mercury di angelo, district eight

Her eyes were disks of ice but beneath them was flames, a fire I thought would never cease to blaze.

Until it finally did.

Ashes.

That is what she became on her insides, riddled with poison that ripped her veins apart as it hid in her bloodstream.

She is the lone tragedy that crept into the sky and stole the sun from the wonderland she and I roamed. BOOM, one resounding blast of a haunting cannon and everything succumbed to darkness. When her bones laid to rest, so did the ice and the rain.

Her blood soaks the halls and the floors and is smeared across the mirrors where her memory still lurks. I see her ghost dancing in my eyes, the same steely blue as hers, but mine are not glazed over and dead are soft with warmth; hers were frosted by ice. Our hair is gentle ebony waves, neatly combed. (Though hers became matted and wild from the arena horrors.) The pale, faded freckles on my skin and its tanned color are testament to our adventures outdoors, chasing dreams we could never catch with our incapable hands.

The resemblance between my late cousin and I is almost horrifying. I have never liked looking at myself in the mirror - looking at my nose, too thick, my jaw, too round, my eyebrows, too low - despite Jacinda insisting that I was handsome. But I like it much less now. I almost abhor the mirror. It's mocking me.

Jacinda is written on my face, scrawled into the gentle slope of my nose and the sharpness of my jaw. I cannot bear to say her name - it feels cursed caught against my lips, cut and tasting of blood from chewing them in contemplation. Her body is locked into the ground; her soul is - well I don't know, somewhere - detached from the earth. And yet she remains, in my forced smiles and shaking bones at the last three Reapings.

I remember everything she wanted. We made a list, together, of all of our dreams. And she promised, "We'll reach them together."

But among them was never die in the Hunger Games.

1. Run away
2. Have an adventure
3. Build a settlement of wanderers
4. Find love
5. Live happily ever after
6. Stop being so afraid
7. Remember the monsters

They were such simple things, but the only thing I've done is number seven. The only thing I have done in three years is remember the monsters, our monsters. But when Jacinda wrote that on a piece of ripped paper, she meant to remember the past and the pain, to make it a part of us. She did not want it to be blocked out, for she knew that was the road to more pain.

I remember the monsters.

The Games, their tributes, death. The Capitol, its president, its vain, ridiculous citizens.

And I'll never forget them.

I'll never forget her.

It has hardened me into a bitter man, bitter like my mother after her brother's death. Jacinda would frown at me and tell me that my heart doesn't feel so warm anymore, that I am not the boy she remembers with wide blue eyes and big dreams.

I still have my dreams and hers, woven into the skin on my back in ink. But a new dream has emerged in my mind, making me stir with restlessness during late nights.

Revenge,

something Jacinda deemed immoral.

But she isn't here to stop my rage from boiling over. She isn't here, but she should be.

Anger is natural. I have felt it before, when my mother scolds me or when my day flies south, but this, this scalding heat rising in my chest, expanding until I feel it in every bone, in every vein, is rage.

I have always been in control of myself. I have never wanted power over others, I only wanted to maintain power over myself, for I need to be controlled. Everyone needs something to bind them to morality. My rope is Jacinda, just thinking what she would say if I punched a Peacekeeper, if I acted on my festering vengeful urges.

She is in my mind, acting as my conscience. She was so wise, for someone so young. But she was too soft. Too gentle. She was not meant for the Games. No one is, not even Leon Krigel. He is just the lucky one.

She tells me that peace is my panacea. But peace was malleable in Jacinda's hands, not mine. I am not her. I am not as gentle and my words are not often kisses of clouds. I prefer chaos and disorder and the wild thrill of adventure.

And peace cannot exist when she is not here.

I hate how weak I was - how weak I still am. I was always too attached to people that would leave. But she shouldn't have left - she didn't want to. And now all that remains is her paintings, collecting dust in the corner of my room, and her memory, her blood blazing in my head.

Memories hurt, but I must remember the monsters,

and never forget them.