The grammar may not be fluent, but this is the perspective of a child.

In tribute to the Girl in the Lemon Coat, whose death was ignored by many.

For those who think living in the Capitol is a simple, gratifying life, they're wrong. It could be a bright, shining day, and within a moment, Rebels could bombard the streets, tearing down the tranquility.

We hide in Mother's shop. It's just the two of us, alone in the clothing store. White tile, cream curtains drawn back tight. It is ominous how the modern decorations hide the demeanor of the chaos outside. Glowing orbs line the windows, pulsing with the explosion lights.

I long to pull back the fine silk and take a glimpse of the horror. Although I know all I would find is motionless bodies and empty bomb carcasses, it would prove it's not just an illusion. Mother finds me grazing my fingers across the frame, and carefully tugs them away. "Not now, Darling, not now."

Mother always said those who die with their eyes closed are cowards. They are afraid of the death they face, and instead choose the peaceful thoughts of their mind. "I'm not going to lie to you," she once said, "My eyes would be closed, thinking of you."

I would giggle at her candor, not analyzing the question, what she really means.

I loose track of the days. We eat non-perishables in the storage room, salvaging every last taste. Mother constantly checks in on the black and white striped blurry television in the back, always off air. She wants to have that sense of hope we no longer come by.

One day, far off in the week, she finds me sitting, watching, waiting at the windows for the war to pass. Mother leans down close and makes circles in my palm, a sign of hers that she's unsure. They say we can come down to the Capitol building, all will be well. They will stop the anarchy.

I can't trust her, but without a word from my lips, she wraps me snug in the lemon coat. I always begged for it when she would bring me in during work, but she insisted it be for the customers. Now, wrapped in the cloak of the sun, I know something is wrong.

An eerie shop bell dings as I take my first step onto the pavement. A hoard of citizens push, shove eachother to escape the death bullets. Rebels perch on roofs, in hand, guns larger than I. It is true anarchy.

And then I see her. Pin of gold, eyes of charcoal, flickering with flames of desire and destruction. In them, I see everything. Her wishes for the love of her family, and the burning hatred for revenge. All wanted, all lost. She meets my eyes, and what she means at heart is clear to see: remorse.

With the quick swish of her light feet, the girl I know so deeply scampers away. Mother desperatley yanks at my wrist, edging me forwards. "Come on, baby, it's not too far away."

A man atop a building fuming madness. A long, narrow shaft. The wicked smile of the Rebel meets my vision. A trigger.

Mother, flying like a bird. Soaring in front of me. The impact on her neck sending her shooting towards the ground at my feet.

Scarlet trickles.

Her eyes, wide open.

I sink to my knees, almost tumbling on my side from the delirium. Liquid life pours from her, pooling on the ashy road, staining the fringe of the jacket I once cared for. A pain unlike any other bursts in my chest, and a wave of sobs consumes me, draining the real world around me. I drown in reflection.

Mother. The courageous woman. She didn't need to close her eyes to think of me. Saving me was her last thought.

I want her back.

I want her back.

They can't take me like this. Not their disposal.

I stare into the cruel eyes of my executioner, and spread my arms in the air.

Soon I will be with Mother.