Snow Falling

President Snow’s new speech is supposed to start with the one word he does love most in the world: “I… am just trying to control chaos. The Capitol is able to give us a balance — to settle the turmoil between those who succumb to order and those who destroy it. It’s just us, dear Katniss. An eternal war where we are all capable of murder. This is our nature that consists in the survival of an entire species.” Katniss is listening, but realize that she’s even unable to open her mouth. By the way, the feeling takes her breath away, because all her enemies were imposed by a man who right now says that he is “trying”. He loves only himself. His word. His morality, throughout which it is unbearably difficult go. In the depths of her heart, she is very angry at the world around, at this pretentious coolness of the gray-haired old man in front of her unassumingly fingering a white rose in his hands. But the only thing that allows her not to kill the president right now is the desire to take into account the possibility that her hatred will come to an end. You just need to hear remorse, find peace from the person you hate so much. “The color of excellence, perfection,” he draws out, examining the shimmering petals. “I have always loved roses, they are beautiful and the smell is nice. They were grown by my grandmother long before I came to force,” Snow is lifting the flower in front of his eyes, comparing it with the girl's pale and emaciated face. “It did not take me long to do it. I slowly fell in love with the killer. Mocking…” His speech is interrupted by a loose cough, blood has gushed outfrom his mouth uncontrollably then sprinkling a snow-white rose with small splashes.” You and I are alike, Miss Everdeen. I like you. “We’ve been agreed not to lie to each other.” “Exactly.” The president chuckles hollowly. “I am afraid I have not learned to lie.” “Another lie.” Snow laughs under his breath and tears off a bloody rose petal with weak, trembling fingers, tracing the frosted surface and gently putting it in his mouth. “I am the same person as everyone else. But I had the courage to challenge our essence in them, because I am not able to subdue it in myself.” “You are the killer of a children. You are driving them into the arena. Do you think everyone is capable of this?” “In self — defense — all people without exception. I do not like war…” “Really?” Katniss says roughly, standing tensely in front of him. “Of course, there is little pleasant in it.” His voice is unnaturally calm, but clearly felt like a cold winter night. He does not frighten, but pacifies in his own way. “Do you think I want to arrange eternal slaughter, expose my own and all people to danger? Putting us on the verge of extinction?” He raises his chin mannerly, slowly pulling a smile on. “We are in the same current with you, dear Katniss. Perhaps you are a rebel, and I am just a peacekeeper.” “I don’t believe you.” “I know how you feel about me, perfectly well. I know you want me dead. But let me explain that the world will not change with this. I will remain in history as a person capable of controlling chaos. Do you remember what it is — a chaos? “I remember what you made of it.” “You repeat yourself!” Snow retorts irritably, continuing to savor the taste of the petal. He smacks his artificial lips disgustingly, trying to restrain the trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth. The blood mixed with the juice of the rose, the smell became even more poisonous — came to Katniss — and she restrained herself from covering her nose. She was violently sick. “My task is to convey my thought to you without retelling the story of my life. Love has always ruled me. I guess you do not even need it anymore” “What makes you think that?” “It is worn you out.” “It seems that you know everything about my life.” Katniss says, reflexively taking her nose away from the whiff of the smell. “I don’t know anything about yours. Don’t you think it’s a little unfair? What kind of trust can we talk about? About which truth? What kind of thuth are you talking about?..” Then she strongly said, “You don’t know anything about love.” “Trust — is more important than love. It is better than love. Much more valuable.” He answers in a calm voice. Abandoned areas of memory are bloom limply, burned through by years of hatred, self-deception and guilt sending Snow a sudden smile. That one — gentle, loving, free. Rebellious. “Can I trust you, Miss Everdeen?” Looking at the rose in his hand, he tightly squeezes his fingers on the bud. So beautiful, innocent, blooming. A lump rises in his throat, he frowns from, swallows hard, skillfully hiding even a single hint of the sadness that grows with every moment of awareness of loss. Does he take care of himself now? After all, he knows that he will be executed in the coming days and will not bother to consciously condemn. All of those are also ruled by hatred. It’s the same thing, he thinks. For the first in a long time — thoughts about something else. When Katniss Everdeen silently waits for words, the tongue seems to be numb with the inability to say anything abstract, unrelated to the topic of conversation. Therefore, the president decides to remove the shackles, but he does not hide from the person anywhere. He thinks about what is taking place and not, along with the imminent demise. This senselessness takes on new colors as if it always had… the meaning. “At least try to convince me of that. You are good at it, then.” He adds and carefully unclenching his clenched fist, and releasing the still perfectly smooth, crystal-clear bud. He does not stop admiring them and also lovingly trying out the taste on his tongue. Katniss shakes her head slightly. Thinking about Peeta, thinking about the victims, thinking about absolutely everything, habitually sharply piled on her head. Everything has passed, all the suffering is over, and it’s very easy to see for yourself. Coriolanus Snow looks not so malicious, not so dangerous, sitting in a private garden of white roses. Roses, roses, roses. Constantly this smell driving into anxiety, sending an insidious thrill in the heart — now does not mean anything. This fragrance is associated with death, influence and the fall of dishonest ideals, and shows the essence of a cold-blooded tyrant outside, rotting from his insensitivity, shivering pitifully from the cold and motionlessly looking at the flower with an inappropriate smile. “I had no choice to be someone else.” Katniss says. “It’s not my fault that they made me in the end.” Her throat is sore, the pain from the burns is dulled. “I wasn’t supposed to be a Mockingjay. I’m not her." Snow abruptly raises his head, looking straight into Katniss’s eyes in amazement. A trickle of blood drips more and more from his parted mouth and touches his white beard. “What did you say?” He asks hopefully in a hoarse voice, looks steadily and again clutches the bud in his trembling hand. “I had no choice. I am not the leader of the rebellion. I’m not a symbol. I’m not a Mockingjay.” It’s already sad, she says insensitively, relieving tension from her body. “That is right. You had no choice. You were only taken advantage of. Doesn’t it give you an idea?” “An idea about what?” “About the control to that you succumbed. Mockingjays cannot be controlled. And you are. Take a look around. Are you sure that anything will change after this conversation? People will lay down their weapons, forget about hatred and murder, and find peace over their heads in a friendly way?” “Why this conversation?” “Because we do not decide anything as individuals. Hatred rules the world. The Capitol ruled it until a certain time, and now it is ugly showing out. Although it was beautiful in the Capitol, people led a beautiful lifestyle. It does not matter what drives it. Tyranny? Totalitarianism? Passion for freedom? What does freedom mean to you, Katniss?” She is silently clenching her jaw. Snow looks puzzled and is not at all surprised to hear silence in response. “I have already managed to come to terms with my own death, but it was so long ago. You cannot even imagine what I had to go through and how little we differ from each other. Can you believe it?” He gets up from his seat, carefully straightening his sore back, and approaches another bush, managing to collect a wet cough into a white handkerchief from his pocket. He no longer examines the flower, but plunges the tip of the stem into the loose earth as if forcing it to grow further, despite the fact that it will die soon. “Freedom is an illusion. Believe that excessive love will not help to dispel it. I am not wasteful, I do not kill for no particular reason. But how not to kill because of hatred, because of your essence?” Stands with his back, but quietly turns around. “And I do not hate just like that. But the leader that you really believe…” He makes a special mocking emphasis on the last word. “Exactly the one against which as they themselves believed, the rebels were fighting. I am talking about the pretense that bothered us.” “Are you saying that Coin…” “…killed your sister? Yes. However, I do not need to persuade you. To convince. You can see by your eyes that you are no longer a fighter.” He pauses and finally wipes his mouth from the oozing blood. “It is time to make a choice. Right now, it is the only thing you have left. Do surprise me. It is necessary after all that he had to endure, according to him to gain the strength to stand up against a whole resistance. He is still looking for entertainment on his head. Katniss Everdeen, all the heads bowed in the hall of Justice or on the battlefield for his head — remained for him a part of the eternal game from what he had to endure again, arrogantly lifting his chin, tied to a post. While Katniss is reasoning over the words, Snow suddenly hums a forbidden melody with a quiet mumble. He steps past snow-white flower beds loiters along the garden path, singing a song about love, loyalty, about the price of freedom that he exchanged for power once. The song is about the innocence of love that he experienced at the same time. The memory of her gentle voice that he sacrificed; the girl he failed to subdue. Her passion and the sound of a rapid heartbeat. It must be from love, not from the fear of death. Katniss will never know why this song is the only thing that can kill him by poisoning him with snake venom. She will not know that Coriolanus Snow will die without regret about his past and about his choice, in the absence of which he believed himself. Strange things did happen here No stranger would it seem. The president moves freely between the well-groomed rose bushes occasionally holding his hand over the fragrant buds and examining each of their green petals. He thinks, after death, to get rid of the burden of choice, freedom, the destroyed future by sadistic upbringing. He never wanted to become a degenerate Capitol lunatic. The choice fell into the illusion of freedom of speech. Instead of everything terrible, instead of all the poison — natural or not, in the end, he had been wanting to come to meet the beautiful songbird again and escape to the North where a new life used to begin. Snow winces as Katniss walks out the glass door with her usual unhappy and lost look. The choice has already been made. No. It doesn’t suit Coriolanus. It is better to meet death with dignity. Winding through the woods of District 12, the ghost of a long-standing obsession, perhaps love, to find peace and long-awaited freedom. Take it with him, give forgiveness and his loyalty. What was her name? Something like a “Grey” comes to the senile and dementia-stricken mind. Mockingjay in a dress with rainbow wallpaper, with a guitar and a rebellious character. There is the wish that could listen to that stupid song about Snow again and hear a singing voice about her love for him… Are you… coming to the tree where I told you to run, so we’d both be free.