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I'm sitting in the hall starring at the great big grandfather clock. The seconds seem like years. My mother always comes home from hunting at five o' clock, exactly an hour after me and my little brother, Rye, get home from school. Most of the minutes pass by me trying to decide what the best way to bring up such a difficult topic is but by four thirty I realize how stupid I'm being. This is my mother and the best way to bring up anything is strait and abrupt. So with my strategy decided I sit and watch the clock, waiting nervously for the next thirty minutes.

Finally there is a knock at the door and I race over to open it. "Hey mom," I say as she walks through the doorway. "Hello little duck," she replies as she gives my dark braid a playful swat.

Well here goes nothing…

"Mom, can you please tell me about your childhood. I want to understand about the hunger games and you and Dad's role in them". I say it all in a rapid fire so that she wouldn't be able to stop me from asking my full request. But as soon as she hears what I'm asking for she tenses.

"No. You do not need to know those things ever. Your world is perfect and it doesn't need to be tarnished by my past."

"But Mom, how many kids do you think know so little about their parents!"

"You do not need to know. No buts. End of discussion. Now go tell your father I'm home so he can start dinner and do not bring this up with him."

"Fine", I say slamming the door behind me.

Every day since I have been old enough I would go tell my father when my mother was home. It's really kind of pointless since my mother always gets home at the same time and because they run on the same internal clock, but whatever, I enjoy the walks with my father.

As I walk into the bakery, I hear the little bell chime and the smell of fresh bread and pastries rushes into my nose. I love the bakery and wish I could spend all of my time here. It's just so calming. I guess I'm like my father that way. As I walk behind the counter I see him kneading a batch of dough with a placid smile on his face. There was one thing my mother was right about in our argument and that was to not bring the hunger games up to my father. There is no one I know more peaceful and happy then my father and I know I could never bring up such a sour topic.

"Hi Dad", I say and his attention finally leaves the dough. "Willow", he says as his smile expands "Mom's home." He says it as a statement not a question but I reply anyway with a "yeah". He finishes up the dough and we walk home together.

When we get home my mother has cleaned up the game so that my father can cook it. By the time dinner's ready the house smells wonderful, I always love my father's cooking. As we sit down at the table Rye starts rambling on about what he did in school today. School is so much more fun when you're ten. After what feels like forever Rye finally finishes talking and my father turns to me, "what did you learn in school today, Willow?"

Now what? I can avoid the subject like I told myself I would, but what would happen then? My father would probably be more upset if I didn't answer. Ok, I'll say it. "Today we learned about the hunger games and the revolution." As soon as the words left my mouth I hear a fork clink as it drops onto a plate. I turn and see my father, fist still extended and open, tensing immediately. By the time his hands reach the table he is gripping on so tight his fingers are white and all his muscles are as hard as metal. Before she tends to my father, my mother turns to us and says quietly but full of power, "Up to your rooms. Now."

We both turn and leave the dining room. This is a procedure we both know well. But, as I begin to follow Rye up the stairs, an idea hits me. Maybe this could give me some answers. So, instead of going to my room as I usually would, I sit down in the hall by the balcony that overlooks the dining room.

At first, I can decipher nothing of what's going on but then it becomes clearer. My mother is caressing my father's face as she whispers so soft and sweetly "Not real, not real" over and over again.

How strange...

I wonder what that means. What's not real? Why does she say these words? How is it that my strong mother can talk so soft?

I guess this wasn't a good idea. Instead of answers all I have is more questions. Since this is more upsetting then helpful, I go into my room and wait.

My father's "episodes" are random. You may think that things like the hunger games would be the trigger for them, but not always. Sometimes that would be the case and sometimes not. So there was no way I would know that my statement would hurt him, right? I mean I was just answering his question... Oh I don't know, maybe it was my fault but there is nothing I could do now but wait.

When my mother called us down again my father was not there. "Mom, where's Dad?" I wanted to apologize. "He's painting", she replied evenly. I guess she wasn't mad at me. "Oh," I said clearly showing my disappointment. As if she could read my thoughts my mother continued by saying "Don't worry, everything is fine. " "You sure, Mom?", I asked hesitantly, not believing her. "Yes", she said pulling me in for a hug. "Rye, do you still have homework?" He nodded and scrambled up the stairs. I mumbled something about homework too and followed my brother up.

I sat down on my bed I started to think of what I should do next. I should continue trying, right? I have not had a good start, first I got my mother mad at me and then I managed to trigger one of my father's episodes. Even though nothing worked I don't want to let my objective slip. Well, whatever I was going to do could wait. Even though my mother said everything was fine I still think I owe my father an apology. She said he was painting. Along with being an awesome baker and chef my father is an extremely talented artist and painting is his specialty, or so I was told. There were very few of my father's pieces I was allowed to see. The room where he works and where most of his creations live is strictly off limits to Rye and me. It is my parents' space for just the two of them.

I went back down and knocked on that door. The moment my fist tapped it, it flew open. Oh. My. God. The room was empty, my father nowhere to be found, but other stuff was. I am surrounded by art, but they are not the type you would usually find in an art museum. Don't get me wrong, some were nice. There was a teenager who I believe was my mother, smiling while playing with a little girl's blond hair. Another had a small girl with dark hair and skin sleeping in a bed of flowers. But, there were others that were just awful. Like a boy being torn apart by giant wolf-like creatures, a battle seen that was very shiny and had a young man crouched in the background digging his wrists into the handcuffs that were around them, and a puddle of blood in a dark cave. That's not exactly what you'd call sunny. I turn around from the freaky art that made no sense and find a bookcase behind me. I choose a book with no title on its spine and sit down to read in one of the big chairs.

As I open the book I notice it is handwritten in my mother's writing. On the first page there is a picture of the little girl from the painting with my mother. Under the photo it says her name, Prim, Primrose Everdeen.

Everdeen. I know that name. It was my mother's maiden name. I wonder who this girl is, or was, and how she is related to my mother. I soon find she was my mother's sister and she died when she was only fourteen during the revolution. She was a medic and trying to help some children who were bombed by the rebels, yes you heard that she was helping the enemy's children who were bombed by soldiers on her side, when another set of rebel bombs went off and killed them all. Wow. I finish reading everything about her and I think she is the sweetest, bravest person I've ever heard about. It was such a shame someone so good had to die so young. I keep going and I discover that the book is a memorial for anyone who died that my parents or my Uncle Haymitch knew. (Uncle Haymitch isn't really my uncle just my parents friend who I call uncle, there are a lot of people I call aunt or uncle who aren't really my aunts and uncles.) I read about people named Rue, Cinna, Finnick, Madge, both my grandfathers, one grandmother, and many more. I was reading about an old woman named Mags when the doorknob turned and my parents walked in.

I slammed the book shut and started rambling "I was looking for Dad so I knocked and the door swung open and he wasn't there and…"

"It ok Willow," my mother said cutting me off, "you don't need to give excuses. I think we should talk. C'mon lets go up to your room." My father puts his arm around me and the three of us go upstairs.

When we reach my bed I realize I may know more about people who died but not much more about my parents, so before I find out what their agenda is for this discussion, I cut to the chase. "Are you finally going to tell me stuff?"

"We've spoke about it and we both agree that it's best not to tell you." My father says.

"But" I start. "But", he continues cutting me off, "this is the year that the memorial service is held in the Capitol. Your mother and I are planning on going. We were intending to leave you and Rye with Greasy Sae but if you'd like you can come with us. You may find what you're looking for there."

"You think so?"

"I do."

"Count me in!"

Thanks for reading! If you get a chance, please write a review, it will be much appreciated. And again, hopefully the next chapter will be here soon. :)