I’m not the first, nor will I be the last, to declare the oddness of grief.

I just finished The Hunger Games trilogy.


You know… I’m not really all that surprised that I cried more over a book than my father’s death. I cried from Prim’s death onward; that bittersweet ending isn’t what I expected, but was certainly warranted. Maybe I wasn’t fulfilled entirely, not emotionally, but… meh. I have mixed feelings.

With a series as powerful as this one, especially with a book that burrowed under my skin like Mockingjay did, I should expect feelings to linger. I was heartbroken over Prim, and I found Gale moving to District 2 to be… disappointing?

I’m still processing as I write this, so please, cut me some slack; this won’t be nearly as polished as my other pieces.

It’s funny, but I think Finnick’s death hit me harder than I expected. It may have been worse than Prim’s death, because Prim was, to a degree, very distant in the book, whereas Finnick was immediate and there throughout the last two books. I didn’t expect to like him as much as I did. And it was unfair to do the one-two doublehit of mentioning that Annie was pregnant.

Unfair, but very, very effective.

…I did not intend this to be a review of Mockingjay.

However, like I said above, I am not surprised that I felt closer to fictional characters than I did to my own father. He was an abusive drunkard; many of the obvious parallels between he and Haymitch were lessened, however, by the understanding Collins strove to give of Haymitch’s background, and I never had that for my father.

I think I’m too tired to be coherent at this point, so I will end this here. If need be, I will continue it in another post. My apologies for an abrupt ending, but I am about to fall over. Luckily, I’m already in bed.