The Story of The Boy With The Bread

I wake in a sweat – the morning of the 74th annual reaping for the Hunger Games. All of District Twelve fear this day wholly, but we are made to see it as a celebration, at a cause of the Capitol. It's none of the sorts and in everyone's eyes, it never will be.

I know my dream had been my most extreme of nightmares in a long time, but I can't remember what it featured; only the girl with the braid and she is all I ever see in all of my dreams – she's the starring role of my sleeping world: Katniss Everdeen.

I stare at the ceiling of the small, cramped room. I imagine the seas of people getting ready to gather and witness the reaping. My mind flits to the girl. Her olive skin, grey eyes – but it's her hair that gets me the most. Straight, dark and always in a braid. Sometimes little wisps escape and fall in her face. Her stature is small – stick-like, like most others in District, as we're deprived of food and herded like sheep by the Capitol - awaiting their every order. They have power over us and they're not afraid to show it. In effect, this is what the Hunger Games is all about – a way to prove that they can control us – laugh at us as we watch our own people die. There's a long and historical story behind it all – we effectively pay for "crimes" our ancestors had long ago committed in an uprising against the said Capitol – but I don't dare dwell on it.
Instead, I think of the day, oh so long ago, back when I was 5 – my first day of school; I was so young and safe from the lingering dangers of the Games.

She had on a red plaid dress and her hair was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed her out when we were waiting to line up.
I can clearly hear his words echo around in my head- as if it were yesterday: "See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner."
I recall the confusion this evoked within me, and without really thinking I said, "A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?"
I waited for a response from my father – he's a baker, you see, and safe from the ever threatening menaces hidden deep within the coal mines. His answer came with a sigh, "Because when he sings … even the birds stop to listen."
I didn't know why that would have made any difference in a choice of man, but I came to find my answer, later on that day. It was in the first assembly I'd ever sat through and the teacher asked whether anyone in the room knew the valley song. My eyes picked up on a hand that shot straight into the air; the girl with the braids in her hair. I watched in wonder as the teacher stood her up on a stool, in front of all of us and called on her to sing the song. I thought to myself, "How could someone so young, our age, sing in front of a hall full of people?"
But she did it and I could swear not a pin drop could be heard in all of Panem as she recited the song in the sweetest of singing voices. And in those few blissful moments, full of only her melodic voice – I knew. I knew I would be just as far gone as her mother.

Since that day, I've tried to work up the courage to speak to her, but without success – except one moment, I always find myself thinking about, but no spoken interaction occurred - and eleven years on, I'm still as far gone as I was all that time ago.

I shake myself from the memory as my mother calls my name, "Peeta? Peeta!"

I know her intentions are to wake me, but they are to no avail as I'm already wide awake. So I spring from my bed to see that there are clothes for the reaping already laid out for me. My mother instantly appears at the small, rackety bedroom door.

"Oh, you're up. Get ready, then." She says, emotionless. "I'll sort your hair afterwards." Then she leaves as if she was never there.

My hand goes to the mop of ashy blonde hair on my head – it's not messy, but it's never one hundred percent tidy, either. My mother despises the fact that she can never get me to comb it back, which I'm sure she'll force when I'm dressed and ready.

I mournfully clothe myself in the supposedly presentable clothes, ready for the reaping and then I wet my hair down and await my mother to hack at it with a comb, knowing the resulting look will be one of which I hate but have to endure.

I'm sixteen, now, which means for four years I've escaped the grasp of the Games and there's no reason to believe I won't this year. Yet, I still feel the weight of the Games press upon my shoulders and can't help but return to the shadow of my nightmare. What if this year, I'm not safe? What if my name is picked from one of the glass balls and I'm called upon as tribute? No, I tell myself, negative thoughts will get you nowhere. And so I press on with getting ready, trying not to think about the consequences of being picked at the reaping – telling myself I won't be entered in to the Games and made to face my impending doom.

I leave the bakery, my family at my side. I can see the whole of District Twelve gathering in the centre of the town – huge screens, not yet alight with the face of Effie Trinket, our district's escort. My mind is in a haze and I hardly notice as my finger is pricked for blood, as I sign in, and I'm lead to where all the other sixteen year old boys are standing. The start of the reaping must be near, as the large space - readied for this solemn occasion – is nearly full; what was once a noisy babbly of conversation becomes a collection of hushed whispers and soon, Effie takes to the stage and the whole of district twelve falls silent.

I pay no attention to the welcoming, or much of it at all. The most I can recall is Effie Trinket saying in her strange, Capitol accent: "Happy Hunger Games! And, may the odds be ever in your favour!"

But then the whole of the square goes quiet and I'm sure Effie's called the first tribute's name. In fact, I can swear I heard the name Everdeen. I frantically look around, praying it's not her. Praying it's not Katniss. And suddenly my gaze fixes on the petite, blonde girl who is starting to approach the stage. It's not Katniss, but it's definitely an Everdeen. And I'm sure that it's Katniss's younger sister, Primrose. This confuses me, as I swear I could recall Primrose Everdeen as only being eleven - to be qualified for a reaping, you must be at least twelve years old. Most people disagree with the idea of children as young as twelve being sent off to fight to the death, but what the Capitol says, goes. I must have been mistaken in thinking Primrose was only so young.

She's almost mounting the steps as Effie coaxes her up to the stage, but then I see. A flash of dark, braided hair whips past and I'm sure of whom it is.

"Prim!" I hear her scream and can tell her voice is full of worry; she's always been so protective of her little sister. "Prim!" Again. I can feel my chest tighten and I hate myself for not speaking to her ever before and then that feeling intensifies as I hear her shout, "I volunteer!" She gasps, "I volunteer as tribute!"

I can't hear anything. I'm trapped in my own train of thought. The girl with the braid in her hair. I don't know how much time has passed as I see her stand on stage, looking as disorientated as I feel. She takes her place as District Twelve's female tribute, whilst I wallow in my own silly sadness; knowing I'll probably never see her again – never see the girl with the braid in her hair.

I feel hollow and I swear I'm falling into my own little world as my name rings in my ears over and over. Peeta Mellark. Peeta Mellark. It seems everyone is turning to me – staring. I pass it off as the effects of the emotions, which had been induced by the knowing of Katniss Everdeen volunteering as tribute. A few seconds pass, yet I'm still frozen in this world of my own, but the people around me start nudging me towards the stage – pushing and shoving me, trying to break me out of the trance I seem to be so captured by.

And then it dawns on me: my name has been called out.

My stomach flips as the realisation sinks in – I can't seem to accept the idea that I'm going to most probably be dead within a week from now – if that. Then I suddenly remember that she's up there waiting, too. Katniss Everdeen. A comforting feeling tries to dampen all the other emotions. I can't quite seem to decide whether the calling of my name was a blessing in disguise, or a certain sentence to hell. It should be obvious as to what the answer is, but I can't seem to shake the feeling that this maybe something I should rejoice. Then all of a sudden I'm standing before everyone and someone tells me to shake my fellow tribute's hand; I do – I even try to give a squeeze of reassurance as our hands connect – although I'm sure it's more for my benefit than for hers.

I can no longer seem to register any more emotion, nor display it. The only thought running through my mind is: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark; tributes of District Twelve. And that's when I remember the contents of my nightmare