You see the girl clutching her sharp, wicked knives. You see the girl on the ground. But the thing that cuts into your brain is the words. You know that they're talking about her. The girl who climbed the stairs at the Reaping not making a word, who dazzled you in her gossamer wings and who you've been praying is still alive.

You catch enough that you can tell instantly that your fairy is dead. And never, ever coming back. You thought she was too delicate, too young (so, so young) for anyone to kill and quick and agile enough so no one would even have the chance to catch her, let alone kill her.

You can see the other girl, the one on the ground. You can see the knife poised just so, ready to cut her up. It hits you then. Maybe this girl, this brutal girl, obviously trained since birth for this moment; maybe she killed your fairy. Maybe she sliced her up like she's about to do to… the Girl on Fire, you remember. You also remember hearing that huge boy, companion of the girl with knives, you remember hearing him say the Girl on Fire was allied with your fairy.

You make your decision then. You storm in, lightly holding the huge rock that has been your weapon for the games, although you haven't used it much. The others haven't dared to venture into your field. Your field. That shakes you, as it's not your home.

Your home is lying by the fireside with your mama and your papa and your sister. Home is talking about what's going to happen when you earn enough to leave, leave, leave the Districts main job. Home is laughter, and, and, and, home is your mama's arms around you and home is tugging your sisters braid and home is sharing secret smiles with your papa when the girl at the market winks at you.

The girl with knives looks up. You don't stop. You take her down. You think of Rue, your little fairy and your mind is made up. You smash her head, wanting to give her a quick end, probably not granted to your fairy, given the array of blades tucked into the girl's sleeves. The girl is not dead, just dented. Badly. The boy calls out "Clove!" Clove. That's her name. You didn't want to know her name. It makes hurting them so much harder.

Then it's over and you turn to the other girl. She tells you that she sang your fairy to sleep. But sleep is very different to dead, and you know it. "Death. I sang her to her death," her voice catches and you know what to do.

You

let

her

go.

\\\

When you die, you see her. Her wings in place and you smile. 'She belongs in heaven,' you think, 'and she was never a fairy. She was an angel.'

Then death welcomes you and you go straight into her arms.