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━ THE HUNGER GAMES
Walk with me, memory to memory, the shared path, the mutual view. Walk with me. The past lies in wait. It is not behind. It seems to be in front. How else could it trip me as as I start to run? JEANETTE WINTERSON / GUT SYMMETRIES
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WHEN I WAS VERY LITTLE, before my name was entered in the Reaping bowl, my mother taught us how to cook. There were just the two of us girls, and like many of the kids in our district, learning how to get by on a diet void of meat in a place overflowing with the stuff was definitely a necessary skill.
That familiar stench of blood hung on to everything for as far as the eye could see ― our clothes, our hair, our skin. It settled in our pores and made homes in our lungs, and when a smell so strong follows you around for a lifetime, you tire of it.
Ma taught us how to fry up tubers so they melt in your mouth. How to boil a broth with nothing but a few cabbage leaves and some flower petals. She taught us how to add cream to any dish to make it richer and better for consumption.
The best part? None of it bled.
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SONGS FROM THE BLOODY MARY
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