7 Roses

On the television, Beetee slapped his forehead. "Stupid me! They sent us fresh bread."

All at once, the Career Tributes raised their heads from their soup.

One of the female Careers jumped to her feet. "Fresh bread? Where?"

Beetee rose to his feet. "On the overturned box crate. Let me help you."

Since none of the tributes wanted to wait for the fresh bread, they all stood and approached the crate. As Beetee neared the food, he stumbled over the bucket with the soaking net, spilling the water before the overturned crate. "Sorry."

Shaking the water from his boots, the leader of the career pack glared at him. "What were you doing anyway?"

"Trying to get the blood out of the net from when you killed that girl you netted. I was worried that the blood might draw animals."

The other female tribute grabbed one of the loaves of bread and sniffed it. "Ahh, it's still warm."

Picking up the soaked cotton rope by the edge, Beetee spun around, tossing the net into the air. Without wasting time to see how the net landed, he pulled on a nearby rope that released the hanging burlap sack of Tesla flowers.

The water soaked net had landed as planned by covering two Careers and partially covering the others. As the Careers immediately began to struggle with the net, the burlap sack hit the ground. A deafening crack filled the air, followed by the painful squeals from some of the tributes. The sword from the largest tribute fell from his distorted hand as his stiffened body relaxed and fell to the ground with the others.

Beetee sprung forward for the sword. Gripping the hilt, he lifted the weapon, with the blade pointed down, and prepared to stake the biggest tribute through the heart. Staring down at the twitching tribute, the teenager held his pose, prepared to strike.

The loud boom of a cannon signaled the death of one of the tributes. The cannon boomed twice more signaling two more deaths.

With the trembling held high and pointed down, Beetee prepared to stake whichever two tributes were still alive. His eyes scanned the electrified bodies as they continued to twitch beneath the singed net.

A cannon boomed.

Sweat dripping from his chin, Beetee debated staking all of them to be safe. Lowering his arms, he held the hilt of the sword close to his chest as his hands began to shake uncontrollably.

Boom! The cannon confirmed the death of the final tribute and the television exploded with commentator excitement as they announced Beetee the winner of the 36th annual Hunger Games.

To his astonishment, Coriolanus found himself standing, for he could not remember jumping to feet. Returning to his seat, he recognized the shock on his wife's face. Snow cleared his throat. "See, with enough time, brains beats brawn."

Beetee dropped the un-bloodied sword to the ground as he took a couple staggered steps back. Inspecting his surrounding, he found the burlap sack burning at the base of the tree as smoke rose from the entire length of the metal cable. Inspecting his trembling hands, the winning tribute's face became flush with emotion.

After a couple deep breaths, the tribute approached the pile of bodies and pulled the burnt net free from the tangled limbs, tossing the singed rope aside. One at a time, he pulled a tribute from the pile, positioned their body at rest, and closed each of their eyes until they formed a respectful row of corpses.

Wavering on his feet, Beetee approached the campfire where he dropped to his knees and began to sob.

Blowing her nose with a tissue, Cynthia began dabbing her eyes. "You were certainly right about him."

"Ya, I thought I saw something special in his eyes." Coriolanus took a slow deep breath as he focused on the tribute sobbing on the television. "But now comes the hardest part, and he knows it."

"What part is that?"

Snow turned to his wife with solemn eyes. "Surviving. The games never end for victors."

Exhausted by the events that had just unfolded in front of them, husband and wife stared at the television as the cameras switched to showing the exuberant crowds in District 3's town square to the cheering thrones in the Capitol. When they did show the somber victor, the camera angle was always from a distance so not to show tears."

Mrs. Snow blew her nose heartedly, and as she stared at the television, she tilted her head in thought before clearing her throat. "Do you think that was cheating?"

"Cheating?" Snow straightened in his chair as he eyed his wife.

"Wasn't he supposed to use traditional weapons?"

"Would killing his enemies with rocks or sticks be cheating?"

Cynthia frowned. "No. Of course not, but he killed five in one shot. Has there ever been a multiple kill like this in Hunger Games history?"

Coriolanus thought over the history of the games, which were as old as he. "Hmm, no. Only environmental effects unleashed by the Gamemakers have ever killed multiple tributes at one time."

Crossing her arms, Cynthia shrugged. "I won't be surprised if the president calls foul."

"Nonsense. If I was the president, I'd be congratulating the kid for his ingenuity."

Mrs. Snow snickered. "You president?"

Fed up with his wife's negativity, Coriolanus got up to leave.

Crossing her legs, Cynthia sat back against the couch. "Have you ever thought that Capitol children should be part of the games, that they should take part in reaping?"

Snow froze where he stood.

Gesturing towards the television, Cynthia focused on the dead bodies being lifted from the arena by hovercraft. "Capitol participation would show our nation's unity."

Red faced, Coriolanus pointed at the television. "The districts betrayed us; they started the war. Their yearly sacrifice is part of the peace treaty. Besides, would you want our daughter's name to be entered into the reaping?"

"Of course not. I assume that family members of the government would be immune from such a thing."

Snow rolled his eyes. "I can't talk to you."

"What?" Cynthia turned on the couch as she watched her husband walk out the apartment door in search of some fresh air.

...

Closing the garbage bag, Coriolanus inspected the balcony one last time after having swept up the summer garden debris. He viewed his wife attending to her roses through the tall sliding door glass where she had moved her plants inside for winter. He stepped through and closed the door. "I'll take this to the garbage chute."

"Thank you again, dear. I know you hate moving the shelving every spring and fall, but I do appreciate it.

"You're welcome. I must be getting better at it since I only cut myself once."

Mrs. Snow smiled at her husband. "Maybe we will have a house by next spring: a house with a proper garden?"

"Perhaps." With pressed lips, Snow forced a smile as he departed for the garbage chute.

Upon his return, he approached the pumpkin sitting on the kitchen counter. "Should we carve the pumpkin tonight?"

Focused on her roses, Cynthia shrugged. "Halloween is still a couple weeks away. Won't it rot by then?"

"If it does, I'll buy another pumpkin. Do you want to join us?"

Mrs. Snow reached for her water spray bottle. "No, thank you. I have to make sure all my roses are moistened. I don't want the dry indoor air to shock them."

"Who knows. You might have fun." A true smile came to Coriolanus since he knew this not to be true.

His wife glared at him over her shoulder. "What is that suppose to mean?"

"You work too hard...on you roses. You should take a break from them." Snow exhaled, already knowing the answer.

"I'm fine."

"Okay." He picked up the pumpkin. "I'll carve this with Livia in the living room."

"Don't let her handle the knife. She'll cut herself."

Through gritted teeth, Coriolanus swallowed his anger. "I won't." He paused. "Have I ever put Livia in danger? Have I?"

Without looking at her husband, Cynthia continued attending to her roses. "The moment you let your guard down, something bad will happen."

He stared at the back of her head. It's as if you're afraid of having fun. With a calming breath, he dropped the subject and took the pumpkin to the living room.

Spreading trash bags over the coffee table, father and daughter began their pumpkin adventure. Coriolanus gave his daughter a pen to draw a preliminary face on the giant fruit, and to her father's delight, she drew a happy face—subconsciously countering her mother's negativity, he conjectured. When it came to removing the "guts" of the pumpkin, Livia stepped up and took delight in the task. She had no qualms in getting her hands messy. She even continued to play with the insides, separating the seeds for her father to bake as he carefully carved out the face the best he could. With the pumpkin complete, the pair of amateur artists cleaned up their mess, stored the cleansed seeds, and washed their hands.

Next, Coriolanus prepared a bubble bath for Livia and aided her in washing her hair. Afterwards, dressed in her pajamas, Livia went to bed with her father in hand, giddy to hear one of her favorite bedtime stories.

Much later that evening to Coriolanus's surprise, he watched Livia stumble out of her mother's bedroom with her favorite blanky and something flat tucked under her arm. The proud father scooped her up onto the couch. "What are you doing up?"

"Not sleepy."

"You're not? I thought you fell asleep just now?"

Livia produced the object to her father. "More story, daddy."

"This is the book I bought you a couple days ago. Do you like it more than the first book?"

The child nodded. "I like the kittens."

"Through the Looking Glass does have its share of animals. Plus, the drawings are much more vivid in this particular book. Would you like me to read it to you again?"

The child smiled. "Yes, daddy."

"Okay, let's get comfortable and experience the book here on the couch; shall we?"

Snuggled together on the couch, the pair travelled together through the looking glass. To allow tiny fingers the time to trace the elaborate drawings on the page, Coriolanus would pause and cherish the moment.

Cynthia stumbled out of the kitchen and spotted Livia. "What is she doing up?"

"She's not sleepy and wanted me to read to her."

"Here; let me take her to bed."

Snow's eyes became sharp; however, his voice remained soft in an attempt to hide his anger from his daughter. "No."

"Don't argue with me. I have to put her to bed a certain way. My pills have kicked in and I need to go to bed."

"Then go to bed. I'll put her to bed when we are through."

"I—"

Snow gripped the armrest of the couch as the muscles in his neck tensed. "Go away. You won't allow me to be a husband, and I cannot force you since you apparently care more for you pills than me; however, I won't let you stop me from being a father. For once in your life, don't ruin our moment." Looking down at his daughter, Coriolanus gave her a reassuring smile.

Displeased, Cynthia took a staggered step backward. "Well...I guess I'll see you in the morning. If Livia tosses and turns all night—"

"You'll let me know. That's a given. You always make sure that I hear every negative thing that happens to you. Good night."

"Night, mommy." Livia yawned.

Red faced, Mrs. Snow exhaled as she forced an intoxicated smile. "Good night, princess. Don't let your daddy keep you up too late." With a parting glare directed at her husband, Cynthia staggered off to bed.

When Livia finally drifted off to a sound sleep during the story, Coriolanus did not carry her off to her mother's room; he continued to hold her in his arms. Only once before had his daughter slept in his arms, and within minutes, Cynthia had taken her away to bed. Alone with his daughter now, he watched her tiny mouth breath, held her tiny hand, and was truly happy.

As he listened to her breathing, he remised brief moments in the past when his wife allowed him to watch over her in bed. This time, he had the whole night to be a father—or at least until Cynthia needed to use the bathroom. Dimming the living room lights, he laid Livia with the gentlest of touches onto the couch and lay next to her. He covered himself and his daughter with a throw blanket and settled in for a peaceful night—though he did not want to sleep.

Coriolanus's head rose with the early morning twilight beginning to shine through the balconies tall sliding glass doors. When he found his still daughter sleeping at his side, he smiled.

The call to nature caused him to stagger stiffly into the bathroom, for sleeping on the couch was not as comfortable as he remembered from his college days. After a brief washing of his hands, he hobbled into the kitchen for a glass of water. He noticed the time and thought best that he prepare to go to the office.

Inspecting his daughter, he carefully changed his daughter's sleeping diaper and was successful not to wake her. He tucked the blanket around her and began to ponder if he should leave her on the couch or move her to his wife's bed.

She would surely overact if I left you on the couch. He thought, gazing down at his daughter. He turned and headed for his wife's bedroom to see if she was stirring, to possibly prepare a spot on the bed where he could move Livia.

He opened the bedroom door and entered. Stopping in his tracks, apprehension overcame him. Though nothing seemed out of place, the room seemed different. Even the air felt peculiar.

As he stepped towards the bed, his wife's face came into view, pale with all her facial muscles flaccid. She lay curled on her side with one arm above the blankets.

Coriolanus's insides twisted upon clear sight of his wife's features. With a hesitant hand, he touched the back of her hand to find it cold, lifeless. Gasping, he snapped his hand away. He swallowed hard and reached for her neck in search of a pulse. Finding the feel of her neck harrowing, he abandoned the search, failing to find a pulse during the brief moment.

His hands quivering, he sat on the bedside chair and began to fidget. He felt a clammy sweat form over his body as a nauseous feeling grew within. With welled eyes, he stared at his wife's face as his breathing deepened. Then the shiny plastic glint from one of Cynthia's medicine bottles caught his eye on the bedside table.

The medicine finally caught up with you, he thought. Scanning the text of the bottle, he read to his horror his name sprawled across the label. He jumped from the chair and dashed into the bathroom. Before he could lift the toilet seat up, be began retching into the bowl. With his brief fit coming to an end, he cleaned the seat and flushed the tank once more before returning to the bedside chair.

Whom do I call? he thought. Should I use the emergency number? The emergency has passed. Perhaps, I'll look up the standard police number. Inspecting his quivering hands, he thought of his secretary. Vera will know what to do.

He stood from the chair but paused when he again noticed the medicine bottles. Amongst a half dozen, he found three bottles on the nightstand with his name on the label. He entered his wife's bathroom and began digging through her medicine cabinet, finding two more bottles with his name. Next, he consolidated the pills into corresponding bottles with Cynthia's name before placing all his prescription bottles in a small plastic bag. Snow proceeded once again to make sure that none of his prescription bottles remained in her room.

Standing at Cynthia's bedside, he felt ill with unease. He sat on the bedside chair, staring at his dead wife. I once thought that I could not live without you. Here I am now, and I have not even wept. Does that come later?

Tightening his grip on the plastic bag that contained his empty prescription bottles, Coriolanus sat back against the chair. I should dispose of these before I call. The police might be too prompt.

Diverting his gaze from his wife's pale face, he glanced around the room. I wonder how long it would take me to clean the apartment. The last time I lived in a clean apartment, I was single. Should I be thinking of this so soon? Is it wrong?

He forced himself to look at Cynthia. I hope you did not suffer. I do. I did love you once...a long time ago. But... Coriolanus stared at the floor. Time can be so cruel. Did I change as much as you?

With a finger, he brushed back some strands of hair that hung across Cynthia's face. Sorry, my dear, but those roses have to go. It's nothing personal, but I've seen how much work goes into those roses…those damn roses.

Several minutes passed as Snow collected his thoughts at his wife's bedside. He felt his composure return and began to think more clear-headed. Inspecting his hands, he found the quivering had subsided. He thought that everything would be okay; he thought that he was ready to do what was needed; he thought he could be strong and would come through this virtually unscathed, but he was not ready for the one thing that would crush his soul.

From the bedroom doorway came the tender voice of his daughter. "Mommy?"