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I thought he wanted it, anyway, I say. Not like this, Haymitch says. He wanted it to be real.

Suzanne Collins

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Suzanne Collins
Age: 62
Born: 1962
Born: August 10
Executive Producer
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Screenwriter
Writer
Hartford
Connecticut
Suzanne Marie Collins
Suzanne Collins
Anyway
Says
Thought
Wanted
Real
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I take Peeta's face in my hands. Don't worry. I'll see you at midnight.
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Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.
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Our romance became a key strategy for our survival in the arena. Only it wasn't just a strategy for Peeta.
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We could do it, you know. What? Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it.
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Each time I wake,I think, At last, this is over, but it isn't.
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They can fatten me up. They can give me a full body polish, dress me up, and make me beautiful again. 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 no longer feel allegiance to these monsters called human beings, despite being one myself.
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I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, 'So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?' I turn into him. 'Put you somewhere you can't get hurt.
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You're hideous, you know that, right?
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Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese.
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In my mind, President Snow should be viewed in front of marble pillars hung with oversized flags. It's jarring to see him surrounded by the ordinary objects in the room. Like taking the lid off a pot and finding a fanged viper instead of stew.
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The raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where the mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is 'please'. Pity, not vengeance sends my arrow flying into his skull.
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Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there’s some of that too.
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Birds are settling down for the night, singing lullabies to their young.
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For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.
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But once I saw Fulvia Cardew crumple up a sheet of paper with just a couple of words written on it and you would’ve thought she’d murdered someone from the looks she got.
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I am not pretty. I am not beautiful. I am as radiant as the sun.
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Everything is happening too fast for me to process it.
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Highly unlikely but not impossible.
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Peeta looks me right in the eye and gives my hand what I think is meant to be a reassuring squeeze. Maybe it's just a nervous spasm.
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For a second, I'm afraid he's dying. I have to remind myself that I don't care.
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