Tuck In Your Tail, Little Duck.

He Puts The Chain With The Locket Around My Neck, Then Rests His Hand Over The Spot Where Our Baby Would Be. “you’re Going To Make A Great Mother, You Know,” He Says. He Kisses Me One Last Time And Goes Back To Finnick.

What Must It Be Like, I Wonder, To Live In A World Where Food Appears At The Press Of A Button? How Would I Spend The Hours I Now Commit To Combing The Woods For Sustenance If It Were So Easy To Come By? What Do They Do All Day, These People In The Capitol, Besides Decorating Their Bodies And Waiting Around For A New Shipment Of Tributes To Rill In And Die For Their Entertainment?

Something Flickers Across His Bloodshot Eyes. Pain.

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.

I Don't Know What It Is With Finnick And Bread, But He Seems Obsessed With Handling It.