeral. They wouldn't let me see her body, and I don't know how I feel about that. It would be pretty horrifying to see her body crushed and mangled, and yet, not having seen it, our time together lacks closure. I keep feeling like we're going to see each other again.

The last time we talked, I had no idea she would die. We had just gotten back home from seeing the chariots. I was still flushed with excitement, I loved the chariots, loved the Hunger Games. And Special was even more glum than usual, and that annoyed me.

I looked at her just long enough to roll my eyes at her before turning to my room. "Why can't you just let yourself have some fun for once and stop being such a prude?"

All she said was "Goodnight, Unique."

I didn't think anything of it until the next morning, when I walked into the kitchen, when Mom and Dad told me she had flung herself off a building. And those would always be the last words I ever said to her.

No note.

Mom and Dad assured me, over and over, that it wasn't my fault. That she'd likely already made up her mind by then. That there was nothing I could have done. And maybe, that night, that wasn't the thing that mattered. But happy people don't commit suicide.

The plain and simple truth was that Special was not a happy person, and I did nothing to improve that. I was never nice to her. Always so mean to her. God, why was I always so mean to her? She never did anything to me. She was my twin, my little sister by four minutes. I should have been supportive of her. I should have at least tried to understand her.

I as good as pushed her off that roof.

As the days go by, I begin to understand Special better. Special had no one she truly considered a friend, because there was no one she could find who shared her ideas, who understood her. And none of my friends have ever lost a sibling. They don't understand what I'm going through, and suddenly, I don't want to be with them. I also don't want to sit in my room alone, thinking about how I should have been better to her, but I come to regard it as my penance. My punishment for not appreciating her while she was alive is that, now that she's dead, I can't think of anything but her.

The Hunger Games start the week after she died. But I can't enjoy it anymore. The Hunger Games was the thing that drove Special apart from everyone she knew, and besides that, death is not as exciting now that I've seen it firsthand. I watch, mostly because Mom and Dad expect me to, but I can't enjoy it.

It's during the second week of the Hunger Games that I find it. I'm rummaging through Dad's desk, looking for something that I immediately forget when I find it, because right away, I know that it changes everything. Because she left a note. Or she sort of did. On a small scrap of paper, hidden in the back of the desk, is a note that says-

Mom, Dad, Unique,

I'm sorry. I love you. I'll miss you.

-Special

My first thought is oh god, she did leave a note, and they didn't tell me because . . . I can't think of anything. It's clearly also addressed to me, why would they keep this from me? Because, I slowly realize, maybe it's not a suicide note. The "I'm sorry, I love you," part would fit with it, but, "I'll miss you?" The dead can't miss anyone, and Special was smart enough to know that.

The only reason she would have said that is if she intended to leave, but not to die. But why would Mom and Dad lie to me? What could be so horrible that they'd rather I believed she was dead?

I keep rummaging through Dad's desk. There could be something else . . .

In another drawer, one I've never been in for lack of a reason, I find a long chunk of hair. Pale blonde, the exact same shade as my own, undoubtedly Special's, tied with a ribbon. This cinches it for me. Maybe it's a dramatic leap, but although I know Special hated her hair, I find it difficult to believe, the night she committed suicide, she would bother with a haircut. If she had set her mind on suicide, she wouldn't have stopped until then, that was just who she was. Or is.

I've been referring to her in past tense, but it all fits. She left a note, which our parents never showed me and was not even a suicide note, she cut her hair, which I believe she wouldn't have done, and they never let me see her body.

Special is not dead.

I don't know what to think. There are so many emotions flooding through me. Anger that our parents lied to me. Confused by why. But mostly joy. A giddy, heady joy, relief so fierce it almost hurts. Because my sister, wherever she may be, is not dead.

But that begs the question, where is she?

I hear the door open downstairs, Mom and Dad back from the shop. I wrinkle my nose. Special always referred to our parents as mother and father, and suddenly I can see why. Would people I endearingly refer to as Mom and Dad lie to me this way?

I quickly shove the note and her hair back into the desk and retreat to my room. When the door is shut, I fall back on the wall and sink to the floor. What do I do now?

What could Special possibly have done that they'd rather I believed that she killed herself? Treason, of some sort? Betraying the Capitol.

And then it hits me. I probably should have realized it sooner, but leaving the Capitol, if not unprecedented, is extremely rare. Special left the Capitol.

I laugh. In this moment, I'm proud of her. For all that talk, something actually came of it.

But then I realize that my sister freaking left the Capitol. Where could she possibly have gone? And most horribly of all, is she even still alive?

Dinner is an awkward affair. My parents can tell that something is wrong, but they don't know what, and I make the decision not to tell them, because what are the chances they'd tell the truth this time around?

Admittedly, I do wonder what they would do if I said, "Why did you tell me that Special committed suicide, when as far as you know, she's alive and well?

Finally, as we're eating dessert, Mom dares to ask, "Unique, is something wrong?"

"No, Mother," I answer without thinking. As soon as I say it I regret it. That was what Special called her, it was a representation of the distance between them, and now it marks the beginning of my distancing from her.

Mom looks like she was slapped in the face. Oh no - she's crying. I spring up. I try, for a moment, to think of something to say to make it all okay, but of course, there is nothing. So I walk out without saying anything else.

That night, I decide that I have to find her. Or at least try. I have to find her, repair our damaged relationship. I don't want the last thing I ever said to her to be an insult.

The task is so big I have no idea of how to logically set about it. The first thing I do is acquire a map of Panem. Father used to have one, but he only made vague excuses when I asked him where it was. Perhaps Special took it?

I go out of my way to find a map with District Thirteen, a novelty, given that it hasn't officially existed for seventy-five years. And maybe it really was destroyed during the dark days, but at this point, seeing as my sister has effectively returned from the dead, I'm not going to rule anything out.

I decide to use proses of elimination. If I eliminate all the places she couldn't be, then that will leave me with the place she is.

I eliminate districts One and Two immediately. They're deep in the Capitol's pocket, that's common knowledge, and seeing as two trains peace keeper, I can't imagine that she'd go there. And she didn't care much for animals, so maybe that eliminates District Ten.

But after that, nothing stands out. Of the remaining districts left, I can't see any reasons that would attract or detract her.

I get frustrated quickly. I can't walk through Panem on foot, looking through every district for her.

But I keep going, keep trying to find more push-pull factors, and by the time the Hunger Games comes to its unique conclusion, I know easily four times what I knew about the districts before. I keep going, even when I find little of help, because I have to find her, I need to find her, to apologize, to tell her how wrong I was.

Because the whole time, she was right and I was wrong. When I thought Special was dead, her head smashed on the concrete, it was horrible. And no one did that do her, and I wasn't forced to watch it.

Everything she tried to impress upon me over the years finally dawns over me. I can finally see, knowing just a small part of the agony felt by the districts.

The Capitol knows what it's doing. It takes children from their families and then forces the families to watch as they die in innumerable ways. Losing someone is a pain like no other, and to have that inflicted on you on purpose is even worse. Ultimately, it's not even the dead, but those left behind.

After two weeks of looking, I stop pretending that everything is normal, and after three, I mostly give up on hiding what I'm doing. I don't know what Mother and Father think I'm doing with the books, maps and charts in my room, and I stop caring, as long as they don't know the truth.

And after four weeks comes the moment I'm sprawled over my desk, defeated, tears streaking silently down my face and dripping over the heavily-marked map. The moment I give up. Panem is so big, and I am just one person. I can't find her this way.

But the one thing that is sure, is that I'm not going to find her in the Capitol.

The same night, I pack my bags. Throw my best book about Panem, some food, water, matches, a knife, into a bag.

And, just like Special, I leave a note. And while I admire the simple drama of her note, mine is different.

Mother, Father,

You lied to me. You knew that Special wasn't dead, and you let me believe that I killed her.

I can't live in a place with people who would do this to me. Because Special was right all along, and the Capitol is wrong.

I suppose, in a way, I love you both, but I can't stay. I'm sorry, but I believe it has to be this way. You did get one thing right. She was special, and I am unique.

What will you tell people happened to me?

-Unique

And at the last moment, I shove Special's note into my pocket. A beacon.

I never thought of Special as brave, before. But she is undoubtedly the bravest person I knew. To hold onto her self-actualized beliefs, for all those years, all alone. And to set off on the dark streets of the Capitol, knowing she would never see anything she knew ever again. I want to be like her, and if this is the way, so be it. If this is the best way I can atone for my past, to even come close to matching her bravery, then so be it.

The Capitol is dark, and as quiet as it ever gets. Once I thought this was paradise, heaven on earth, the only place I could ever imagine as a home. And now, it is dark and sinister. A world where I can now see the hidden evil.

I'm going to the ruins of thirteen, and then, I guess, I'll see what I do.

At the end of the last paved road, I almost turn back. How can I possibly leave the Capitol? This is practically suicide.

But I can't stay in this place anymore. I will always be scared, suspicious, disgusted, as long as I am here. And if I die? I didn't have a life here anyways, anymore.

I look back, the Capitol silhouetted against the dark sky, and I know there is no life left for me here.

I step off the path.