ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐈𝐑𝐂𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐒───
❝Mother of Panem, a symbol of the Capital.❞
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It is a constant reminder of true love and devotion. It is every parent's obligation to raise their children for [the slaughter] the games──to understand wh...
The sky is dark, and the air is muggy. I am left on the ground.
Sweat drips down onto my neck; it creates a picture of me soaked into the forest floor. In the dead of August, the heat can keep a corpse fresh for days. I sweat from every pore; the summer did not grant me dignity in my final moments—But that's too much to ask, I know. I'm sorry—It only knows how to give me the weight of its heat. That is all I can ask for. I'm thankful for the heat; please don't take it away.
My mama would tell me it was her who was holding my hand. The scars she scratched into my palm burn bright as my skin drains of color. My blush drains in time with the dripping of my sweat. I can't remember if it is day or night—she held that hand to show me the stars when I was six, she held that hand to readjust my grip on the axe when I was ten, she held that hand as I cried with cow's blood still in my hair—but I hear the sound of buzzing.
Not even the flies let me rest. They whizz around my head and land in my open eyes. In the print of my death, I wish they remembered my eyes were green and not hazel; they added too much color. They always add too much color—black, red, brown, scarred, freckled, stretched, nothing of my own. Peel off their skin, and you will find my bones. They are mine—my sternum, my femur, my rib cage cracked open.
I am a mother to hundreds now. I will feed them until their death. My mama's hand in mine, she kisses my brow—or is it my son?
Someone is here. Someone has found me. They can take me home now– but I can't leave them. I can't leave my children. They need me.
Mama, help me.
They want to take me away. Mama, I don't want to die.
Screaming. Be quiet; you'll wake the forest, and then you'll never come home. You can't hear your screams. You didn't hear mine—my sweet boy.
Where are the others? Where are my children?
Run. Run. Run.
Before he finds you—before he kills you too.
My sweet, dead children.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. This is all I have time to say.
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
There is nothing left of me to give; this is all I have left: my sweat on the ground, my body in the dirt, my face for the flies. I'm sorry I lied. I'm sorry. Look at the posters on the walls. There is nothing left of me, not even depicted through the paper and ink.
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