The Little Mockingjay

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I let him go, but I resolve to find him during lunch and apologize for yelling.

I watch him enter the small building and then head off to my first class through the entrance on the opposite side of school.

The atmosphere is uneasy among the older students; everyone knows about the chaos that occurred in the Capitol last night. Nevertheless, I proceed to my locker, then to homeroom without speaking to anyone. I just listen to my music. I spend the first three periods waiting for lunch, hardly ever taking my eyes off of the analog clock in each room. Finally, I make my way to math, the last class before lunch. I slide into my seat just before my teacher closes the door to the classroom, locking out anyone who is late. No one is. Suddenly, every kid in my class, including myself, jumps in their seat at loud commotion outside. Banging. A few screams. Everyone is frozen. The noise is getting louder. They’re getting closer to us. The teacher frantically motions for everyone to get under their desks as she shuts out the lights and locks the door. It makes no difference, because groups of people who seem to be soldiers bust down the door less than a minute later. I hug my knees to my chest, not daring to move. Then, one of them speaks in a commanding tone. What he says shocks me and my eyes grow wide with fear. He said a name. He said my name.

“Nadia Mellark.”

It rings out through the entirety of the classroom and completely obliterates the silence. No one speaks. The air is filled with the sounds of soldiers’ heavy breaths, the clanking of weapons, and my name.

“Nadia Mellark?”

Did he say it again, or am I hearing things?

No, the soldier with the powerful voice spoke my name again. He did more than speak it; he commanded it. He said my name in such a way that it was as if the pure act of his voice box producing the sound would pull me from under the table and into the grasps of strange soldiers. As if in slow motion, all eyes fall on me. From my hiding place, I look to the teacher. She looks just as baffled as my classmates. Still, I don’t move. The soldiers start to make there way through the classroom, yanking kids from under the desks to get a look at them. I hold my breath. Footsteps approach my desk. A head ducks under and a hand pulls me by the hair. I can’t see a face, only a bulky mask. The hand feels rough against my scalp. I don’t dare to make a noise.

How do they know what I look like? Why do they want me?

The faceless soldier with the rough hands places me standing on the ground as if I am a ragdoll. I scowl at him.

“It’s her!” Says my attacker.

All the other soldiers look to me, standing in the middle of the classroom.

Students’ eyes lock on me, mouths open.

I’m so stricken with fear that I can’t even move, but I don’t dare show it. I stare at the wall, face neutral.

“How do you know?” A different soldier asks.

The soldier with the voice speaks again.

“Look at her. She’s an exact replica.”

The rest of the soldiers don’t comment; they just nod.

I’m an exact replica of what?

Then, I feel hands on my arms, picking me up, taking me away.

No!

I violently kick my legs and twist my head to bite down on the hand to my right. The soldier’s grip loosens and as I drop to the ground and sprint for the door; three more men grab me, replacing the one who I bit. My mind races, searching for a solution, but I don’t get that far. I feel a needle slip into my arm and my mind goes blank.

Why me?

~

Whatever sedative was in that needle, it wasn’t strong. I wake to the feeling of rough hands grabbing me, pulling me, towards my destination. I feel my feet dragging on the ground and my head lolls lazily back and forth as the soldiers march me out of the building. Maybe the drugs were stronger than I thought; I can’t move any of my limbs. I try to gain control of my body, but nothing seems to be working. Finally, I give up and simply let my eyes scan my surroundings. I recognize the schoolyard and gather that I must have only been passed out of a couple of seconds. As my eyes flick back and forth, they fall on something that looks like a spaceship. I’ve never seen one of these in real life, but I know what it is. It’s a hovercraft, and these men are putting me on it. I become frantic again; I need to get away. But my body won’t move no matter how hard I try. I think of Flint, who’s still mad at me. I think of my parents, who aren’t even aware of what’s happening. Dad’s probably in the bakery; while Mom might be hunting in the woods or reading at home. I’m about to call out, scream, make a noise, anything to let off steam, but I decide that I better not. It’s better for them to think that I’m completely sedated; I don’t want another needle-full of drugs. But then, out of the corner of my thankfully functioning eyes, I see Flint.

They got him too. Why?

I notice him attempting to swing his limbs in protest, but it’s no use, he’s no match to the soldiers who grip him. I can’t help myself anymore; I can’t hold it in.

“FLINT!” I call at the top of my lungs.

His neck jerks violently and our eyes make contact.

“Nadia!” He screams, his eyes wild.

He continues to flail amongst the soldiers, but we both know that neither one of us is getting away. In a matter of seconds, we’re flung onto the hovercraft and it lifts up off of the ground. I’m thrown into a seat, but I slump down, still feeling the effects of whatever substance was injected into my veins to paralyze my body. In the dim light, I manage to count about twenty soldiers all sitting in the two parallel rows of seats that line the hovercraft. Flint sits directly across from me and I watch as a soldier ties his hands together behind his back and gags his mouth with a cloth. I watch. It’s all I can do. It pains me that I can’t help him. I hate these men, whoever they are, for sedating me, for stealing me away from my family. I don’t know where I’m going, and I’m not even sure I want to know. All my life I’ve been digging for answers, but now, I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know who these people are or why they want me or why my family is connected to politics or the government or anything. Maybe Flint was right.

The soldier who tied him up approaches me with the identical rope and cloth. Even though this is pointless, as I cant move my limbs, I feel immediately threatened. I’m over come with a rage that I didn’t know was inside of me as the soldier snarls,

“You’re next, little girl,”

I feel a fire burning inside of me and, as if it were a reflex, I gather all my strength and spit right at him.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he says in a nasty tone.

The last thing I remember is the soldier delivering a punch to my jaw that was so strong, it knocked me out for the duration of the flight.