The young boy, Angus Mistrin, cowered in the corner of the bedroom. In his house there was two bedrooms, one for him and his older sister, and one for his parents. It was quite dark, being from District 11, they were poor, so their house was simple, and dark.
'Angus!' He heard the daunting voice booming from the hallway. His father had just got home from work.
He pulled his knees up closer to his chest and stared at the door. A minute or two later the bedroom door was flung open. The tall figure stood in the doorway and looked down on Angus with disgust. He leant down and picked the frail child up, one hand on each arm, squeezing tightly. Angus began to cry.
'Shut up boy. Why are you not at school?' the man scowled, tightening his grip on Angus as his feet dangled in the air.
'They sent me home,' Angus sobbed. The man threw him on the bed, and as he fell back he hit his head on the wall. Falling forward in pain, Angus grabbed his head and held it, curling up into a ball.
'Lies, Angus. Stop lying to me!' The man walked over to him and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back so he could see his face. Angus cried more, tears streaming down his face, eyes puffing up.
'I'm not lying.' He wasn't, in fact, Angus had been sick a couple of times at school and so they thought it best he rest at home. The man growled and lifted him up again onto his feet by the side of the bed.
'You try my patience, boy.' The man held his hand up so Angus could see what he was about to do. Angus flinched as the man struck him on the cheek so hard he was knocked sideways, back onto the bed. The man stormed out slamming the door behind him, leaving Angus sobbing on the bed, holding his face from the fresh sting.
When he was sure that his father was asleep from drinking, Angus snuck out of the back door, and stared at the flowers in front of him. He knelt down and began to tend to their delicate needs. White roses, his favourite. This was his own precious garden.