Future of the mockingjay

Chapter twenty-six: Epilogue

Rue

I have heard the stories of my mother. People often get excited when I mention her name. To others, my mother will always be the Mockingjay.

I have heard the stories of my father. Not as tough as my mother was, but he would do anything for her. The star-crossed lovers, people used to call them.

My father died when I was only six. My mother tells me he loved us very much. When people ask, I say it was an accident. A drunken man who got violent. It sounds simple enough. It sounds real.

But the truth isn't always simple. Lies are much easier than the truth. Sometimes they're even easier to believe. I had been handing out lies my whole life.

Last week, when my mother asked if I had finished my homework, I replied yes. Lie.

In class, when my teacher asked if I read the assigned chapters last night, I told her that I read them and loved them. Lie and lie.

For ten years, I've been feeding myself and others around me the same lie over and over. My father died in an accident. A drunken man attacked him. It was a careless mistake. Lie. Lie. Lie.

Sometimes, the truth hurts. Sometimes, it's easier to keep on lying to people, to live your life comfortably in the shadow of lies, protecting yourself from the harshness of reality. But I know I cannot live like this forever. I know that there are many stories yet to be told, many tears left to be shed.

My mother is a manipulator of lies. She weaves them into a protective net around my brother and me. I liked that net. It was familiar and safe. But my mother created that net with the intent to rip it to shreds. My mother lives in the harsh reality of this world. She surrounds herself with the bitter truth.

My father's death was no accident. There was no drunken man involved in his passing.

My father died because of the Capitol.

xXx

Last week...

"Rue, I think you are ready to hear about what happened to your father," mother says, sitting down next to me. I look up from the TV, trying not to be annoyed that she interrupted me.

"Sure," I say, turning off the TV. I move away from her, not sure what to make of her expression. Her grey eyes are dull and the corners of her mouth are tight, as if she's trying not to cry.

"You know how we met, right sweetie?"

"The Hunger Games," I say, remembering the horrible lessons we have in school that teach us about how life used to be before the Rebellion. Back when the Capitol was in control.

"Yes, the Games," my mother whispers, looking down at her fingers as if she was holding on to a memory. She looks up at me, her eyes glossy. "I want you to know about your father. Now that you're sixteen, I think you can handle it. But you can't say a word to your brother."

I squirm in my seat, nervous about what she's going to tell me.

"You father loved you and your brother very much," she says, looking away again. "He would never leave you on purpose, never," she says, her voice cracking a little on the word leave.

"I know that, mother," I say, trying to calm her.

"He was... affected by the Games. More so than I was."

"Because he was captured?" I ask. My mother winces at this, just like she always does when I bring up the Games.

"Yes, that was part of it." She takes a deep breath. "The Capitol did some very... horrible things to your father."