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I’m stopped by the sight of Finnick kissing Peeta.

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
Stopped
Kissing
Sight

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He hates me more, says Peeta. I don't think people in general are his sort of thing.
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I roll my eyes. So when did I become so special? When they carted me off to the Capitol? No, about six months before that. Right after New Year's. We were in the Hob, eating some slop of Greasy Sae's. And Darius was teasing you about trading a rabbit for one of his kisses. And I realized...I minded.
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Yes, and I’m sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people.
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My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead.
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You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right? All right, he whispers.
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Underground. Which I hate. Like mines and tunnels and 13. Underground, where I dread dying, which is stupid because even if I die aboveground, the next thing they'll do is bury me underground anyway.
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Star-crossed lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance.
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That it's no good loving me because I'm never going to get married anyway and he'd just end up hating me later instead of sooner.
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I curl up, make myself smaller, try to disappear entirely. Wrapped in silence, I slide my bracelet that reads 'mentally disoriented' around and around my wrist.
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I pull the sleeping bag up to his chin and kiss his forehead, not for the audience, but for me. Because I'm so grateful that he's here, not dead by the stream as I'd thought. So glad I don't have to face Cato alone.
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We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared
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They erase my face with a layer of pale makeup and draw my features back out.
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Katniss, there is no District Twelve.
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I drink in his wholeness, the soudness of his body and mind. It runs through me like the morphling they give me in the hospital, dulling the pain of the last weeks.
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Remember, girl on fire,” he says, “I'm still betting on you.
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Time and tragedy have forced her to grow too quickly, at least for my taste, into a young woman who stitches bleeding wounds and knows our mother can hear only so much.
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If my holding out those berries was an act of temporary insanity, then those people will embrace insanity too.
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My guess is that fearful events are the hardest to root out. They're the ones we naturally remember the best, after all.
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As the alcohol overcomes my mind, I hear the glass bottle shatter on the floor. This seems appropriate since I have obviously lost my grip on everything.
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But I don't know what to him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you.
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