The Girl Who Sparked the Capitol - Book 2 - Peeta

Chapter 22

Peeta drops the sheath and buries his knife into the monkey's back, stabbing it again and again until it releases its jaw. He kicks the mutt away, bracing for more. Alessia has his arrows now, a loaded bow, and Finnick at her back, breathing hard but not actively engaged.

"Come on, then! Come on!" shouts Peeta, panting with rage. But something has happened to the monkeys. They are withdrawing, backing up into the trees, fading into the jungle, as if some unheard voice calls them away. A Gamemaker's voice, telling them this is enough.

"Get her," Alessia says to Peeta. "We'll cover you."

Peeta gently lifts up the morphling and carries her the last few yards to the beach while Finnick and Alessia keep their weapons at the ready. But except for the orange carcasses on the ground, the monkeys are gone. Peeta lays the morphling on the sand. Alessia cuts away the material over her chest, revealing the four deep puncture wounds. Blood slowly trickles from them, making them look far less deadly than they are. The real damage is inside. By the position of the openings, Alessia feels certain the beast ruptured something vital, a lung, maybe even the heart.

The morphling lies on the sand, gasping like a fish out of water. Sagging skin, sickly green, her ribs as prominent as a child's dead of starvation. Surely she could afford food, but turned to morphling just as Haymitch turned to alcohol, Alessia guesses. Everything about the morphling girl speaks of waste- her body, her life, the vacant look in her eyes. Alessia holds on of her twitching hands, unclear whether it moves from the poison that affected their nerves, the shock of the attack, or withdrawal from the drug that was her sustenance. There is nothing they could do. Nothing but stay with her while she dies.

"I'll watch the trees," Finnick says before walking away. Alessia would like to walk away, too, but the morphling grips Alessia's hand so tightly she would have to pry off the girl's finger, and she doesn't have the strength for that kind of cruelty. Alessia thinks of Rue, how maybe she could sing a song or something. But Alessia doesn't even know the morphling's name, let alone if she likes songs. Alessia just knows she's dying.

Peeta crouches down on the other side of her and strokes her hair. When he begins to speak in a soft voice, it seems almost nonsensical, but the words aren't for Alessia. "With my paint box at home, I can make every color imaginable. Pink. As pale as a baby's skin. Or as deep as rhubarb. Green like spring grass. Blue that shimmers like ice on water." 

The morphling stares into Peeta's eyes, hanging on to his words.

"One time, I spent three days mixing paint until I found the right shade for sunlight on white fur. You see, I kept thinking it was yellow, but it was much more than that. Layers of all sorts of color. One by one," says Peeta.

The morphling's breathing is slowing into shallow catch-breaths. Her free hand dabbles in the blood on her chest, making tiny swirling motions she so loved to paint with.

"I haven't figured out a rainbow yet. They come so quickly and leave so soon. I never have enough time to capture them. Just a bit of blue here or purple there. And then they fade away again. Back into the air," says Peeta.

The morphling seems mesmerized by Peeta's words. Entranced. She lifts up a trembling hand and paints what Alessia thinks might be a flower on Peeta's cheek.

"Thank you," he whispers. "That looks beautiful."

For a moment, the morphling's face lights up in a grin and she makes a small squeaking sound. Then her blood-dappled hand falls back onto her chest, she gives one last huff of air, and the cannon fires. The grip on Alessia's hand releases.

Peeta carries her out into the water. He returns and sits beside Alessia. The morphling floats out toward the Cornucopia for a while, then the hovercraft appears and a four-pronged claw drops, encases her, carries her into the night sky, and she's gone.