A/N: This is my first Hunger Games fanfiction! I would like to give a big thanks to JamieOdair, and advise you to read his fanfiction, also his first.
I close my eyes, but sleep does not come. I relax my muscles, and yet dreams do not overtake me. And I know that they won't come. At least not tonight.
Quietly, I turn around and seek her warmth, to be assured she is still there. My hand lightly brushes her silky hair, and for a minute, I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. She is here. She is still with me.
I decide to get up, because I know it is worthless to stay in bed, even though it is still pitch black outside. As soon as I stand up, shivers overtake me. It must be thirty degrees outside, making the stone floors ice in our small cottage. I shouldn't say small. That is an overstatement. It is absolutely minuscule. It is only one room, one room with a bed, a table, a hearth, bathroom and a few cabinets. But I also know that just about everyone is District 11 lives under similar circumstances. And they have more of a family than us. Our neighbors have six children living in a space as small as ours. Really, it is a miracle how they manage it. In here, it is just me and my daughter, Caspia, and we still are cramped. But it wasn't always so. Before the accident, there were three of us.
I still remember it like it was yesterday. The white uniforms of the Peacekeepers, snatching her away. My Rosemary. My wife. I remember the screams of Caspia as she was wrenched from her mother's arms and placed into mine, the last despairing look that she gave me, her last words.
"Take care of her."
And then there was her scream, her shill shriek, a splash of crimson blood, and then silence. Before I could absorb what had happened, the backs of the Peacekeepers appeared in front of us, shielding us from the sight of her crumpled body. That was the last time I ever saw her.
I shake the memory of it from my mind. For three years, I have tried to forget, tried to make little Caspia forget, but it never really goes away. Reminders of Rosemary are everywhere. The dimples she had when she smiled engraved into her daughter's face. The sound of the mockingjay songs she so loved to listen to in the mornings. The exact grey color of Caspia's eyes.
I sit down at the table and light a candle, hoping the flicking flame doesn't waken the sleeping child. But it doesn't, which relieves me. Often, Caspia will wake up screaming into the night, screaming for the mother that she lost. And only my voice soothes her back to sleep. Tonight, she rests.
As I sit down, I pull out a swath of silk, hidden in a secret spot beneath the table, and run my fingers over it. I haven't ever touched this cloth. I could never bear it, could never bear to think of the terrible price it cost. But tonight is different. Tonight, it feels as if I need to be physically close to Rosemary, something that is impossible. So I reach for the basket of her old possessions. All of them are coated in a thick layer of dust. They haven't been moved in three years, thought about in three years. Unlike all the other times I approached the basket, the idea of holding Rosemary's things comforts me instead of torturing me. But with the items comes memories, flooding into my mind and consuming my thoughts.
"Cinna!" called Rosemary from the little garden outside. I had been helping Caspia with her spellings that day. It had been a reaping, which meant that we had a rare, but well-deserved, break from harvesting in the orchards. Caspia was not yet old enough to be in the reaping, so the day hadn't been as drama-filled for us as it had been for the parents of the eligible tributes.
"Coming!" I called back, and patted Caspia's shoulders as I rose. She stared up at me with her deep, grey eyes questioningly. Even though she had been only ten that day, she knew what happened inside our district. She understood the harsh cruelties that were dealt out every day. She had seen them with her own eyes. And that knowledge, that constant fear, stripped her of the childhood innocence that most her age had and replaced it with a world-weary adult.
"Don't worry my little Mockingjay," I said in reassurance, calling her by her pet name that Rosemary used. She used to say that Caspia could sing sweeter than a mockingjay, and from that point on named her after the bird.
Caspia gave me one of her rare smiles and I couldn't help but smile back.
Out in the garden, Rosemary was leaning into the wall of our home, trying to keep the sun off her face. That day was especially hot; it was almost one-hundred and three.
"Yes?" I responded, joining her in the shade. Her grey eyes, so like her daughter's, were shining with excitement.
"I have an idea," she whispered, an almost girly delight on her face. Rosemary's excitement was infective, and I couldn't help but share it.
"Yes?" I urged her on.
"Well," she said hurriedly. "What if I went and bought some lovely pink silk and make Caspia a new dress? You know, she is such a pretty girl, and that little rag she wears does her no justice. Please?"
I was somewhat taken aback by this request. Silk was such an extravagant thing, something that only the rich of our district could afford.
"Why?" I asked blankly. I could tell that Rosemary was a little disappointed in my lack of excitement over her idea.
"Because I have been itching to make her one, the dress she has is becoming far too tight for her," she said.
And then it hit me. Rosemary loved to design clothes and she loved dressing up Caspia in the ones that she made. This was her idea of a bit of happiness. And if that's what it took to bring joy back to her weary face, then that it would be.
"Sure," I grinned. "How much do you need?"
"It's five dollars for six yards of silk."
"Go ahead," I responded, and then her face bloomed with happiness as she rushed in to get the little can of money. In all honesty, I was a little apprehensive, because five dollars was almost half of our savings.
Although she promised me it would be less than a half-hour, it took nearly three hours before she came back, and when she did, I saw she was being escorted by three Peacekeepers. I watched them approach our door, dread filling my gut. When they arrived, I was waiting outside, twisting my hands anxiously.
"What happened?" I asked, trying to sound polite and calm.
"Rosemary Ayersion, charged with one count of serious stealing. Sentence is death," said one of the Peacekeepers shortly.
"Stealing? Death?" I responded blankly. "What did she do?"
By this time, Caspia had joined me at the door frame.
"Mommy!" she had cried, ducking under my arms and running to her mother. The Peacekeepers tried to pry Caspia off her, which only increased her screams. At this point, neighbors were coming out to see what was happening.
I ran out to try and free Rosemary and Caspia, but I was shoved back by the largest Peacekeeper. Frantically, I pushed against him, but he struck me hard against across my face. The momentary shock caused me to stagger and lose whatever footing I had against the Peacekeeper.
I saw the situation intensifying. Caspia was clinging to her mother's waist as she fought them, her usually neat hair in disarray. But I knew, despite Rosemary's determination, was going to be overwhelmed any minute.
"Cinna, take Caspia!" she screamed in a strangled voice. I rushed forward to take the kicking child from one of the Peacekeepers. They now had her on her knees, hands locked behind her back.
"Take care of her," Rosemary mouthed to me, and then darted her eyes to the left, where the silk lay, forgotten. And I understood. She had stolen the silk for her daughter, the precious luxury, and sacrificed her life for it.
"Dad? Is that you? Are you up?" I see Caspia sitting up. She is thirteen now, and every day looks more like her mother.
"Yes, I am awake," I whisper. "Are you going back to sleep?"
She shakes her dark, curly head and joins me at the table, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. I quickly hide the silk and the basket. I don't want to remind her she probably doesn't remember yet.
"Go back to sleep," I say gently.
"But I can't," Caspia answers softly. And then, as if she can read my mind, she says, "I know what is day it is. You don't have to try and hide it from me."
The sadness in her voice makes a knot form in my throat. I can't talk.
"It's okay," whispers Caspia, and she puts her small, warm hand on top of mine. Whether she is talking about the upcoming reaping, or about Rosemary, I can't tell. And I choose not to ask. Closing my eyes, I try to control my emotions, and when I reopen them, Caspia is back in bed.
I take the silk back out and unravel it, extending it to its full length. As I do, I hear something heavy fall from its folds.
Bending down, I realize it's a small, leather bound book I have never seen before. I pick it up, and skim through it, realizing that it is a diary. And not just anyone's diary. It's Rosemary's.
June 6th,
Today was little Caspia's second birthday. Cinna and I had just a small celebration, but it was lovely all the same. She is growing up so fast! I can't wait to see what she becomes.
-Rose
A faint smile traces my lips as I read the next entry. Rosemary seemed so happy, yet I know that those were hard times we lived. Food was scarce and happy moments were scarcer. Yet Rosemary could bring light to even the darkest days.
January 14th,
For the first time is forever, our family got a whole meal, complete with sweet apple juice and all! It was so delicious that I wanted more, even though I had eaten my fill. It feels so good to be well- fed and even better when you see the ones you love full too.
-Rose
I don't know how long I sit there, flipping through those pages. But I know that every entry that I read, it feels as if a piece of Rosemary comes back to me. And for a moment, it feels like she with me. But when I reach the end of the diary, reality takes hold again, and I feel my old sorrow return. Stabs of pain grow stronger, and the dull ache in my chest intensifies. A tear splashes on the page before me. The ink smears, and I quickly rub my eyes.
Not again, I remind myself.
When Rosemary died, I lost the will to live. Caspia had to fend for herself for three days, three days in which I refused to eat, or move. I remember the hurt look in Caspia's eyes when I told her to leave me alone. And I remember how emancipated her face looked. Ultimately, that's what woke me up. I had to support Caspia. I had to remind myself that I wasn't the only one hurting. That Caspia had lost someone too. And I haven't cried since.
I see the ink bleeding through the next three blank pages. I try and clean them, and as I do, I see that there is more writing in the back. A sense of excitement mounts as I slowly flip to the back of the book, and I gasp.
On every page are neat little drawings of designs for dresses. There are long, elegant ones, like the Capitol women wear, and short, stylish ones, dresses for girls Caspia's age, working dresses, and more. As I turn each page, the designs get more dramatic. I see a picture of a cape on fire, behind a girl that looks a lot like Caspia. There is even a dress whose colors are exactly that of a mockingjay. Rosemary's skill with the pen and design blow me away. I always knew that she liked making Caspia's clothes, but not to this magnitude…
On the very last page, I am startled to see a little pink dress, made up of the fabric in my hands. This was what she wanted to make for Caspia. The dress is simple, really, with a U-cut neckline and a ribbon tied around the middle, but I know it is a dress that Caspia would love.
Bending closer, I read the little note scrawled underneath:
For my little flower, Caspia. You remind me of everything sweet, just like this dress.
And my resolve grows stronger. I know what to do.
Straightening my chair, I reach inside Rosemary's basket and carefully pull out her sewing kit. Since I don't know how to sew, I am a little apprehensive. But I have a goal. I want that dress done for Caspia for the reaping tomorrow.