Burned
PROLOGUE
A burn is one of the worst injuries you can get. You feel the heat running wild through your flesh, but you can do nothing to stop it. You freeze for a millisecond and allow the heat to brand you, because a burn also comes with something besides pain; shock. You don't realize the pain until you have paused, even if it's only for a tenth of a second. When you run your hands under the water the burn becomes numb. Thinking the worst is over you remove your hands from the water too soon and the pain bites back; sometimes worse than before you tried to extinguish it. You cannot let anything touch the burn without a searing reminder of your injury. There is a long swirling scar that twists in strange patterns. I remember the first time I was burned in the bakery. I was five years old, baking my first cake with my father.
"Peeta, son," My father laughed. "The cake will not bake any faster if you stand there and stare at it." My shining blue eyes could look straight through the oven's old door. They wanted it to bake, willing the batter to rise up into a fluffy warm cake. My father ruffled my blonde curls and squatted down next to me. He wrapped an arm around my small shoulders.
"Daddy, how much longer?" I asked, jumping up and down excitedly. He laughed again, warm and loud. It filled the room, making it warmer than the sun shining outside.
"Soon my little Peeta," he smiled. "Look." I followed his pointing finger and cried out with joy when I saw it. My cake had risen up over the edge of the pan. The next few minutes seemed like years to me. Every second the clock moved my eyes saw months flying by, seasons changing while I stood in the kitchen waiting. I had a very active imagination.
Finally my father smiled down at me. "I think it's time." He turned to walk to the drawers behind us and began talking, but my small mind could only focus on one thing; getting my cake out of the oven. I didn't hear my father warning me about the heat, telling me that I must always use an oven mitt when touching hot pans. All I heard was the oven door creak open as my little hands reached easily inside. I began to pull the pan out, thinking the heat was only from the oven and it would go away.
As soon as the pan left the oven my arms froze. Pain rocketed up my arms and my eyes grew wide. All in a second. My father turned, mitt in hand, just as the scream left my lips. I screamed and screamed, the pain agonizing. My father ran over and picked me up, rushing me to the bakery sink, after throwing the pan from my already pink hands to the floor. There was blood seeping from the lines in my hands and I was still crying out. I thrashed in my father's firm grasp, trying to escape the terrible, searing pain. My father ran my hands under the icy water for a long time, holding me comfortingly.
"Peeta," my father said, voice laced with concern. "Are you okay son?" He asked. I was whimpering in his arms, tears flying from my eyes. The pain was still pricking me like millions of tiny needles.
"Yes," my voice was small and shaky when I answered. My father just held me tighter.
"That's why you always use an oven mitt, Peeta."
I haven't forgotten since. But I have been burned again. Not by the bakery ovens though; by a girl. Katniss Everdeen. She has left her scar on my heart and when it beats it throbs and stings with my want for her.