We pick flowers for a living, Mom and Sasha and I. Guess it's good District Seven still has a romantic or two left in it else we'd be out on the street or dead in our own beds or something worse than dying of hunger. Mom says I can be a real miserable rag sometimes and she's not wrong. I just can't help but focus on the bad. Let it consume me. Drag me down. Until my limbs move through water even though we're thousands of miles away from any sort of ocean.
Fucking depressing, right? You'd be sad too if you lived like this, Dad who didn't want me and a Mom who makes it clear her life wasn't supposed to turn out this way. I'm to blame, I know it. We’re to blame, my sister and I. She doesn't say it like that, not so direct, but I know. Maisy and Sasha ruined Miss Dupree's life, whoopsie-daisy.
At least we've got the flowers. They give me a reason to smile every once in a while. Spring is my favourite time of the year because we stop feeling so empty and I can finally get out of the house, see what the end of winter has brought us. Lavender, roses, sometime even pansies. Who wouldn't want to smile at all those colours?
I'd be a painter, if I could afford it. It's stupidly romantic, I know. Who'd take up a hobby that couldn't buy us food? Not me, I told my Mom aged eight. I'll take up sewing instead. People will pay us to mend their worn-down work clothes sometimes. When flowers aren't so necessary. Like in winter. Like six months after someone dies when it's okay to stop visiting their gravestone. Like when the games are happening and it doesn't seem right to celebrate love when kids are dying. I get it. No really, I do. It gets fucking depressing around here, far away from the town square and the Victor's Village in the way-backs of Seven. The places nobody really wants to end up, but when they do they bow their head - embarrassed of what they've become.