Hour 12: Buttercup

From The Hunger Games by Susan Collins, pages 3-4  (click here to see the original text)

 

My fingers stretch

out, seeking warmth

finding only the rough canvas

Prim, cocooned in my mother’s body

my mother, still worn but not so beaten-down.

Prim’s face fresh as a raindrop

 

Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her,

Buttercup,

He hates me.

distrusts me

he still remembers

how I tried to drown him in a bucket

last thing I needed

was another mouth to feed

But he’s a born mouser.

 

when I clean a kill,

I feed Buttercup the entrails.

Entrails. No hissing.

This is the closest we will ever come to love.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *