Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch – this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy.
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?
Only I keep wishing I could think of a way...to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games.
Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch – this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. “Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen
I want to do something, right here, right now, to shame them, to make them accountable, to show the Capitol that whatever they do or force us to do there is a part of every tribute they can't own. That Rue was more than a piece in their Games. And so am I.
District 12: Where you can starve to death in safety.
Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they don’t even have the decency to pay attention to me. That I’m being upstaged by a dead pig.
Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.
I'm more than just a piece in their Games.
They're already taking my future! They can't have the things that mattered to me in the past!
Here's some advice. Stay alive.
We could do it, you know." "What?" "Leave the district. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it.
I stare at the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not.
My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me.
No one will forget me. Not my look, not my name. Katniss. The girl who was on fire.
Barbarism? That's ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what's she basing our success on? Our table manners?
Why am I hopping around like some trained dog trying to please people I hate?
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.
Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.
Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there.
Katniss, the girl who was on fire!
You’ve got about as much charm as a dead slug.
As long as you can find yourself, you’ll never starve.
Because...because...she came here with me.
Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.
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