I Pull The Sleeping Bag Up To

I Reach For Prim In The Twilight, Clamp My Hand On Her Leg And Pull Myself Over To Her. Her Voice Remains Steady As She Croons To Buttercup. "it's All Right, Baby, It's All Right. We'll Be Ok Down There." My Mother Wraps Her Arms Around Us. I Allow Myself To Feel Young For A Moment And Rest My Head On Her Shoulder.

But Between The Images, We Are Privy To The Real-life Action Being Played Out On The Set. Peeta's Attempt To Continue Speaking. The Camera Knocked Down To Record The White Tiled Floor. The Scuffle Of Boots. The Impact Of The Blow That's Inseparable From Peeta's Cry Of Pain. And His Blood As It Splatters The Tiles.

My Words Hang In The Air. I Look To The Screen, Hoping To See Them Recording Some Wave Of Reconciliation Going Through The Crowd. Instead I Watch Myself Get Shot On Television.

Hope, It Is The Only Thing Stronger Than Fear. A Little Hope Is Effective, A Lot Of Hope Is Dangerous.

The Idea Of Being Strong For Someone Else Having Never Entered Their Heads, I Find Myself In The Position Of Having To Console Them. Since I'm The Person Going In To Be Slaughtered, This Is Somewhat Annoying.