strange things did happen here. no stranger would it be. if we met up at midnight in the hanging tree.
once i read this book. it was about people having skin melted off of them, giant lizards eating peoples heads off, kind people losing their minds, children being blown to bits, humans being electrocuted, tortured by bugs, people leg’s being blown off, barbed wire crushing someone to death, meat grinders grinding people to death, men chocking on their own blood
and it was called mockingjay
“Panem et Circenses translates into ’Bread and Circuses.’ […] I think about the Capitol. The excess of food. And the ultimate entertainment. The Hunger Games.
Sam Claflin and Astrid Bergès-Frisbey as Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta
Now we’re in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated. But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We’re fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although who knows? Maybe this will be it, Katniss. The time it sticks. Maybe we are witnessing the evolution of the human race. Think about that. - Plutarch Heavensbee, Mockingjay
A sound escapes me. The same combination of gasp and groan that comes from being submerged in water, deprived of oxygen to the point of pain. I push people aside until I am right in front of him, my hand resting on the screen. I search his eyes for any sign of hurt, any reflection of the agony of torture. There is nothing. Peeta looks healthy to the point of robustness. His skin glowing, flawless, in that full-body-polish way. His manner’s composed, serious. I can’t reconcile this image with the battered, bleeding boy who haunts my dreams. […]
“Why don’t you tell us about that last night in the arena?” suggests Caesar. “Help us sort a few things out.”
Peeta nods but takes his time speaking. “That last night… to tell you about that last night… well, first of all, you have to imagine how it felt in the arena. It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you, jungle… green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life. Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, sixteen people have died - some of them defending you. At the rate things are going, the last eight will be dead by morning. Save one. The victor. And your plan is that it won’t be you.”
My body breaks out in sweat at the memory. My hand slides down the screen and hangs limply at my side. Peeta doesn’t need a brush to paint images from the Games. He works just as well in words.
“Once you’re in the arena, the rest of the worls becomes very distant,” he continues. “All the people and things you loves or cared about almost cease to exist. The pink sky and the monsters in the jungle and the tributes who want your blood become your final reality, the only one that ever mattered. As bad as it makes you feel, you’re going to have to do some killing, because in the arena, you only get one wish. And it’s very costly.”
“It costs your life,” says Caesar.
“Oh, no. It costs a lot more than your life. To murder innocent people?” says Peeta. “It costs everything you are.”