Nightminds
There were only a few things in the world that made me sick with worry. Unfortunately, Katniss Everdeen just happened to be one of those things.
The fluttering, squirming sensation in my belly brought on by anxiety made me want to throw up. My hands felt the unyielding itch to punch someone. It was a strong urge that burned in the pit of my stomach, every little thing causing it to flare up. The feeling had been constant for the past few weeks, but I imagined everyone felt the same way, at least to some degree.
The reaping.
The night before the reaping, I couldn't seem to fall asleep. I tried for hours, for all it was worth, but no amount of counting sheep could ease my sense of fretfulness enough to let me drift under. I spent the whole night tossing under the sheets, desperately trying to fall asleep. The flat above my parent's bakery served as our house; two rooms and a bathroom, and we used the kitchen of the bakery. I shared a room with brother, so on nights where I wasn't able to sleep even if I wanted to, my brothers snoring came as just another excuse. I stared unblinking at the dark rotting wood of the ceiling for about three hours, lightly fingering the worn gray blanket as I waited for sleep to catch up. Nothing happened. No fatigue. No heavy eyelids. Not a thing.
There were probably still a few hours until dawn when I realized I couldn't take it anymore and had to drag myself out of bed. My brain was on high alert, my body . . . not so much.
I decided to head down and start on the days orders. Reaping day was the one day the Capitol sent down extra sugar and chocolate. Usually, chocolate cookies were too expensive (even for most people in town) for people to even think about buying them, but after the reaping, a few of the customers were usually in a celebratory mood and indulged in the overpriced baked goods.
It must have been later than I thought because when I descended the stairs, I could hear my father's low voice conversing with a customer. Immediately, my mind jumped to Katniss. But when I pushed open the door to the kitchen, I could make out the distinct form of Gale Hawthorne at the back door of the baker. Katniss' best friend. He didn't even glance at me before thanking my father and taking off. My heart dropped in disappointment. I'd hoped to at least wish her luck before the reaping later, maybe sneak her one of the sugared cookies Rye and I had finished making last night. They were usually cheaper than the chocolate cookies, but still too expensive for most residence of the Seam. Katniss probably wouldn't have ever wasted money on them, unless it had been for Prim, maybe. Everyone adored Prim—even my mother had a grudging fondness for the little girl—but no one could compete with Katniss' affection for the little girl.
"Peeta, would you mind making another batch of the sugar cookies?" I didn't have to question my father as to why. Almost every year, even for the kids he'd never seen set foot in the bakery before, my father would give the chosen kids a dozen or so of the cookies, something that they could take with them that reminded them of home. Something to remind them to fight to come back home. Unfortunately, every year my father had carried out the tradition so far ended up with District 12's tributes dead. The simple gift seemed more like a last meal. But my father thought it was important so every year he'd deliver them to the unfortunate one's chosen, without my mother's knowledge, of course. In her eyes, it was a waste of supplies. She'd argue that our tributes never made it far enough to think that they could come home and pay the debt back.
I dimly wondered if everything was a debt to that woman. I probably owed her for the few years she'd taken care of me when I was younger, before I was old enough not to run on the road and Barlee was old enough to look out for me.
I'd probably never be out of that woman's debt.
Having something to take my mind off the impending situation made the hours pass much more quickly. The consistent movement of my hands kneading dough seemed to alleviate some of the edge, at least. I spent the entire morning in silence, somehow managing to avoid any confrontations with my mother who made it apparent she felt there was no reason to get out of bed before noon. She'd have slept later, I knew, if it wasn't strictly illegal to miss the reaping. She felt no obligation to attend on the off chance that one of her children might possibly be reaped; she'd stopped showing even the slightest bit of interest after Barlee's last reaping. It wasn't a secret that Barlee was her favourite; he was so much like our father not only in looks but in temperament as well, soft spoken and easy to control. Though ever since he'd moved out with his fiancé, that point had been a little touchy; at least with our mother. Rye was far too vivacious and foolhardy, the most vocal against our mother. At one point, she might have respected him—or at least his inability to back down in even the most trivial argument—but by now she was just mostly annoyed with his knack for outwitting her. But still, as soon as Rye had gained an inch on her, she'd stopped hitting him.
Though her preference of Barlee was blatant, her aversion for me was a well guarded family secret. The dark bruises a cause of ignominy. 'Slippery,' she'd called me. 'Can't ever trust that boy. He's nothing but useless.' Muttered remarks made just loud enough for me to hear in the store room. The most public display of her loathing had been years ago, while a young girl hid unseen underneath the apple tree behind the bakery. The one person in the entire world I'd wished would never have learned about my unfortunate home life, and it was her who'd witnessed my mother's cruelty firsthand. Even though it was unlikely she'd seen the actual action, the welt on my face had been obvious proof, and the way she stared at it in the aftermath—and even the next day at school when she thought I didn't notice—made blatantly clear that she knew.
I'd take a hundred more hits for you, Katniss.
"Better go get ready."
I started at my father's words, nearly dropping the ready dough. Glancing at him in surprise, I mumbled, "Already?"
His seldom nod was the only means of response.
After wrapping the dough and hanging up my apron, I ascended the stairs as quietly as I could (though if I was being honest with myself, that was one skill I really needed to work on). Opening the door to the room I shared with Rye, I was just in time to witness his stealthy form retreat inside from the window. He caught my eye and the momentary surprise faded into a subtle smirk.
"Out with Anise again? Or was it Lorea this time?" I laughed.
Rye shrugged good-naturedly, dropping onto his bed and proceeding to remove his shoes. "Nah, bro. Just out for a walk."
My following stare didn't so much as faze him, but when I rolled my eyes, he chuckled.
"It's a possibility—very slight though—that I may have ran into Scarlett." His expression gave nothing away. "And we may have . . . talked."
"Of course you did."
Rye's laughter followed him as he exited the room, slapping my shoulder as he passed me. "Don't worry, Pete; one day you'll understand."
I scoffed to his retreating back. "Hopefully not."
~THG~
Though I tried to ease away from the pressure of anxiety once again constricting my chest, Rye's comments just seemed to make it worse. More names to recognize. More people to mourn. The fact that I might not be around to experience that 'one day' Rye was so fond of mentioning.
Even Rye's usually jubilant mood was significantly subdued by the time the two of us departed from the bakery, leaving our father to deal with his aggravating wife.
As we walked, it seemed the entire town was covered a mist of apprehension, the chill permeating into every corner of the Town and crevice of the Seam. No one was calling across the street. Neighbours turned away business because they didn't want the sorrow travel with the customers. Friends hurried by each other, averting their gaze as if getting chosen was a disease that they could save themselves or their children from by denying social interaction.
Yet every year, two names were still drawn. Two kids shoved into a battle they never wanted a part of, fighting each other because the lines separating the sides was so blurred and masked by blood that no one knew where one side started or the other ended. Confusion. Confusion and fear, that's what kids were fighting for. Or against, depending on how you looked at it. In District 12 specifically, it normally meant two kids sentenced to death. Two families left exposed and unprepared, always wondering why.
The closer we got to the square, the more crowded the streets became and I had to keep my eyes on the ground, not willing to risk seeing the faces of the helpless. Not wanting to wonder which family will go without tonight just on principle of mourning. Rye and I signed in silently and then, without so much as a word to each other, separated and made our way to our designated sections. Rye made his way to the very front; this would be his last reaping. After this, he was home free. Free to work for the Capitol. Get married. Have children. Give them up for slaughter. What would the Capitol do, I wondered, if the Districts simply refused to give up their children? What could they do? There certainly couldn't be as many Peacekeepers as people.
Almost unwittingly, my eyes raised and searched the sea of roped-off cattle, searching for her face in the crowd. It took me mere minutes to locate her, my gaze settling on her. Breathtaking, even when lined up for slaughter.
When the clock struck two and the official 'celebrations' began, I hardly paid attention. The small speech from Mayor Undersee would be followed by a recount of the history of Panem, the same story told every year (though I knew Madge had tried revising it once or twice, for the sake of progress—the Capitol had rejected each revision, even if it had been as simple as wording).
The only account of entertainment came in the form of District 12's only surviving mentor, Haymitch Abernathy. He mounts the stage, obviously drunk—when is he ever sober?—hobbled around, probably being mocked by the Capitol at that very moment.
No wonder our tributes never come home.
A sour taste filled my mouth as soon as Effie Trinket stood from her seat. I was almost choking on the taste by the time she reached the podium.
"Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"
I'm going to puke.
Everything happened so fast—too fast—because suddenly Effie was ending her speech, and it was time to draw the names and my heart was pounding; I could feel it in my head, so loud and painfully that I felt faint but I'm able to repeat one thought in my mind.
Not her. Don't let it be her. Like every other year, it was the same mantra running in a loop through my head. I glanced over to her and saw her standing by herself—as alone as she could be in such a crowded space— and I wasn't able to take my eyes off her.
Please . . . not her.
"Primrose Everdeen!"
The only thing for me to do was release the breath I'd been holding, relief shooting through every fibre of my being, because it wasn't her. It wasn't Katniss. It wasn't—I could feel my eyes widen involuntarily.
"Prim!" It was in the way it was said, not the name that made my soul shatter. The cry a desperate choked out plea. "Prim!"
She rushed through the crowd and everyone parted for her, whether out of fear or respect—or the disease—I wasn't sure. The only thing I did know was what she was going to say next. Her death sentence. Her sacrifice.
Katniss threw her arms out, pushed her sister behind her with one sweeping hand and the fire came back into her eyes. It was a desperate act, sure, but not one of a caught wild animal. That girl knew exactly what she was doing.
"I volunteer!" Her voice was breathless, gasping. "I volunteer as tribute!"
The word 'no' whispered silently from my lips, my only outward reaction. My feet stayed planted; I imagined my expression a mask of shock.
No.
I had the strongest urge to run over to her and like she did for Prim, throw my arms out and volunteer to take her place. I knew it wouldn't work; girls could only volunteer to take another girls place, same with boys, but I didn't think I could do it. Let her be alone through this.
No.
"Katniss." The name was a strangled gasp, barely loud enough to reach my own ears. I watched her take one step—just one—and I felt like breaking down, not caring who saw. It would be a direct declaration of my feelings, but I couldn't let her leave not knowing. I wouldn't.
For those next few seconds, I was hardly aware of anything other than Katniss standing stock still on stage. I stared at her, tried to memorize her face, tried to detect what she was feeling. Was that fear in her eyes? Or determination? No matter what would happen in the arena that year, Katniss wouldn't go down without a fight, that much I knew for certain.
"Declan Oliver!"
The name, though not a name I was familiar with, came as a shock. I hadn't even thought about the other tribute. Hadn't even cared to pay attention, or had time to fear that it may have been my own name. My worst fear had already come true. Katniss was going to be in the Games. Katniss was most likely going to die. Alone.
Not if I can help it.
The boy that stepped forward looked no more than thirteen years old. He was small, fairly short and obviously malnourished. That, put together with his Seam looks—the dark hair and flat gray eyes—led me to assume that kid wouldn't last a day out in the arena. He was already crying as he approached the stage, and just that sight broke something in me.
Inspiration hit me like a sack of flour.
I hesitated to raise my voice giving Gale Hawthorne, who I knew to be Katniss's best friend and hunting partner, the chance to volunteer. If Hawthorne went with Katniss, he'd be better able to protect her than I would. He was a more skilled hunter, a fighter, and what was I? But knowing what I did know about Katniss, I knew she'd sacrifice herself to save him. With me, though? There was no doubt it my mind that I was in love with this girl, but I also knew she'd never even noticed me before. There was no emotional attachment to me. I could do everything I had in my power to protect her, and in the end, she'd have no regrets if I died. I meant nothing to her, in the way of keeping her family whole.
Hawthorne stayed silent though, and I didn't see any reaction in him other than a darkening in his eyes. Screw it. Though I knew Hawthorne could have protected Katniss without a doubt, I knew that by consequence of my actions, I'd be saving the boy and I'd be in a better position to save Katniss. My hesitation lasted only a moment before I was screaming over the crowd. "I volunteer!"
The words came as a shock to the collective group. One volunteer? Sure, it was a girl from the Seam, protecting her sister. Unusual, but comprehendible. But two? It just . . . it doesn't happen. I was a town kid. Why was I volunteering? I had no connection to the little boy that anybody knew of. So I obviously wasn't doing it to protect him. I was either suicidal or crazy. Or a blood thirsty murderer.
Though I also took the chance of betting at least one person in the crowd could guess my real motives. I wasn't making them that hard to read. Just take one look at me and you'd see I was a goner.
It was the shocked look in Katniss's eyes that got to me as I made my way towards her. Shocked and . . . something else. Something dangerously close to grief. I dimly wondered if she remembered our encounter. If she was thinking about it right then. My gaze never left her face but I'm sure she was too much in shock to really notice—or care—that I was staring.
She must have remembered something because when we were motioned to shake hands, there was a slight hesitation on her part. Barely enough to be perceptible, but noticed.
I looked straight into her gray eyes and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, trying to tell her what words could not. I won't kill you. I won't play their games.
As we stood before the crowd, families in tears of sadness (and relief), I vowed to keep my thoughts hidden. She'd never have to know. Katniss would never have to feel guilty over my death and she could come home; to Prim. To her mother. To Gale, if that's what ended up happening. She could come home and move on. But I couldn't have let her deal with this alone.
You already have my heart, Katniss. Taking my life won't be much different from that, will it?