Nightlock. That's what killed her. Nightlock killed her. Why did she eat it? Why did she assume it was safe just because that boy from District 12 had them?

These are the words that go through my head every morning when I wake up. When I wake up and don't see her in the bed next to me. But I know it wasn't her fault. Her strategies were good. They kept her alive for so long. I actually thought she was going to make it home.

I sigh and roll out of my bed. It is still dark outside but regardless I begin to dress. I walk into the bathroom and my cracked reflection stares back at me.

Why?

My fist makes contact with the mirror before I realize what I'm doing.

Why couldn't she be here with me? Her own sister.

I look down at my bleeding fist. She wouldn't have wanted this.

I walk back into the main room of the small house we were given. There is a single, small wooden shelf above the headboard of her bed. Or what was her bed. I pick up the bouquet that rests on it and pull out of it, a single flower. The plants belonged to my mother before she died, of great illness, leaving me and my sister alone. The flowers weren't real, of course, just some cheap fabric that she had crafted into a beautiful bouquet for her own wedding. I grab and pull on my shoes. The standard work boots, here in District 5. I grab my cap and jacket and head for the door. I walk outside and just barely see the light from the newly rising sun. District 5 is not a beautiful place. We have no grass or plants. No animals, no life, other than its human residence. We have small concrete buildings for our homes and factories at every turn.

I take a left and begin to walk across the stone ground. I walk for a good ten minutes before I see them. The small, thin, rectangular rocks that mark the dead. Most of our dead are just burned here, but we have something a little bit different for those who die in the Games. Nothing special, just a space left untouched by building or machine. In this space we have markers. Markers with only the names of the victims that lie beneath them. I walk a few rows back before I find hers. I look down at the name on it knowing that the ones I hold responsible for her death do not even know it.

Foxface. That's what they called her. They didn't even bother to learn her name.

I think bitterly to myself for a few moments before I catch myself. I know, because she was so tender and sympathetic, that she would have never ever wanted me to blame those two.

"They only did what they could to survive," I could almost hear her say. "Besides, they didn't put the berries into my hands."

I know that all I want is someone to blame. Pain is so much easier to handle when there is someone to blame. But I also know that the only ones I can really blame are the Capitol. It's their fault that my sister is dead. It's their fault that so many of us have lost our loved ones. And why? Because of something our ancestors did. We did nothing, yet, we are punished.

One day, I tell myself. One day we won't live under such rule. One day they will be overthrown.

I place the fabricated plant in front of my sister's marker, knowing that my mother would have thought this a good use for all her work she had put into it. I looked down at the flower. The iris. It rests on top of the ones I have placed, previously, starting only nine days ago. One for each day without her. I knew that I would soon run out of flowers but that time had not come yet and I decided, maybe, to begin my own work on a bouquet.

I stood up and wiped the tear that was about to fall from my eye. I pulled on my cap and turned around, heading towards the factory for another day of going through the motions.