𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑶𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒓

𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍.

𝐄𝐚𝐭 𝐔𝐩.

Rosie felt alone—she was alone.

She didn't have her Jess, she didn't have her Uncle or Orion, but when she went home she would have those people back in her life—she'd never see Toby in the flesh again. He'd forever be someone she saw only in Capitol propaganda, at least for a little while, until he got forgotten, until he became just one of the over one and a half thousand children that died all because of a war they had no part in. Perhaps in the first few Hunger Games those who got Reaped had their part in the Rebellion, but those people had long since died out.

She was also certain he'd be a reoccurring figure in her nightmares until she either died or lost her marbles, she'd been prone to petrifying nightmares, horrid things that tormented her when she couldn't protect herself. She'd likely see his face devoid of life, replay the moment she felt the knife embed itself into his flesh, creating a fatal wound.

The guilt over something Toby begged her to do, something she didn't want to do but knew it served him, was already eating at her. It far exceeded her guilt about Trax—she didn't have all that much, especially now that he was the one that began the downward spiral Toby fell victim to—and it also exceeded her guilt over the girl she fought for the bag with. Rosie decided she needed to learn her name, she did feel a heavy guilt for her death. Whilst it not being something she intentionally did, it was a mere reaction to their dire situation, she still felt guilt.

Then she thought about when she'd go into Toby's home and find the possessions he requested she save, there would be a photo of him somewhere, and she'd keep it. She didn't want to forget him or what he looked like.

After finding somewhere to camp overnight she thought about the ever-growing list of people she'd lost. First, she lost her father, in a factory accident—or so she was told. She barely knew her name when he died, her mother always spoke of him with kindness, though. It was clear how much she loved him, and how much he loved both her mother and Rosie. They'd named Rosie after both of their families, Rosemary was her mother's grandmother who was simply Rose; and her middle name, Blue, was after a family tradition on her father's side. The Blue portion of her name was lost somewhere in her life, perhaps after her father died so did the tradition. Her mother only ever called her Rosemary Blue when she was in trouble.

After Rosie's mother died and she went and lived with her Aunt and Uncle, she thought that would be enough loss, fate could only be so cruel to a ten-year-old. But she was wrong, it didn't take a year for her Aunt to grow sick, they weren't bringing in enough money for her to get treatment, no matter how much overtime her Uncle put it; it didn't take two years after her mother's death for her to lose the next person, her Aunt.

But somehow—she guessed, in a sense, it was the same as Toby's death—her Aunt's death filled her with a morbid sense of relief, she'd been so sick and so in pain that she wished her life to be over.

She'd woken that morning to the screams of an utterly heartbroken man, her Uncle never accepted that she was dying—Rosie knew it, even Orion, young as he was, knew it. After that dreadful morning, after the week of deep grief felt by all that knew her Aunt, after the funeral attended by quite a few people, her Uncle fell apart fully and completely, he pulled less and less of the weight and piled it onto a twelve-year-old Rosie who was riddled with grief from the loss of three parental figures.

Rosie wondered what the people in the Capitol, and those in the Districts, thought of her latest murder; were they disgusted that she could do that to her friend and ally? Did they understand why she did what she did, and sympathised at how hard the choice was to her?

She didn't know, but when she won—because she was going to win—she'd find out.

Rosie washed her skin of Toby's blood, trying not to think about the fact it was Toby's blood, she pretended it was her own from a wound she wasn't privy to. She hated that the crystal clear water, which had fish she'd never seen before, began to stain copper for a few seconds before it was carried downstream. The water had been steadily getting colder, it now was a shock to her system every time it touched her skin, but she needed the blood off her, she couldn't think when her arms—arms she'd used to hold Toby while he died—were tainted with blood.