Somehow It Always Comes Back To Coal

You're A Painter. You're A Baker. You Like To Sleep With The Windows Open. You Never Take Sugar In Your Tea. And You Always Double-knot Your Shoelaces.

He Hasn't Accepted His Death. He Is Already Fighting Hard To Stay Alive. Which Also Means That Kind Peeta Mellark, The Boy Who Gave Me Bread, Is Fighting Hard To Kill Me.

Entrails. No Hissing. This Is The Closest We Will Ever Come To Love.

In That One Slight Motion, I See The End Of Hope, Beginning Of Destruction Of Everything I Hold Dear In The World. I Can't Guess What Form My Punishment Will Take, How Wide The Net Will Be Cast, But When It Is Finished There Most Likely Be Nothing Left. So You Would Think That At This Moment, I Would Be In Utter Despair.

There's No Point In Comforting Words, In Telling Her She'll Be All Right. She's No Fool. Her Hand Reaches Out And I Clutch It Like A Lifeline. As If It's Me Who's Dying Instead Of Rue.