Mockingjay: Chapter 23–Epilogue

One glance at my companions tells me this is no time for a stealth attack on Snow.

I accept that I’m probably the most qualified for the job, grit my teeth, and put in a row of jagged sutures.

We are completely at the mercy of a decrepit tiger-woman with what I can only hope is an all-consuming passion for Snow’s death.

We’ve infiltrated the enemy camp, showing that the Capitol’s defenses can be breached.

While we eat, we watch the latest Capitol news coverage. The government has the rebel survivors narrowed down to the five of us. Huge bounties are offered for information leading to our capture. They emphasize how dangerous we are.

Gale didn’t say, “Katniss will pick whoever it will break her heart to give up,” or even “whoever she can’t live without.” Those would have implied I was motivated by a kind of passion. But my best friend predicts I will choose the person who I think I “can’t survive without.” There’s not the least indication that love, or desire, or even compatibility will sway me.

As if in the end, it will be the question of whether a baker or a hunter will extend my longevity the most.

It’s a horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute. Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels.

Tigris offers to be our spy for the day since she’s the only one of us without a bounty on her head.

Henceforth, all rebel sightings are to be reported immediately to authorities, who will deal with the identification and arrest of the suspect.

Heart pounding, adrenaline burning through me, everyone is my enemy.

“Gale?” I call into the abyss, heedless of being recognized.

A pair of Peacekeepers runs by, barely glancing at the whimpering Capitol girl huddled in a doorway. I choke down my tears, wipe the existing ones off my face before they can freeze, and pull myself back together. Okay, I’m still an anonymous refugee.

I am Cinna’s bird, ignited, flying frantically to escape something inescapable.

The doctors’ puzzlement grows over why I’m unable to speak. Many tests are done, and while there’s damage to my vocal cords, it doesn’t account for it. Finally, Dr. Aurelius, a head doctor, comes up with the theory that I’ve become a mental, rather than physical, Avox. That my silence has been brought on by emotional trauma.

Anyone could see the game was over by that point. In fact, I was just about to issue an official surrender when they released those parachutes.

We both know I’m not above killing children, but I’m not wasteful. I take life for very specific reasons. And there was no reason for me to destroy a pen full of Capitol children.

Once I had outlived my usefulness, I was expendable.

Then there’s the fact that Snow made no escape attempt, when I know him to be the consummate survivor. It seems hard to believe he didn’t have a retreat somewhere, some bunker stocked with provisions where he could live out the rest of his snaky little life.

I recall Boggs’s response when I admitted I hadn’t put much thought into Snow’s successor.

No, now I am going crazy, slipping into some state of paranoia.

Ultimately, there’s only one person to turn to who might know what happened and might still be on my side. To broach the subject at all will be a risk.

They try to smile at me, but even Venia can’t conceal her shock at my ravaged mutt body.

Gale holds up a sheath. When I take it, I notice it holds a single, ordinary arrow. “It’s supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of the war.”

Today we will execute Snow. In the previous weeks, hundreds of his accomplices in the oppression of Panem have been tried and now await their own deaths.

In fact, many are calling for a complete annihilation of those who held Capitol citizenship. However, in the interest of maintaining a sustainable population, we cannot afford this.

“What has been proposed is that in lieu of eliminating the entire Capitol population, we have a final, symbolic Hunger Games, using the children directly related to those who held the most power.”

It seemed to balance the need for vengeance with the least loss of life.

For all I know, I’m on live television at this very moment while commentators try to analyze what could possibly have motivated me to kill Coin.

I continue with my own annihilation. My body’s thinner than it’s ever been and my battle against hunger is so fierce that sometimes the animal part of me gives in to the temptation of buttered bread or roasted meat.

They can design dream weapons that come to life in my hands, but they will never again brainwash me into the necessity of using them.

I think that Peeta was onto something about us destroying one another and letting some decent species take over. Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children’s lives to settle its differences.

Snow thought the Hunger Games were an efficient means of control.

Coin thought the parachutes would expedite the war.

But in the end, who does it benefit? No one. The truth is, it benefits no one to live in a world where these things happen.

After I shot Coin, there was pandemonium. When the ruckus died down, they discovered Snow’s body, still tethered to the post. Opinions differ on whether he choked to death while laughing or was crushed by the crowd. No one really cares.

Now we’re in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated,” he says. “But collective thinking is usually short lived. We’re fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.

That what I need to survive is not Gale’s fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself.

What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses.

That’s when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I’ve seen someone do. It’s like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years.
But there are much worse games to play.