Mockingjay (Click on me to go back to where you came from)

1           I scramble off the tiles while trying to reach my mentor’s room. I got out of the door, across the hall, and wait for a response to my knock. No response. I push inside and am confronted by a defiled space. Half-eaten plates of food, shattered liquor bottles and pieces of broken furniture from a drunken rampage litter his quarters. In a tangle of sheets on the bed, he lies, unkempt, unconscious.

2           I called his name and shook his leg, but it obviously isn’t enough. Still, I give his leg a few more shakes before resolving to pour the water from the full pitcher down on his face. He comes to with a gasp and starts slashing around wildly and blindly with a knife.

3           “Oh. You,” he says. By the sound of his voice, I can tell that he is still in a drunken state.

4           I decided to start off simple. “Haymitch,” I begin.

5           He laughs as he says, “Listen to that. The Mockingjay found her voice. Well, Plutarch’s going to be happy.” He, in his drunken state, makes things worse as he takes another swig. “Why am I soaking wet?” The pitcher was lamely dropped from my hand into a pile of dirty clothes.

6           “I need your help,” I say.

7           Haymitch filled the air with liquor fumes as he belched. “What is it? More boy trouble?” I suddenly felt a sense of hurt Haymitch can rarely deliver to me. Haymitch must have known, because even in his drunken state, he tries to take back his words. I was already in the doorway when I heard the thud of Haymitch hitting the floor. The assumption can be easily derived that he tried to follow me but in his drunken state, he obviously failed.

8           I meander through the mansion and hide in a wardrobe full of silken cloth. I tore it off from the hangers till I have a pile big enough for me to burrow into. I find a stray morphling tablet and chew it dry. This feeling of being swathed by silk is like a caterpillar awaiting metamorphosis. I always assumed it would be a peaceful process. It was at first, but soon I began to feel trapped and suffocated by the silk, unable to free myself, until I transformed into something of great beauty. I keep trying to shed my ruined body, but I just wasted enormous effort only to remain as hideous as ever.

9            Guards found me and I fought them, until they convinced me they were helping me. Choking garments were peeled off me; I was escorted back into my room.

10          The promise of I kill Snow stands, and the day of his execution finally comes. I was suited up in Cinna’s Mockingjay suit, and my prep team did a miracle on me such that I look normal on the outside but still a wasteland on the inside.

11           A tap on the door and Gale, my old hunting partner, steps in. “Can I have a minute?” he asks. My prep team bumped into one another and excused themselves. “I brought you this.” Gale holds up a sheath. I took it and noticed that it contains a single, ordinary, harmless-looking arrow. But looks could kill. “It’s supposed to be symbolic. You firing the last shot of war.”

12           “What if I miss?” I say. “Does-“

13           “You won’t miss.” Gale cuts me off and adjusts the sheath on my shoulder. “Shoot straight, okay?”

14             Just before the execution, the remaining victors have to vote whether to have a last, symbolic, Hunger Games. I voted yes for my sister and it went four to three in favour of having a Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games.

15             People sweep into the room, I entered and the crowd went wild. After I took my position, Snow was marched in and the crowd went insane. They secure his hands to a post which is unnecessary. There’s nowhere for him to run. Not like he wants to, anyway. We were at a narrow terrace in front of the mansion. No wonder no one bothered to have me train. He was practically at an arm’s length away.

16             I felt the bow purr in my hand. Reach back, grasp the arrow. Aim at the rose directly on his heart. Pull. Release. But watch his face. I search his eyes for a hint for anything. But it only had the same look of amusement that ended our last conversation, as if time itself rewinds and he’s speaking the same words again. ”Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had agreed not to lie to each other.”

17            We did agree. He's right.

18            The arrow point shifts upwards and I release the string. He collapses of the side of the balcony and plunges to the ground. Dead. President Alma Coin.

rescue

I vaguely remember his name and his recount. Sungha, was it? He was walking alone in the dark night, pockets the weight of a feather. He spent all his money to watch the newest show, Kaiji: The Ultimate Gambler. Walking down the road with earpieces stuck into his ears, he flicked open his flip phone and called his mother to tell her that he would be back late. Hitting numbers on his phone, 9876--. He looked up and around. All seems calm. Why did he get a feeling that he’s followed? A black car noisily ‘vroom’ed past and made a U-turn 100 metres away, all in five seconds.


‘What fast speed!’ Sungha wondered in awe. A few seconds later, he realized that the car was approaching him. A man in a cool black jacket was seated at the driver’s seat, and he lowered his window, asking silently, “Hey, kid, want a ride home? It’s on the way.” There was no reason to refuse to his offer. He was cool. The car was cool. Naturally he would have accepted the ride. Little did he know, he saw his house zoom past from the right window, exclaiming “that’s my house!” However, that phrase was ignored by the man driving. Or was it? A mansion towered over all the other buildings, signifying great wealth.

“That was a stupid thing you did, getting on a stranger’s car in the middle of the night, without even making the call. What’s worse was the fact that you even pointed out a MANSION as your house.” I chided him after he recounted part of the story, stressing the word ‘mansion’. Sungha sighed and replied me, “I know, I know…”

Continuing, he told me that he was forced to be a slave of the kidnapper’s family 2 months after the easy kidnap. He was not allowed to do many things, like go out or walk slowly. There was a rule sheet with over one hundred and twenty rules for him to follow. If he breaks any one of them, he would receive a brutal punishment such as caning or starvation. He was starved pretty well enough without the punishment. He receives two slices of four days old bread and a small cup of water, only about one hundred and twenty five milliliters—half a cup. He was disfigured, with his phone confiscated. All around the neighbourhood he saw what would have been mirrors two months back—his own young and handsome face. The moment since his parents filed a missing report. He hoped that people on the streets would recognize him, but his ‘family’ got smarter and went to disfigure his face by cutting it with penknives when he was enjoying his two hours a day slumber,

I was shocked at how a family with children of their own could treat kids of fourteen years old that way. What with one hundred and twenty rules, punishments, two hours every twenty-four hours, I wonder why Sungha can still survive till this day! After listening to his recount, which took about two minutes, I shoved my spare phone and some cash into his bloodied hands, asking him to take a taxi home. He looked at me as if I am mental. Then it hit me. He was dreadfully skinny and undernourished, especially more when he gave that kind of eye expression.

“Go!” I hissed. I could hear footsteps shuffling across another room, drawing nearer and nearer.

“But…” he started, and without thinking, I pushed him out of the window at the top. The window shut with a loud BANG under his weight and I sighed. “Go. Be safe.” I muttered. Whispering, he said, “there’s a loose floorboard near the corner of the room, I have hidden some food which I nicked from them there. Use it wisely.” Then I heard his footsteps fade away, then draw nearer again.

“Wait for me, I’ll go get help. There’s a pathway to the water storage from the small closet at the right of the room.” Then he muttered a series of ‘left’s and ‘right’s. The shuffling of the footsteps got louder and louder, saying “Sungha! Go to the kitchen and prepare dinner. NOW!”

When there was no response from me, a burly man charged into the room. “Sungha, WHAT ARE YOU…… Who are you???” Scratching his head, he turned. “Regis!! Sungha has a growth spurt! He looks like an adult now! Or…wait. This guy here… rescued Sungha! What a brave young man… A pity he had to sacrifice himself…” Mocking at me, he spat on the floor. “Good luck.”

What did he mean by that? Good luck??? After two days, I knew why. They were not giving me any food, nor were they forcing me to be their slave. Thinking back, the burly man was really quite idiotic, thinking that Sungha had a growth spurt.

I decided that, I case I died, I will leave my story to those who wanted to read it. Probing around the contents of the highly useful loose floorboard on the ground, I found paper. Grabbing a pencil from my pocket, I started to write. It started off like this: ‘I vaguely remember his name and recount. Sungha, was it?...... And I continued writing and writing, and ended off with: What happens after the time I wrote this? That will be another story…

FYI: this will be the part before cadvan's trapped. For my english essay. topic is at denying hearts. go there see yourself. thankyou. comments also greatly appreciated and welcomed.

imitation

His hands were fully stretched when he was about ten steps away from the gates. He approached the gates with caution and pushed the gates open with his outstretched arms. The effect was instantaneous. Immediately after the door moved an inch, bright, golden light forced his eyes to close. A powerful and authoritive voice resonated in his head, "Choose the one you think is correct. Follow your heart and proceed." When the ringing voice left his head, he questioned the air around him for answers to his doubt. "What was that?" His voice sounded high and cold after the low, scratchy authoritive voice. He opened his eyes against the discomforting, bright, golden light. Instantly his eyes screamed for darkness as both his retinas burnt in agony. His nerve cell acted fast, resulting in his eyelids falling back onto his eyes. The apparent darkness vanished, while a scenery with thousands of similar golden gates took its place. All the gates look similar, but each gate has a special symbol at the very tip of the gates. They all seem to be some sort of symbolic language in the ancient times.

Footnote: This was done during lesson, but I edited the whole thing to be more descriptive. AM I BEING FAR TOO DESCRIPTIVE??? I feel that I'm all right but get this weird feeling when I re-read these paragraphs...

trapped

The days crawled by, and he had no more food or water left. With a pale white face and numb limbs, he made a final, jerky, movement with his fingers and fell into unconsciousness, finally succumbing to his fate. When he opened his tightly closed eyes, he could only see golden colours. As he adjusted to the light, he recognised the other colours, with gold overpowering them.
'Is this heaven? Why am I dressed like this?'
He spoke aloud, his voice in a high pitch with an icy tone, filed with conviction. He looked down, registering the fact that he was in heaven and wearing royal clothings. He was wrapped in a golden cloak from his shoulders all the way to his toes. A royal blue suit buttoned up smarty upon his chest gleamed in the sunlight, tucked neatly into his golden pants, which were made of a cozy material. A leather belt of a dark blue shade stood prominently on his hip, the buckle a shiny silver.
As all this information registers in his head, he decided that the only place to go was the wide, golden gates in front of him. As he approach the gates, he could not help but notice how soft the clouds he was walking on were. Fluffy and white, but protecting some parts of the Earth from the Sun's harmful UV rays.

DISCLAIMER
IDEA WAS NOT MINE. CONTINUED STORY FROM DENYING HEARTS. CLICK ON LINK TO READ FIRST PART.