Goodbye, My Girl on Fire

She lays on a hard, white table before me, her long dark hair spread out around her, a crisp white sheet covering her naked body from the neck down. I put a hand on her cheek.

Someone has closed her eyes, thank God. I don't want to see those empty, gray orbs staring at me, unseeing.

I am reluctant to pull the sheet off of her, remembering how unwilling she was to show her bare body to anyone. But I must, and so I do.

She has been cleaned. There is no trace of blood on her, even though the last time I saw her, on the large screen in my living room, she was covered in it.

I see the mark across her torso that was her end. Without the blood, it looks harmless, just a pink line that stretches from her right shoulder to her left hip. I touch it gently with trembling fingers.

It is my job to dress her in what she would have worn to the ending ceremonies, had she won, and send her in a wooden box to her family in District Twelve. It is my job to do her hair and makeup as if she were going to appear on television again.

I have everything I need right here with me. Eye pencils, powder, and lipstick. Combs and pins and gels for her hair. In a garment bag hanging from the hook on the wall behind me is the last dress I will ever create for her.

I lift the bag from the hook, unzip it, and pull out the plain yellow dress. It isn't finished – it was supposed to glow, to shine and sparkle with her every movement. I never got to finish it.

This is just as well, as I will never get to see her walk across a stage in it, I will never get to watch her throw her arms in the air and twirl in it.

I will only get to dress her dead body in it.

It is not difficult. Her body is so light – she has lost so much weight. There are no sleeves to mess with, no straps to pull her arms through. I gently roll her over on the table and pull the zipper up, then carefully tie the yellow ribbon in the back into a big bow. It is harder than it should be, and takes me several minutes to discover that this is because my hands are shaking uncontrollably.

Several more minutes to discover the reason that the ribbons are soaked completely through.

I don't stop though. I have to finish, have to send her home where she belongs.

I leave her laying on her stomach so that I can do her hair. I pull out of my jacket pocket two shiny ribbons, one orange and one red.

I begin to braid her hair, just the way she wore it the day I first met her, the day she was Reaped, though now I meticulously weave the ribbons through it, igniting her dark hair. I am worried that my shaking hands won't be able to manage the task, but somehow they do. The sight of her, colorful and beautiful, yet sad an lifeless, hurts my heart.

I decide not to put any makeup on her. Her face is pale and her eyes are dark and sunken, but I can't bring myself to try to make her look alive again.

I lift her, carefully, and gently place her in the plain wooden box with a big 12 engraved on the side. I pull from my pocket her golden mockingjay pin and fold it in her cold, stiff fingers.

And then I close the box and send my girl on fire back home for her loved ones to burn.

AN: This was incredibly difficult and depressing to write, and I'd love feedback. Love it? Hate it? Tell me.