Enjoy.

The rain falls around me, sliding over my skin, mixing together with the tears lining my cheeks. I sit in the field that Hawthorne brought me to. On that day, the sun shined and warmed my body. Today the field feels empty and cold.

I skipped my lesson this morning, not brave enough to face Gale. After sliding through my classes in a daze, I found myself here, unable to face him for our afternoon sparring.

My muscles feel tight, ready for a confrontation and my stomach churns in unease. I am not sure who I am hiding from, myself or Hawthorne. Gale, my mind supplies.

The beautiful face of the Mockingjay flits through my mind and I shudder at the thought. The mockingjay is responsible for this life I have. She is the districts were thrown into chaos, the reason I have no speech, the reason my father is dead, the reason he is dead. For the past four years the Mockingjay has been my own villain. I curse her name and feel better at knowing that someone is responsible for the pain that tears at my gut.

And even though a part of me foolishly holds onto the idea, the more logical me realizes how childish it is. The mockingjay did not cause the chaos, she merely fueled it. The Capitol was corrupt and the things we were forced to do, the way the districts were oppressed, made rebellion inevitable.

Everyone assumed that the Capitol populace was no different- that we were not forced down and pushed around by the officials in the government. It is a foolish thought, for who else would the capitol control more than the ones they are closet to, the ones who represent them.

The Captiol youth were portrayed as shallow beings whose only fears were when their next drink would come or where to get their next tattoo. The truth couldn't be further from it. The children who questioned, who tried to go against the grain would always go missing. Entire families would disappear in the night, never to be seen again. The capitol raised us to think alike, to look alike. They raised us to enjoy the blood and violence of the Games and yet, to act like wild youth- too busy to question the workings of the world.

Despite, their best efforts, it didn't work. Many of the raves were actually meetings in which the youth would band together, council those whose friends had disappeared and keep agendas on how to take suspicion off of yourself. Drugs, spirits and outward appearance were the easiest tools at our disposal. If we managed to look like they wanted, act like they wanted, then our families remained safe. Often, the capitol looked toward the children in the family, to make sure the parents still held faith to the government. Youth who'd been raised otherwise tended to question and make noise.

Even my own father, a man who admitably was high up in the Capitol, was forced to play a role. And the day that the Mockingjay forced his hand, to deviate from the role, my father was killed.

The ache stabs at my gut again and the rain pounds down around me, as if trying to clense away my hurt.

A moment later, I hear someone moving through the tall grass. I'm not sure how I knew he would come, in fact, it wasn't until that moment that I even knew I was expecting him. I guess now I know why my legs carried my to this spot, a spot I've come to associate with him.

"Why didn't you show up?" He asks in annoyance. I blink up at him through the rain. The water plasters his hair to his skin, making it look blacker. The shirt he wears is soaked through, outlining his abdomen and shoulders. It is hard for my mind to attribute this man as the co-leader of the rebellion. This is a man I trust. A man I care for.

I form the words and instead of coming out accusing, they sound resigned, defeated.

"You're name is Gale."

He looks at me as If I've told him the sky is blue. "What are yo-"

"You're Gale Hawthorne. You're the Mockingjay's second."

It take a moment for him to realize the words I'm speaking. I see from the way his face changes. "You didn't know?"

I look away from him. Ignoring the stirring I feel at his soft tone.

Hawthorne moves closer to me, "Common' let's get out of this weather."

Beause I am childish and hurt and because I remember he loved Katniss Everdeen, I say, "It should be good for you. To wash away the blood on you're hands."

"I told you. I thought I was doing the right thing."

I stand, unable to feel that small next to him. "The bomb. The bomb that killed my classmates, was that the right thing?"

Agony rips his features and I try to stay angry at him.

"You don't think I feel terrible? You don't think I wish I'd died in that bomb! I had no intent on it ever even being made. I designed it on a whi-"

"You're lying."

"I didn't want anyone to die, Vox." The rain pours around us as Hawthorne grabs my hand. I try to free it, but he holds on, tugging me closer.

"You know me. I didn't want that," there is desperation in his voice, in his eyes.

"I just wanted chance. I wanted to be free of them. Please. Please, believe me."

Words spoken ages ago return to me. They are from the lips of him and he says the same thing as Hawthorne. Everyone wanted to be free of the Capitol-even it's children. I am not sure if I can forgive the Mockingjay for what she has taken from me. But, as I stand in the rain, watching Hawthorne fall apart, I decide I can forgive him. Because, when I think back to my love, and those words he once spoke to me, I remember feeling I would take on the world to give him freedom. And in that way, Gale Hawthorne and I are alike.