But Some Secrets Are Too

I Mourn My Old Life Here. We Barely Scraped By, But I Knew Where I Fit In, I Knew What My Place Was In The Tightly Interwoven Fabric That Was Our Life. I Wish I Could Go Back To It Because, In Retrospect, It Seems So Secure Compared To Now, When I Am So Rich And Famous And So Hated By The Authorities In The Capitol.

Do It. Before They Send Those Mutts Back Or Something. I Don't Want To Die Like Cato," He Says. “then You Shoot Me," I Say Furiously, Shoving The Weapons Back At Him. "you Shoot Me And Go Home And Live With It!" And As I Say It, I Know Death Right Here, Right Now Would Be The Easier Of The Two.

The Realization That I’d Have Nothing To Take Home Had Finally Sunk In. My Knees Buckled And I Slid Down The Tree Trunk To Its Roots. It Was Too Much. I Was Too Sick And Weak And Tired, Oh, So Tired. Let Them Call The Peacekeepers And Take Us To The Community Home, I Thought. Or Better Yet, Let Me Die Right Here In The Rain.

I'm Not A Very Fancy Person. I've Been A Writer A Long Time, And Right Now 'the Hunger Games' Is Getting A Lot Of Focus. It'll Pass. The Focus Will Be On Something Else. It'll Shift. It Always Does. And That Seems Just Fine.

He Felt Around Desperately For A Weapon. What Did He Have? Diapers? Cookies? Oh, Why Hadn't They Given Him A Sword? He Was The Stupid Warrior, Wasn't He? His Fingers Dug In The Leather Bag And Closed Around The Root Beer Can. Root Beer! He Yanked Out The Can Shaking It With All His Might. "attack! Attack!" He Yelled.