Still, I hate them. But, of course, I hate almost everybody now. Myself more than anyone.
I shift on to my side and find myself looking directly into Gale’s eyes. For an instant the world recedes and there is just his flushed face, his pulse visible at his temple, his lips slightly parted as he tries to catch his breath.
Jackson has devised a game called “Real or Not Real” to help Peeta. He mentions something he thinks happened, and they tell him if it’s true or imagined, usually followed by a brief explanation.
Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children’s lives to settle its differences.
Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.
A spark could be enough to set them ablaze.
Barbarism? That’s ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what’s she basing our success on? Our table manners?
And we must fight back! President Snow says he’s sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that? Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!
Here’s some advice. Stay alive.
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.
Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.