"I felt I’d lived my whole wretched life just to prepare me for that moment."
In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America.
It was beautiful, of course; I couldn’t deny that. Everything was green: the trees, their trunks covered with moss, their branches hanging with a canopy of it, the ground covered with ferns. Even the air filtered down greenly through the trees.
I’m drawn to things I don’t understand.
(…)you are a painter….
"And did you love me?" he asks.
I keep my eyes on the tiled floor. "Everyone says I did. Everyone says that’s why Snow had you tortured. To break me.”
"That’s not an answer," he tells me. "I don’t know what to think when they show me some of the tapes. In that first arena, it looked like you tried to kill me with those tracker jackers."
"I was trying to kill all of you," I say. "You had me treed."
"Later, there’s a lot of kissing. Didn’t seem very genuine on your part. Did you like kissing me?" he asks.
"Sometimes," I admit. “You know people are watching us now?”
But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale’s fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that.