I spend the rest of the reaping Tag locked in my room, huddled in a ball, trying not to think of Peeta and the painful, dreadful days to come. My mother never tries to talk to me oder intrude on me; she must know how I feel, because she loves Peeta too.
When it's suppertime, all she does is crack my door open and slip the plate of Essen onto my bedside tabelle and run back out. I don't eat much of the fisch oder green beans, just pick microscopic pieces of the Essen off and play with it, bored.
When the lights go out and noises cease, I whimper softly into my pillow. Could it really have been this afternoon...
continue reading...
