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She's still holding her head up, even as she stands in front of the crowds, in front of the cameras. Her eyes scan the people watching until she sees me, I must look devastated or something because her face softens and she smiles slightly. Mum... why did you do it?

She'd snuck into one of the offices late at night, vandalism they said, something that only someone without a straight mind would do. I can guess what she wrote on the walls, and I think she's right. They're a lot of idiots: selfish, supercilious, vainglorious, conceited, pompous idiots.

I look up at the stage, tears threatening to make tracks down my face, but I mustn't cry, I can't.

Peacekeepers are holding a gun to the side of her head, a sleek silver thing. Peacekeepers, how I hate them.

The shot rings through the square and people cheer, loud, deafening shouts. Didn't they care? Didn't they care that she was my mother? Did they care that my sister would cry herself to sleep tonight? No. All they cared about was the latest fashion. How soon until those cruel games would start again.

I can't look up to the stage, but everywhere I do turn there's a screen showing the bloody mess of- of-

I leave the square, hurrying down alleyways until I find a deserted spot. I crumpled to the ground, finally letting the tears spill out of my eyes. I'm only fifteen, I shouldn't have to see things like that, it's not fair. Why me? Why her? She was only doing what she thought was right.

I try to block out the world around me, I want to curl into a ball and never move again, I want to die here, tonight, but I can't, for my sister's sake, for my mother's, I have to keep living. Little Pori needed me, my little sister, I can't leave her, and it's for her sake that I wiped the tears from my eyes and dragged myself to my feet.

The crowds have dispersed from the square, I'm not even entirely sure why I went back. I let familiar movement usurp the steps I took and I tried to avoid looking at the stage until I could bear it no longer.

They'd taken her body, but the red patterns still swirl over its metal surface, creating spirals that spin towards the edges of the elevated block. The blood was still bright red, still fresh, and I could see her face in my mind's eye, her last smile.

Next thing I know I've turned on my heels and I'm practically running back towards the house. Why had my father made me watch that? Was it because he knew I agreed with my mother? Did he want to show me what happened to rebels? Well, if that was the reason, it didn't work. Now I want to bring down the Capitol even more.

My father. A lot of people say he's a good man, but those people are from the capitol. My father is a Gamemaker, a stupid Gamemaker. He got the job when I was just seven and before we knew it we'd packed up and left District 12.

I paused to think about my previous home, the place where children were sent to be sacrificed to the hungry members of the Capitol. How many friends had I seen die in that arena? Little Poppy, only two years ago, she'd been twelve when her name had been called, and one night in Poppy had made her way out.

And, of course, there was Jude, Kat, Den, Irri, Lin, Harri, Josie, Nats, Ker, George, Ceir and Fin, and that's only for starters, that's only my best friends.

Why do the people of the Capitol enjoy this so much?

I stumbled into the front door and made my way to my room. My father wasn't home yet, thank god, and I flung myself onto my bed without any disturbance.

I must have been there for at least two hours, crying until I could cry no more. I never made a sound; I mourned in silence.

When my father came home he immediately came to my room, opening the door in a loud sweep of drunkenness. He must have been out at the pub, which meant he'd be even more insufferable.

"What was it like?" Straight away, he was talking about- well, you can guess.

Tears threatened to come again, but I bit my tongue and held them in; if there was one thing my father hated more than the long list of other things he hated, it was crying. He saw it as a weakness, a way to show people that you were nothing.

"Well?" I knew I wouldn't be able to hold of this conversation forever, but it didn't mean I wasn't going to try.

"What do you think?" I was glad that my voice didn't crack or waver, that father couldn't tell that I'd been crying.

"I want to hear it from your mouth." I gritted my teeth as I thought of a way out.

"Why don't you watch it for yourself?" I resisted the urge to snap at him, to throw all of my hate and anger and frustration at him.

Father sighed; he could see he wasn't going to get the details from me.

"Do you still think what your stupid Grandparents, and your mother, did was right?"

I looked him in the eyes, and I could tell what he would do if I said 'yes'. Sometimes it's better to lie.

"No, father, I don't think it was right."

I sat on the bed, hand balled into fists, fighting the urge to hit him, kick him, anything to get rid of my anger.

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That was six years ago, and I never forgave my father for what he made me do. Never.

And I never forgot having to watch mum-

I still can't say it, even now. I still can't come to grips with what happened. And I don't think I ever will. I mean, it's not every day you have to watch your mother die.

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