Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games
Katniss's Point of view
I didn't want to attend this.
I was forced to.
Seneca Crane's execution.
Just a week out of the arena and I have to witness another death.
Though it serves him right, about 115 kids died in his hands.
Yet he mounts the stage smiling.
Does he know it's his death today?
Does he know he caused more than 100 other deaths? Does he know what he's done?
Does he even care?
His eyes are searching the crowd. The group that eagerly awaits for his blood to be drawn. Why, I don't know. The people of the Capitol are twisted. They've proved it more than once. No one will miss him. No one knew him. He was just a puppet.
A puppet of the Capitol.
His eyes meet mine.
Then I see it. And I realize something. Something that lingers behind his eyes.
Seneca Crane is my father.
And that means he tried to kill me…
He's supposed to be dead. Blown to pieces so little that there was nothing to bury, by a mine accident. Yet he stands in front of me.
A paper flutters through the air. Something he threw.
Then he does something unexpected. He holds the three fingers of his left hand to his mouth, and then holds it out to the crowd. They look shocked. But then they begin to do it back. It rippled through them, more and more people do it. Like a trend. A new trend. Soon almost everyone is doing it.
There are a few people who are not doing it.
Perhaps they refuse to do it, like me.
Perhaps they don't know what it means.
A swarm of Peacekeepers take the stage, and I know his death is near. There are the last moments of his life.
They wrestled him into a chair before hand cuffing him. One lifts a threatening sound.
Other than the paper that's still fluttering in the air, there's no sound.
Just as the paper drops to the ground before my feet, the Peacekeeper swings the axe…
Ending the life of my father.
I bend down and pick the paper up, unable to stare at the blood trickling down Seneca Crane's throat.
I know I am supposed to be dead, But the Capitol saved me. Just before I died. They forced me to be the head Gamemaker. I tried as hard as I could to keep you alive, but I do not know if this letter will end up in your hands.
I love you and I shall miss you.
He tried to keep me alive, not kill me. He risked his life, keeping me alive. Without him, I would be dead. Did he save me at the last minute too? Would the Capitol have just let me die?
He saved me. A teardrop rolls off my cheek and onto the paper, smudging my father's last signature.
When I arrive home, I show the letter to my mother. We cry together. We know one day we'll have to show Prim, but she's too young to know now. It'll kill her. We'll have to keep it a secret until she's old enough.
Old enough to understand the Capitol.
My mother and I have cried for weeks together. But now, over time, we've learned not to. Our faces are emotionless masks. We can't tell anyone because we ourselves are not supposed to know.
Our memories, just like the teardrop that smudged my father's signature, have dried. They're not gone. They're stored. We know that we both think about him before we fall into sleep, sometimes dreamless, sometimes not.
We also know that he is- like his letter, which is stored in a glass case- preserved.
Not in a glass case.
But in our hearts.
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