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Epilogue to "Mockingjay" by Suzanne Collins (My own version)
I know four things. One, I am named after my mother’s sister, Primrose Everdeen, who was killed in an explosion during the revolution against the Capitol. My full name is Primrose Rue Mellark. Two, my mother took part in what was once the Hunger Games; an annual event where 24 tributes from 12 districts between the ages of 12 and 18 would fight to the death in a televised arena. For all of Panem to see. Three, the old president of Panem, Coriolanus Snow, did not die by my mother’s hand as it was thought to have been. Perhaps he choked on his own blood and even laughed to death. But his daughter, Alma Coin, died on that very same day when an arrow pierced an unintended target: her heart. Four, my father, Peeta Mellark once saved my mother’s life with bread, and she returned that favor by healing him. Since that day of the Reaping, they were forever immortalized as the boy with the bread and the girl on fire.
I gently crawl out of bed and I can feel the radiant heat from my brother’s body. His name is Cinna. He has nightmares about the games of which he never took part of, so he occasionally comes into my room. But that’s okay, he’s still young. I traverse across the hardwood floor that quickly saps the heat-retaining energy from my feet. I stare into my parents’ room and notice my mother has begun to stir in a most unpleasing manner. Her nightmares again. My father is sound asleep, nothing could wake him. Ever so quietly, I tiptoe to her bed. I kneel down beside her and stroke her hair. I finish a very old lullaby once sung to my aunt and the little girl named Rue.
“...Here it’s safe, here it’s warm
Here the daisies guard you from every harm
Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true
Here is the place where I love you…”
A graceful expression reveals itself, and I see the beginning of a tear. Taking this as my cue, I walk into the living room. Beautiful images of paintings my father drew are hung about, and this place has a nice, homey feel to it.
I head over to the mahogany table and stroke a stab wound. I grab a cheese bun, my game bag, hunter’s jacket, bow and arrow, and a canteen of water. I’m an excellent shot and very good at hunting. My mother’s side. Of course.
I walk out the door into the cool summery air of August. District 12 has roots all around it. Meaning, so much history has happened within its boundaries even my own path has brushed past it. I steadily jog over to a grassy field called the Meadow. More appropriately, a graveyard. But this hardly bothers me. People live, people die, and people get buried.
Under president Paylor’s authority, Panem is a nice place to live. We’re self-supportive, thanks to the specialization of other districts, and rules and laws are created and enforced with a diplomatic and righteous heart. Hunting is still illegal because food supply is always kept constant, but I don’t care. It’s only because District 13 was so uptight about it. You could say I’m a rebel in training. As I think this, I hear Mockingjays whistle and sing. I duck under District 12’s outlying fence and head into the woods.
Cautiously, I walk through, hoping to find some meat. The leaves are still bright green, but I can tell they’re growing weary and will change color soon. I make my way further back and I see two plump squirrels, a rabbit and a nice-sized turkey. I prepare to kill the latter.
I ready myself to make the shot. My silver bow glistens in the sun as I draw back a matching arrow. I aim at the turkey’s eye, about to shoot, when a foreign arrow comes whizzing past my head killing my prey. I turn to see a striking young man about my age with dark hair and gray eyes.
Angered, I yell-whisper, “What do think you’re doing?! Can’t you see that shot was as good as mine?” He so coolly replies, “You snooze, you lose. So tell me, what’s a dame like you doing in these godforsaken woods?”
“What does it look like? I’m hunting.”
“You know it’s illegal? But hey, who am I to talk, right?”
“I suppose. But where do you come from?”
“My dad is taking a leave off work in District 2 to come back here and recount the old days before the revolution. He was a part of it. But I need my solitude, you know?”
I respond, “Actually, I do. That’s why I’m here. Why don’t we take a walk? You know, introduce ourselves, what do you, etc. That stuff. It’ll be fun, I promise.”
He hesitates, but finally says, “Okay. Let’s walk.”
Before we talk- and before our first stop- I manage to shoot three squirrels, a rabbit and a beaver meandering around the pond. That’s when we see it.
Up head towards the pond sits a little shack, small, quaint, and it even has a place for a fire. We walk to it, and notice shining name tags on the front steps. They read Bonnie and Twill. Whoever they are, they’re gone now.
We ignore them as we cautiously approach inside. There’s a hardwood floor, walls, some chairs and a fire pit.
We sit, and introduce ourselves. I say, “My name is Primrose.Pleasure to meet you.” He replies, “I’m Cirro. Back at you.”
We chat for what seems like hours. I get to know Cirro. He comes from District 2, his father used to be part of the rebel group that brought down the Capitol. He’s “taking a break” from his family. His dad is recounting all of the events that happened here, which makes him go into a quiet, zoned place. Cirro’s dad is a hunter, so he taught him. He’s out looking for some fresh meat, not that inhumane pre-packaged junk. It’s about 11 a.m. It’s been six hours since we met up here, but I have to go back. Yet, I want to stay. Is this odd?
“I have to get going,” I say shyly. “I’m gone for awhile at a time, but they’ll start to worry. Why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow? We can make my turkey.”
“Sounds good,” he replies, “and I think you mean my turkey. Okay, where’s your place?”
“I live in an area called the Victor’s Village. It’s a circular area with twelve houses. You can’t miss it. Mine’s the only occupied one.”
“Bye, for now, I guess.” And he kisses me. I just met this guy, but he feels like an old friend. Sounding like a dazed schoolgirl, I say, “See ya.”
It’s one day later, and dinner approaches. I’ve seen Cirro two more times after our first encounter, and each one has ended with a kiss. Oops. I’m letting my walls be torn down. This might be love. True love.
My mother and father are prepping the kitchen. “Peeta,” she begins, “Who exactly are we having over?”
He says, “Not sure. Prim says his name is Cirro Hawthorn, and his family is coming over, too.”
My mother stiffens.
“And what does this ‘Cirro’ look like?”
“I don't know, Katniss. Prim says he has black hair and gray eyes.”
My mother stiffens. “Oh…” is all she can say.
We hear a knock at the door. I open it. The first to enter is Cirro with the turkey and a little girl, who he says is his sister, Hazelle. He is followed by a tall man, with the same dark hair and gray eyes.
The second and I mean the second his father and my mother lay eyes on each other they stare in complete disbelief, then run and hug like they haven’t seen each other in a lifetime. They’re both in tears with little sobs and small laughs that say “unbelievable.”
My mother finally speaks, “Hello, Gale.” She is the happiest she’s been in years.
Gale tells her, “Hey, Catnip.”