"It's the island," I'm not sure where the certainty came from, but I'm sure of this if nothing else. The island was playing us, too, like the Capitol and the rebels and I'm tired of it. At least then I knew the reason and the end goal, but this doesn't have one that I can see.

The last time I was here, President Snow left a white rose for me. I wonder if it's still there. Just the thought of the scent of blood and roses is enough to make my stomach heave and the skulls around us do not help. He's dead. I saw him die with my own eyes, but it was too late to change anything.

I feel tears slipping, sobs forming, and it's a surprise. If only because I thought I was past feeling like this, or anything at all. "Like on Halloween. Except this time it's not nightmares, this isn't my nightmare."