But Just The Fact That

Still, I Hate Them. But, Of Course, I Hate Almost Everybody Now. Myself More Than Anyone.

My Little Sister, Prim, Curled Up On Her Side, Cocooned In My Mother’s Body, Their Cheeks Pressed Together. In Sleep, My Mother Looks Younger, Still Worn But Not So Beaten-down. Prim’s Face Is As Fresh As A Raindrop, As Lovely As The Primrose For Which She Was Named. My Mother Was Very Beautiful Once, Too. Or So They Tell Me.

Doors Are For Those Who Lack Enemies.

I Thought He Wanted It, Anyway," I Say. "not Like This," Haymitch Says. "he Wanted It To Be Real.

I Swear If You Cry, I'll Kill You Here And Now.' Cinna Just Smiles. 'had A Damp Morning?' 'you Could Wring Me Out.' I Reply