Queen of the Highway | Coriolanus Snow

The Final Show

"And now our final tribute, I first met this young lady in the zoo not too long ago," Lucretius Flickerman introduces me to the cameras. "From district 12... Viktoria Gamboge!" 

They gave me the least stitches possible for the biggest fucking gash that ripped up from my jaw to my bottom lip. It hurt like hell, but this was it.

My final hope,

and potentially,

my final show.

I strolled on stage, smiling despite my agony.

One good thing had occurred in the past twenty-four hours, thankfully, and that was the attainment of my 'props'.

"Good evening, ladies, gentlemen, everyone else," I step up to the microphone. "Tonight I sing for you with a full band to back me, and, of course, I introduce myself to those unfamiliar with my showmanship," 

I pause, holding out my hand until an instrument was placed in it. Lucy Gray used to joke about how strange it was to find a bassist as the frontman, yet here I goddamn am, about to play the bass guitar like my life depends on it.

Fuck.

It does depend on it.

I step toward the mic again, slinging the strap over my shoulder. "This song is written for a very dear friend of mine," I assure my eyes blaze into the screen. "I dearly hope he gets this message,"

I clear my throat, nodding to the other musicians to count in.

3... 

2...

All systems are go. Heart is pumping, lungs are breathing, mouth is moving. Head, is spinning.

"And if you save yourself, you will make him happy. He'll keep you in a jar, and you'll think you're happy. He'll give you breathing holes, and you'll think you're happy," my voice carries through the microphone, rasped and angry as my fingers walk the bass with speed. "He'll cover you with grass, and you'll think you're happy now,"

I don't realise my eyes are scrunched shut, but they are. "You're in a laundry room, you're in a laundry room. The clues that came to you, ohh,"

I come up for a gasp of air, glimpsing the wide-eyed faces, the unsure ones, the ones with watering eyes. Then I grit my teeth and close down, fingertips burning, probably nearly bleeding as I jump back into the verse again. "And if you cut yourself, you will think you're happy. He'll keep you in a jar, then you'll make him happy!"

I continue to sing, lungs on fire as I push all the power I can into my vocals.

And finally, I open my eyes for the last verse, gaze glued on the camera. "He'll give you breathing holes, then you will seem happy. You'll wallow in the shit, then you'll think you're happy now,"

As the song draws to a close I realise how fast my heart had been racing, keeping in quick rhythm with the song. I stand back, watching as the crowd erupts. 

I...

I moved them to tears?

I gasp for air, allowing myself to be guided off stage.

I can hear as Lucretius Flickerman tries to compose himself. "Well..." he breathes. "Wasn't that something? And, would ya look at that, record high for the evening!"

The crowd showers in applause.

"That was, not that you need reminding, Viktoria Gamboge, district twelve!"

I never even used my magic trick. I had this whole plan- I was going to use a smoke bomb to get off stage, I was going to kick the mic and do a trick to make it whip back, I was...

I catch myself spiralling. 

I hand over the bass guitar, wilting as I try and regain composure.

I didn't just put on another show, I put on everything I was, threw it all out for Panem to see...

They were dangerous lyrics, interpreted in a certain manner, but...

Fuck.

I needed them heard.