Rosemary

0.1

It had been a few months since I had played my games. When I got back from all the madness of the Capitol, I had discovered my mother had fallen gravely ill. My father had left when I was born, and I had no other family to take me in. So I did all I could to keep her alive as long as I could. She was the only person to keep me from falling into a spiraling depression. The only person who could comfort me from the nightmares. One quiet fall afternoon, a few weeks before my fourteenth birthday, I was summoned into my mothers room. She sat there, in her big fluffy bed, pale. The spark that usually occupied itself in her chocolaty brown eyes was long gone.

"Rosemary, my darling, I wanted to tell you a secret. A great secret that will see you through all trials of life might offer," my mother said, barely a whisper, "You must always remember this, have courage and be kind. You have more kindness in your little finger than most possess in their whole body, and it has power, more than you know. And magic."

"Magic?" I ask, tears rolling down my cheek.

"Truly," she murmurs, "Have courage and be kind, my darling. Will you promise me?"

"I promise," I say.

"Good. I must go very soon my love, please forgive me," she apologies, tears brimming her eyes.

"Of course I forgive you," I sob, collapsing into her arms.

We lay there for a while, her fingers stroking my long blonde hair. Around sunset was when she lay still. I felt my heart burst into a million pieces. My fourteenth birthday was very quiet that year.

I shot up from my bed and began to cry. Even though it had been five years, I still felt as terrible as those first few months without her. I still have hope that my father is out there somewhere. I slowly got out of bed, wiping my tear stained cheeks, walking over to the fireplace mantle. 4:00 am. I sighed, sauntering over to my painting easel knowing I wouldn't be going back to sleep. I stared at the canvas that lay in front of me. Yellow, pink, blue, orange, and every color flower was painted onto the strong woven cloth. Sitting in the center was a beautiful woman, her golden hair flowing slightly in the wind. It was my mother. I picked up my paintbrush, dabbing it slowly onto the paint pallet which was supplied to me by the Capitol. They knew my love for painting, and gifted me a palette that could regenerate paint over and over again. I am very grateful for all their presents to me, but I could never be truly happy with them. Throwing twenty four innocent kids into an arena each year to kill each other was cruel. White paint sprouted from the pallet and my paintbrush absorbed it all. I slowly painted white clouds across the blue sky and made white polka dots on my mothers blue dress. When I stepped back, taking a better look at my masterpiece, I smiled knowing I captured my mother perfectly.

"Are you proud of this piece mother?" I asked, "Ahh, but it's not perfect yet."

I bent down, my nail scratching my name into the bottom right corner.

"There," I say, softly.

My eyes shift to the clock again, 6:30 am!

"Oh! Sometimes I get so lost in my work, I forget the time! I have kept them waiting. I know that if you were here, I would still be on time," I smile, running to the kitchen.

I dart over to the cabinet grabbing a handful of sesame seeds out of a burlap sack and fling open the windows. Four old cats jump onto the window ledge and pur at the sight of me.

"Hello," I coo at the old creatures, "I am so sorry that I was late, I was just so caught up in my work."

I scatter the seeds onto the kitchen counter and sit on one of my wooden dining room chairs. Suddenly, I remember what was happening this afternoon. They were announcing the Quarter Quell. My stomach twisted at the thought of it. I remembered hearing talk about the fiftieth Hunger Games, the victor being Haymitch Abernathy. The man was very kind, and always acted like a father figure to most of the tributes. The Quarter Quell his year was having twice the amount of tributes in the arena. Since winning, the poor man has spent the rest of his days drinking. I felt bad for him as he had no one to love.