{{ contest.story_page_sticky_bar_text }} Be the first to recommend this story.
Get Free Copy

100 free copies left

This novel is limited to 100 free copies due to its part in Inkitt’s Novel Contest.

0
Free copy left
You can read our best books
PrincessAndromeda2 would love your feedback! Got a few minutes to write a review?
Write a Review

The Song Of The Mockingjay

By PrincessAndromeda2

Other

The Song Of The Mockingjay

It has been a whole year since Prim died.

It has been three whole years since Rue died.

And I can’t stop thinking about either of them.

They are ghosts that haunt me: they haunt me in the day when I think, they haunt me at night when I sleep, and they haunt me when I’m everywhere and nowhere at the same time, when my mind is wandering and thinking of nothing but really it is thinking of everything and only them.

I hear things.

All I hear is the rattling sound that the bombs made as the exploded in my little sister’s face and blew her and everyone around her to shreds. I hear the startled shrieks of the fallen hodgepodge of fighters that assembled from the districts, and among them only Prim’s voice was soft and gentle as it let out a refined exhale of breath. All I hear is the echoing sound of Rue’s voice, calling to me for help- for me to help, for anyone to help her get out of the net and out of this place- and the sickening impact of the spear thudding against her stomach. I hear her voice asking- no, begging- for someone to place her soul on a pair of golden eagle wings, and my own voice rising to meet the challenge as I use my own voice to lift up her light soul and spirit, flying it away to where it can be safe.

That is what I hear.

I feel things too.

All I feel is the ghost of Prim’s comforting hand in mine as she squeezes it reassuringly, both giving comfort to me and taking some from herself, transferring the protection. I feel the memory of the long nights we used to fall alseep together, just the two of us, huddling in each other’s loving, protective arms, as we faced a cruel, seemingly impossible world. All I feel is the lingering hand that squeezed mine before Rue died, before her spirit left her body and she was no more. I feel the gentle graze of my fingers on the backs of her eyelids as I closed them in quiet reverence, as my fingertips envied that little girl’s peace and pitied her chance of ever getting to see peace in this world, in this life, again.

That is what I feel.

I see things too.

All I see is little Prim- sweet, sweet Prim- standing tall and soldier-like against a darkened sky, filled with bombs raining down on her, and a darkened land, filled with bodies that bore her down, that were one more burden to carry. I see the realization on her face- that steely resolve that I both cherished, admired, and despised in her- as she meets my gaze, and we pass a million words between us: I love you, I will miss you, I will not forget you- but not one of those words that we transfer is a proper goodbye. All I see is the petite frame of Rue trapped underneath a net, a sight that makes my blood boil: Rue is a mockingjay, and a mockingjay is a bird, and birds don’t belong in cages, bird shouldn’t be trapped, because they sing, and no bird had ever sung a song that sounded sweeter than Rue’s simple whistle of 4 notes. I see that as the beautiful life force ebbs from that little bird’s eyes, she gives me that song, she passes on the tune to me, and I become the mockingjay because of her, and because of her song.

That is what I see.

I don’t want to see anymore. I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want to hear anymore.

All I want is to wither away to nothing, to become the shell of a woman who once could have been something great and powerful, but couldn’t stand on her own after she lost both of her legs. Prim and Rue were my sisters. They still are. I lost them. And once you lose your legs, you truly never get them back.

xxXxx

It has been fifteen years since Prim died.

It has been seventeen years since Rue died.

Sometimes, it feels wrong to live. They were both so young, so beautiful, so innocent. Well, Prim used to be, at least. I always felt like there were two Prims: the one that Rue reminded me of, the one that died with her, and the one that was killed by Gale’s bombs. Both versions of Prim Rose Everdeen were young and beautiful, but only one was innocent when she died.

I have a child now. A daughter.

Her name is Rose.

She is so young, so beautiful, so innocent.

It’s truly remarkable sometimes how much she reminds me of them. Some days, especially when we go to the meadow and we’re surrounded by flowers, I’ll get swept up in her and everything wonderful about her, and I seem to freeze in time as I watch her. I watch her dance and there is such joy, such remarkably innocent joy, that I can’t help but be reminded of them. I see them in her: Rue’s timid personality mixed with Prim’s kindness. It’s wonderful, it really is.

But it is hard to explain to my daughter when I watch her dance in that meadow- that damn meadow- and I start to cry. She wonders why, and I have to wipe away the tears long enough to tell her only that she is a beautiful dancer. Of course, she is only two years old, so she knows nothing other than to give me a strange look before shrugging it off and resuming her dancing.

I will tell her some day. I will tell her about everything: the games that were no fun, the little girl that was actually a mockingjay, how I became that mockingjay, how I loved two men equally the same but I ended up loving one more equally than the other, how my sister with the personality and love worth a thousand firecrackers was blown up when she tried to save lives. Yes, I will tell her these paradoxes. Someday. But not now. Let her maintain her childhood innocence for as long as she can. Let her dance freely in the meadow while she can, before she realizes that she is dancing on a graveyard.

xxXxx

It has been twenty years since Prim died.

It has been twenty-two years since Rue died.

I went to the forest today. Not any forest in particular. Just a forest. It made no difference which one it was, anyway.

They were with me there, both of them:

Prim, scampering behind me cautiously, holding my bow or arrows or quiver when I needed her too, lifting the burden off of my shoulders that I have carried for so long: protecting her and everyone else. For forever, it seemed, she was so fragile and weak, but I have come to realize that she was the kind of strong that is underrated: that quiet, gentle song that everyone underestimates.

And Rue, clambering overhead in the trees, lifting another huge burden off of these frail, worn-down old shoulders: I no longer have to be the mockingjay by myself. She took a turn, and then I took it for her, but now we are the mockingjay together. I am the voice that calls out “hope!” to people on the side of the road, and she is the wings that fly in the trees above, carrying my song on her wings as the tune resonates throughout the forest. The song of four notes carrying a song of four letters.

I am grateful to not be lonely as I walk nowadays. This life casts a big shadow that can loom so large. But that shadow seems to shrink ever so slightly when there are others there beside me.

xxXxx

It has been seventy years since Prim died.

It has been seventy-two years since Rue died.

It took an incredible amount of strength, will power, and persuasion- including a very healthy bribe- to come here. I haven’t been in these woods in so long. The Capitol always made the locations closed off to tributes after a game was over, and the new government that arose after the revolution didn’t allow anyone on this land for the longest time.

But I’m back now. I’m back. With just enough strength and determination to build one last shrine to little Prim and little Rue. Strange, that I should be in my late eighties now, and they are both eternally 13 years old.

I arrive at a clearing of trees that, if I close my eyes, I can still imagine encircling a small girl trapped in a net, even after seventy-two long years. I ease myself onto my knees, frail bones creaking and protesting as I do so, and cautiously extract my assortment of flowers from the basket I carry with me. They are lovely, an eye-appealing array of purples and yellows and whites. But more than being attractive, they are purely sentimental.

“You two never did meet, did you?” I whisper as I gently pluck the flower heads from the stems, arranging them in a formation like the outline of a thirteen-year-old girl’s body. Rue’s body was obviously taken by the Capitol during the games, and was destroyed along with other fallen tribute’s bodies when the rebels attacked the headquarters. Sort of an “If I can’t have it, no one can have it” situation, I guess.

“I bet you would have been really good friends,” I say as I continue arranging the petals. I have finished Rue’s shrine and I move onto a spot immediately to the right, which I dain as Prim’s ground. “You would’ve been closer than friends; sisters, even.” I blink back the tears that threaten to spill over. No. I will not cry. Not here, not now. “I’ve never had another sister, not since you two died.”

And I know it’s true. I’ve never been quite the same after their deaths. But who can really blame me?

I blink back more tears now, trying my best to keep it together. I have finished Prim’s shrine now. It’s time to say goodbye.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be coming back here again. In fact, I know I won’t.” They don’t respond, and I don’t expect them too. “But I want you both to know that I love you, and I always will. But that I am also happy. After you both died, I was broken. Badly. But that walk that the three of us took together in the woods... Rue, you taught me how to sing the song of the mockingjay, and Prim, you taught me how to be the mockingjay. Since you two taught me, I’ve always felt like I was the mockingjay, even after the rebellion was over. For a long time, I felt like I couldn’t walk, couldn’t even stand, without you two to be my legs. But then I realized that I don’t need legs: I am the mockingjay, and you two are my wings. I I don’t need to walk, because you two taught me how to fly. You taught me the song, and that is what has helped me fly all of these years. So I’m saying thank you. But I’m also saying goodbye, because now I’m giving the song back to you. It’s yours again. I hope that you find someone else to give it to, and that it can help them fly like it taught me to.”

I took a deep breath: All of the extra strength- the strength that I had always hoisted on my shoulders and used to get me through tough times- seemed to be sapped away from me. I felt odd. Lighter. But not empty. It was a good feeling. And now it was my time to fly.

Stepping back from the two shrines to the two little girls, I took one last lingering gaze as I raised three of my fingers and whistled a familiar four-note song.

Write a Review Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, PrincessAndromeda2
Continue Reading
Further Recommendations

FreakyPoet: I found this story well written and extremely cute. I like how the emotional roller coaster, otherwise know as love, was done here. it was very believable that these two characters would deny, agonize, then come to except their feelings the way that they did. I enjoyed it very much, thank you ...

mariamalkorashy: Simply alluring, I have become addicted. Now the rest of this message is simply words because it notified me saying that my Review was to short haha. It has done it again so yup I am still here writing once more haha.

ank1983: I really enjoyed this story and I read through it quickly. I found it very entertaining and some of your scenes were very well written and descriptive. Every time a chapter ended I couldn't wait to start the next chapter. What girl hasn't fantasized over a cute teacher at school?! The story did...

dd1226: I love reading about other countries and I think this story about Cambodia after Polpot creates awareness of the tragedy that happened there and the actions of the U.N. to hold elections. The heroine of the story is easy to relate to, a modern, middleaged woman looking for an adventure, wanting t...

Althea Kerr: This is a tale that is all too familiar to South African readers having lived through a war era on our borders and beyond. It is obviously autobiographical as the mind under duress is so detailed and real. It has fantastic suspense if a bit disjointed - perhaps that is the fear and loneliness com...

Jacklyn Reynolds: As a mother of an Autistic child, I know how hard it can be. I love how beautiful you made everything. That's all I can say. I need to grab a tissue.

Christopher Calvo: Truly a wonderful read and very well written! Love the characters and character development, and can smell the frybread as I read it! Can't wait for more as we delve into the Buffalo Summer.

ArgyrisMetaxas: Thrilling story which builds layer ontop of layer. A few mis spellings every few chapters. What I found special was that it took a modern day problem and took it to its logical conclusion and plays this realism with gritting precision. I'm always on edge ready to shout from adrenaline. This is gr...

Michael Hogan: If anyone would advise Lindsey Martin-Bower not to mix religion and politics, she would probably tell them to take a hike. This rollicking novella does just that. It considers the case of Yung Sung Gonne and his Universality Church and two young women trying to bring it down. Frustrated by the ru...

More Recommendations

borkarprasad: Story was overall a good experience. I liked that the truth unraveled slowly and kept me in edge every time I changed the chapter. I would love to read more volumes to this legacy and be glad to read it from a published book. Great work!!!!!!!!!

MissMadokaKaname: I was impressed and moved by this work. The characterization and dialog were strong, and really brought everyone in the story to life. Also, the setting was handled in a believable and compelling way. The story captured the complexities and pain of love, and also the harshness of living in such b...

evanhoverly: I absolutely loved this book and the characters in it. The story would often introduce unexpected events keeping it interesting.The book could use a good proofreading before it gets published, but otherwise a good read!

mrh: This interesting take on the Harry Potter series fascinated me from line one on. I am in love with this tale and its characters and cannot wait to read the next chapter. I look forward to more soon.When can I expect the next chapter? I am so excited to read it!

About Us:

Inkitt is the world’s first reader-powered book publisher, offering an online community for talented authors and book lovers. Write captivating stories, read enchanting novels, and we’ll publish the books you love the most based on crowd wisdom.