To Kill a Mockingjay
It is a sin to kill a mockingjay, for they harm no one and give us sweet music.
The stone is worn and white, a gift from 2. They knew what was going through my mind. It just stands there, alone and empty, miles away from its twin in 11. Primroses and rue grow wild around it. I chose the spot myself, when they finally brought her home in a pale yellow coffin. Peeta helped me some, but this spot, hidden in the woods, is mine alone. It's where I cry and grieve for the future that could have been.
There are other ways of turning people into ghosts.
She had been my rock, my conscience, my mockingjay. She had kept me sane and kept me alive just at the sheer hope of her smile. Now she is dead, dead and gone, gone for good, good and safe. No one can hurt her now, just like they couldn't these lonesome ten years. She's gone, she's never coming back, and I'm finally realizing what that means.
They're ugly, but those are the facts of life.
There will be no more of her high soprano singing, no more adoring Buttercup, no more leading Lady around proudly, no more untucked blouses, no more tears. No more Primrose.
All they do is sing their hearts out for us.
That's all she did, didn't she? She gave me hope and helped whoever she could. No one, not Gale, not Betee, not Peeta, not me, not Boggs, not Paylor, only Coin would think of killing her.
It'd be like shooting a mockingjay.
Because the ones who do nothing wrong suffer the most. And Prim was sweet and kind and young and naive, fresh as the Primrose for which she was named. I slowly stand up and walk away.
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