Entry for Prompts in Panem that I wrote awhile ago.

Katniss had always hated roses, and right now especially.

The white buds lining her father's mahogany coffin seemed garish and inappropriate to her, but her mother had called them 'lovely'. She couldn't help but feel angry that her mother could call anything about this funeral lovely. Katniss didn't think that her father being dead was lovely at all. And besides, she knew for a fact that her father didn't care for roses, he much preferred the scent of jasmine, but the perfect swirling flowers were her mother's favorite.

It was those roses that had gotten him killed.

It had been her parents' anniversary, and the bouquet that her father had saved up for all week took her place in the passenger seat.

They had been late for dinner, speeding down the icy roads in hopes of making it in time. But they hadn't; neither of them had made it home that night.

She could only wonder if everything that happened that night had been real. It hadn't felt real, not really. Everything had moved too quickly, in chaos, and before she knew it, they had stopped moving. She lay with her cheek pressed against the floor, unable to move. She could still smell the roses, their scent now mixed with blood. They were scattered along the floor, some white, some grey, some red. The smell made her want to gag; she couldn't stand it.

And now, the flowers were scattered around her father's lifeless body... His lifeless body that now lay in a box.

She wanted so badly to rip the roses that conjured the scent of blood off his coffin; they didn't belong there. But instead she stood there, in her itchy black dress, not saying a word.

The ceremony went on, and her father's friends went up and said nice things that she felt held no significance. Did they see him as nothing more than a 'kind man' as they'd put it. Didn't they know him at all? Didn't they have words that described her father, and not just anybody?

She sat in the bench, her eyes dry, wishing that someone could say something meaningful. It seemed wrong that her father was now nothing but a few distant memories.

And then they finally finished, and Katniss was no longer forced to listen to them prattle on endlessly. She would much rather mourn him in silence if there were no proper words to describe him.

But suddenly a voice rang out, and a boy stepped forward.

It was Peeta Mellark, the boy who'd saved her life.

He came up to the front, running a hand through his hair nervously. She hadn't even noticed that he was at the funeral; she couldn't imagine why he was.

He looked up at the crowd, letting his silver tongue take over.

"I didn't really know Aden Everdeen, but I know what he did to this town. He was a shining light in everyone's day; always willing to lend a hand. But the most distinctive thing I can remember about him, was his voice. I can tell you that it is no exaggeration to say that when that man sang, all the birds would stop to listen. Everything would silence just to give him that opportunity; everyone would hold their breaths just to listen, and I know that it was something special, to have been able to hear him even once. He was something unique, something that we'll never see again, and I can tell you that we should be grateful to have known him. He will be greatly missed by friends, family, and everyone in this town."

Everyone in the church went silent, many had tears in their eyes. How was it that someone who knew so little about the man they were remembering could sum him up so well?

Even Katniss sat stupefied, unable to understand why Peeta had bothered. He really was too kind.


After the ceremony Katniss stayed at the church. She waited as people left, moving on from the fact that her father had died, moving on with their lives while she stayed stuck.

She walked around the benches, pulling all the horrible roses off, collecting them in a pile. She wanted them gone, gone from the church, gone from her life.

Wrapping herself in her father's old leather jacket and stepping out behind the church, she pulled out a pack of matches. She ran the tip over the edge of the box, watching the flame ignite.

She watched the roses that she hated so much ignite , glowing hues of orange, red, and gold. She got pride from the fact that she was destroying them, as if it could also destroy the horrible night that her father had died.

But the flames went down and she was left with only a pile of ash, and still no father to comfort her.