Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out.
One time, my mother told me that I always eat like I’ll never see food again. And I said, “I won’t unless I bring it home.” That shut her up.
And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn’t think nudity is the last word in fashion.
I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.
Eyes on the forest, not on the trees.
Her name’s Prim. She’s just twelve. And I love her more than anything.
It’s not easy to find a topic. Talking of home is painful. Talking of the present unbearable.
Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink.
I really can’t think about kissing when I’ve got a rebellion to incite.
So that’s who Finnick loves, I think. Not his string of fancy lovers in the Capitol. But a poor, mad girl back home.
If I feel ragged, my prep team seems in worse condition, knocking back coffee and sharing brightly colored little pills. As far as I can tell, they never get up before noon unless there’s some sort of national emergency, like my leg hair.
Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.
One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in her favor. But it hadn’t mattered.
Gale is mine. I am his. Anything else is unthinkable.
You’ve got about as much charm as a dead slug.
If you appeal to the crowd, either by being humorous or brutal or eccentric, you gain favor.
The hatred I feel for him, for the phantom girl, for everything, is so real and immediate it chokes me. Gale is mine. I am his. Anything else is unthinkable. Why did it take him being whipped within an inch of his life to see it?
My mother says healers are born, not made.
When I break into the clearing, she’s on the ground, hopelessly entangled in a net. She just has the time to reach her hand through the mesh and say my name before the spear enters her body.
I can see the first apple teetering when I let the third arrow go, catching the torn flap and ripping it from the bag. For a moment, everything seems frozen in time. Then the apples spill to the ground and I’m blown backward into the air.