“To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away.”
He looks directly into the camera, right into my eyes.
“Don’t be a fool, Katniss. Think for yourself. They’ve turned you into a weapon that could be instrumental in the destruction of humanity. If you’ve got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it’s too late. Ask yourself, do you really trust the people you’re working with?Do you really know what’s going on? And if you don’t… find out.”
“We star-crossed lovers of District 12, who suffered so much and enjoyed so little the rewards of our victory, do not seek our fans’ favor, grace them with our smiles, or catch their kisses. We are unforgiving. And I love it. Getting to be myself at last.”
Ho smesso di parlare, perchè in effetti non resta nient'altro da dire, e provo una specie di dolore lacerante nel punto in cui si trova il mio cuore. Forse mi sta venendo un infarto, ma non mi sembra che valga la pena parlarne.
“Cinna begins to take in my clothes around the waist. The prep team frets over the circles under my eyes. Effie starts giving me pills to sleep, but they don’t work. Not well enough, I drift off only to be roused by nightmares that have increased in number and intensity. Peeta, who spends much of his night roaming the train, hears me screaming as I struggle to break out of the haze of drugs that merely prolong the horrible dreams. He manages to wake me and calm me down. Then he climbs into bed to hold me until I fall back to sleep. After that, I reuse the pills. But every night I let him into my bed. We manage the darkness as we did in the arena, wrapped in each other’s arms, guarding against dangers that can descend at any moment.”
It’s time for the drawing. Effie Trinket says as she
always does, “Ladies first!” and crosses to the glass ball with
the girls’ names. She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the
ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a
collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I’m
feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it’s not me,
that it’s not me, that it’s not me.
Effie Trinket crosses back to the podium, smoothes the
slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And
it’s not me.
“I watch him as he makes his way toward the stage. Medium height, stocky build, ashy blond hair that falls in waves over his forehead. The shock of the moment is registering on his face, you can see his struggle to remain emotionless, but his blue eyes show the alarm I’ve seen so often in prey. Yet he climbs easily onto the stage and takes his place.”