DISCLAIMER: I am not Suzanne Collins. If I was, I wouldn't be sleeping in a twin-sized bed and driving a Durango. I also wouldn't have such a Hunger Games obsession. Or an undying love for Spiderman. Nah, all joking aside: I am not her. All characters and major events are hers. I am just here to give you a glimpse of the mind of my hom' boy, Peeta. Just kidding :) Enjoy, lovelies!
Desperate Times
"Mommy, Mommy, a little girl is digging through the trash!" Rylis Mellark yelled, yanking on his mother's apron. Though he was older than me, he still clung to her like he was a two year old.
"What, Rylis?" my mother asked, stunned. She threw her apron to the ground and stormed to the back. I followed silently. I watched her gasp as she saw the little girl and I flinched.
"Mom," I said quietly, trying to peek around her.
"How dare you?" she shrieked. "How dare you, Seam trash? I am so sick of you Seam creatures pawing through my trash bins. Get out! And if I ever catch you again, I'll call the Peacekeepers and have these maniacs haul you off to the community home!"
I finally managed to peek around my mother to catch a glimpse of Katniss Everdeen. Chills made their way down my spine. She dropped the lid and walked away, shoulders slumped. My mother turned on her heel, muttering about the Seam garbage and how they are trying to steal her food. I looked at the girl one more time, but she didn't notice. She was walking to a tree, looking dejected. Then my mother was calling for me.
"One minute, Katniss," I whispered. "Just hold on one minute."
I ran back inside quickly, finding my mother standing by the oven. "Pull these out, Peeta," she commanded, seething with rage at Katniss Everdeen. She stormed off to the front, muttering about thieves and Peacekeepers and proper disposal of trash like Katniss Everdeen. I look at the bread in the oven and start to pull it out, thinking of Katniss.
She doesn't have any food if she's digging in the trash, I thought simply. I could sneak these loaves to her. Then she wouldn't be starving and maybe she'd notice me more.
It seemed it was my own little secret the small crush I had on Katniss Everdeen. No one knew, not even my closest of friends. A part of me was seething in anger at her mother who wouldn't provide, but the other part ached for Katniss Everdeen as I knew her father was gone. I wanted her to remember me for the bread.
And then the oven sheet slipped.
I watched in slow motion as the bread fell into the flames. My eyes went wide as I froze, not sure what to do. My mother gasped, suddenly behind me. I whirled around, the oven plate to the ground with a clatter. Rye stood in the doorway, looking at the oven with huge eyes.
"You," my mother hissed. "You dropped my bread."
"Mother, it slipped," I protested, my mind reeling. "I'm sorry."
I couldn't understand her rage. My mother was not a violent woman. She was quiet and kind and friendly to her customers. She was fiercely protective of her family and especially of her business. I didn't understand how my mother could stand in front of me, shaking with rage at something I had done two other times before.
That's when I felt her palm against my cheek.
I cried out, falling to the ground as my mother shoved past. She yanked the bread out of the flames and threw them at me. They burned my skin. Her eyes held a rage that I, a barely twelve-year-old boy, could not understand. She yanked me up and shoved me towards the door. I sloshed out, cling to the loaves and not understanding what was going on. I'll give them to her, I thought.
I started walking towards the girl before my mother screamed, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"
So I redirected my course sadly, throwing chunks of the burned part to a squealing pig. I could feel her eyes on me, feel the burning on my cheek. I knew it must have been welted. She had never hit me before a day in my life. Where her sudden rage came I'd never knew. A part of me needed to defy her. Wanted to show her she didn't completely own the son she just abused. I shot a quick look at the bakery, faintly remembering the bell of a customer. When I didn't see my mother, I tossed Katniss Everdeen the loaf without even looking. I couldn't face her eyes, knowing that I had just gotten hurt to save her life. It was a feat I was proud of, but couldn't face myself. I threw the second in her direction, too, before turning back to the bakery in the rain and running inside. Behind the bakery door, I shut it tightly, my hand lingering on the lock.
I awake with a start. Rye is pounding on the door.
"Get up, you lazy butt," Rye calls before his heavy footsteps walk away from my door. I sit up and rake my fingers through my hair, baffled at the dream that can't leave my mind. Shaking it off with a nod of my head, I climb out of bed to assist in the bakery downstairs.
"Ouch, Peeta, da—"
I roll my eyes at my older brother, Rye. Only moments prior had he made an inappropriate comment about a customer; I had followed his comment by lightly throwing a flour case at him. "You deserved it, you big baby. Grow up."
"Don't let dearest Mummy catch you two bickering," pipes my oldest brother, Brioche. His wife, Khrysta, smiles and wraps her arms around his waist. They've only been married for a few months, and Brioche tends to rub it in our faces.
"Get out of here," I mumble. I nearly burn my hands trying to take the bread out of the oven. My hand is shaking so bad with nerves—today is the Reaping. The day that two children will be sent to their deaths because of a little rebellion.
A long time ago, our world was hit with disaster. No one thought society could survive. But Panem arose from the ashes, led by a goverment who lived in the Capitol. The surviving territories were divided into thirteen districts, us living in bleak District 12. But the thirteenth district had an uprising against the Capitol. They were destroyed, gone forever. But the Capitol fumed. They created the shining Hunger Games, a cruel televised show where twenty-four competitors between the ages of twelve and eighteen fight to the death. Today was the day those two children were chosen to die.
Of course, there is a victor. But it's only one person and it's never District 12.
Brioche and his lovely wife are safe, lucky. Rye and I are still up for the running. I have the bread out of the oven, the next batch kneaded, risen, and in the heat when I finally register voices at the back of the store. Figuring it's the flour or another order I'll need to help carry in eventually, I wipe the flour off of my hands and onto my jeans and walk back there. My father is talking in a small voice to someone. I freeze.
This isn't a delivery. It's a business transaction.
I start to leave when my father calls me. "Ah, Peeta," Edom Mellark says. I wince, closing my eyes and turning around. "Come here, son, please."
I run my fingers through my hair and grind my teeth, forcing a smile. "Yes, Father?"
"Look who showed up," he says pleasantly, gesturing to his business partner. My mouth twitches as Gale Hawthorne stares back at me. His jaw is set in stone and his eyes hold a fear I can understand. He's eighteen – this is his last year. Not only that, but he's from the Seam. His name has got to be in there at least twelve times. Because of that, my five times feel pitiful.
"Hello," I say. The venom in my voice surprises me – I have nothing against Gale Hawthorne. He is a good guy with a strong will. He's fairly polite, and wickedly smart. He is, to my resentment, a good guy. I can't fathom the reason he makes my blood boil until my father states the reason.
"Gale would like some bread for him and Katniss Everdeen's family tonight," my father continues, beaming.
My heart stops.
Slowly, ever so slowly, do I feel the ice grow; it stretches out from the center of my heart until it's in my fingers. That's why. That's why he makes me so angry, so livid, so frustrated. I can hear the blood start pounding along with my heart.
Pum-pump.
"Oh," I manage to say. The corner of Gale's mouth twitches.
He knows her. Of course; he's her best friend. They've almost always been inseparable. I've known that for a while.
I faintly acknowledge my father is still speaking. "…take care of this while I go grab him a few loaves, will you?"
Pum-pump.
"Yeah," I say, surprised my voice sounds steady. My father beams at Gale one last time, touches my arm sympathetically, and walks into the bakery. I faintly hear a thud and my father scolding Rye once again.
Gale holds up the bag in his hands, the corner of his smile twitching once again. "I could only catch one squirrel," he says in a quiet voice. My jaw sets. "Your father is very lenient to trade me a loaf of bread for it."
"It's the Reaping," I say easily. "Everyone deserves some sympathy."
Gale laughs a barking laugh, and I find myself smiling. He and I visit quite frequently during his and my father's business transactions, and usually he gets me laughing. Despite the boiling of my blood when he's around, he's actually a decent acquaintance.
Pum-pump.
"How's Rye?" Gale asks casually. I bite my lip to stop from smiling. He and Rye have scarcely said three words to each other – Rye being very stuck up with people from the Seam.
I shrug. "He's himself. Still has his 'holier-than-thou' attitude."
Gale laughs with me. "He isn't from the Seam. He is a little bit more worthy than us. Anyway, I should probably give you the bag…"
"Oh, yes," I say, taking the bag and carefully setting it on the table. The thought of a dead squirrel inside made me a little squeamish; despite the fact I know my family will eat it later. Gale smiles at me, breaking a barrier we rarely cross.
"I found one of our heartiest loaves," my father calls, causing me to jump. He hands Gale several loaves of warm bread. Gale looks up in awe.
"Sir, I only have one squirrel in that bag," he protests. My father pats his cheek sympathetically.
"You'll bring more to me tonight, I'm sure of it, Gale," my father assures him. "It's the Reaping – give your family a meal they deserve. Those loaves are still warm, Gale, so be good to them."
"Stick an arrow in it," I suggest wryly. Gale laughs.
"I'll take that into consideration," he replies. Gale turns on his heel, trudging through the breaking drizzle. My father beams at me as he walks away.
"Such a good boy," my father says. "It'll be a relief to know he's safe after this year."
My father isn't worried about Rye or me, despite my growing fear. He believes that, since my name is barely in there five times, I'm safe. Especially since the Seam kids have their names in at least three times as much as mine.
But I'm not the luckiest guy out there.
There's one time I drop the bread in the oven. Rye intakes a lot of breath and I stop breathing altogether. We both look around carefully, relieved to find our mother nowhere. "Be careful, Peeta," Rye insists. "I'm just as nervous as you, but if the Witch catches us…"
Eldia Mellark, my mother, the Witch. I sigh and say, "I know, Rye. I'm trying. It's just…I'm not the only person I'm worried about."
"Don't worry, brother," Rye says with weak laugh. "This is my last year. I'm safe as can be."
"Yeah," I mumble, smashing the bread to remove evidence of the crumbling remains. "I meant you." Of course, I want my brother's safety as much as my own. But I also pray for Gale's safety, and the mayor's daughter, and Delly Cartwright's safety. And I especially wish for Katniss Everdeen's safety. A part of me wishes that all of District 12 could just disappear, so no more children I know would have to die.
I've baked several more loaves of bread and started to decorate celebratory cakes when my mother comes in. She sniffs the air and I try to relax the tension in my shoulders.
"What burned, monster?" she hisses. I take a deep breath, finding the lie in record time.
"The coals were coated in baking oil," I say smoothly, keeping my hand steady as I paint a rose onto the cake. "The coal man sold them to us like that."
"Smells like bread," she says slowly, turning to face me.
My mother could have once been beautiful, if I hadn't seen her angry or felt her hatred in her violence. It relieves me to think I look more like my father. Her strawberry blonde hair is unique to District 12, but she and Brioche share the same color. Her eyes are blue, but a darker shade than my father's and mine. Her hair is long, almost to her waist, and usually pulled into a very tight bun that makes her cheekbones more pronounced – and more frightening.
I continue to paint, ignoring her vicious gaze. "Oh?" I say. "Perhaps Rye has forgotten to pull out the next loaf."
"Rye isn't in the oven room, kid," she snaps. "Only you; only Peeta Mellark is in here."
"Rye left to take care of a customer," I say in a steady voice.
She reaches up to backhand me, but I surprise her and myself by catching it before she can make contact. The venom in my voice is thick, but I can barely register the shock over my anger. "You can't hit me today, woman," I say. Her eyes widen. "Today is the Reaping. And if you hit me, a mark will appear. We all know the Peacekeepers are dead-set against child abuse, and if I show up to the Reaping with a mark on my face, it will come down on you and your business. Hit me any other day, fine. But today is the one day I know I'm safe from your cruelty."
In a burst of adrenaline, I throw her hand down and turn back to the cake I was painting. I expect searing pain on the side of my face at any second, but none comes. When I turned around, my mother is gone.
"Rylis," I hear her call. Two seconds later, Rye rushes into the bakery, looking slightly panicked. He yanks the bread out of the oven, scalding his hands, and looks at me with huge eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm gonna get us both hurt."
My mother stomps into the bakery a moment later, her dark blue eyes blazing. She glares at Rye, and at the slightly black bread on the counter. She takes a step closer to Rye, her hand twitching, before she gives me one last blazing looks and turns away. Rye turns to me, amazed, but my mother isn't done. "Feed it to the pigs, Rylis," she mutters, reaching up to rub her temples. "Maybe if you survive today you can live with them."
Rye yanks the loaf off the counter, turning his attention for two seconds. When he looks back at our mother to apologize, she is gone. He looks at me again with a look of awe on his face. "What was that about?" he asks slowly. I shrug.
"Maybe the witch has realized the errors of her ways."
Rye lets out a hysteric laugh, and soon we are both laughing. My father enters the oven room and smiles at us.
"My boys can't seem to stop laughing for two seconds," he says proudly. He looks at us both slowly. His expression becomes less pronounced and happy and becomes drearier. When he speaks, his voice holds no happiness, just empty fear. "It's eleven thirty. Go get ready for the Reaping, and I'll prepare our lunch."
Rye and I nod, taking off our aprons. I rub my face, and Rye snorts. "Wash your cheeks, Peetie darling," he coos. "Wittle baby just rubbed flour all over it."
I smirk and walk up to my room, where to my surprise a warm tub is waiting. Usually I have to prepare the warm water. Mother must really be trying to save her hide.
I wince. Bad metaphor for someone like me; in love with a girl who skins the hides off of the animals we eat. It takes no time to wash up – spending time in the oven room doesn't really cause a mess. When I'm out and dried off, I look at the clothes my father laid out. A light blue button up shirt and long khaki slacks. I look at the tan shoes he's provided and wonder why I got the nicer of our Reaping options. Once I'm dressed, I manage back my ashy blonde hair, trying to slick it back so it stays out of my back. Most of it just flops back into its usual style.
Downstairs, fresh bread and cheese is waiting on the counter. I look at my father with surprise and he says quietly, "Your mother doesn't know we are using warm bread. Hush, Peeta; she isn't home to find out either."
Rye joins me, dressed in a similar gimmick, though his blonde hair is actually manageable. Though my mother wishes to cut my hair as short as his, I don't want to be as like my brother.
It's twelve forty-five when our whole family walks down to where the Reaping is held. Brioche and his wife, Khrysta, are at the front holding hands, with my father and mother behind them. They'll be roped off together – three fourths of them hoping fearfully that Rye and I will be safe. I go off to my section, biding a goodbye to Rye. He smirks and salutes me away, disappearing into his crowd of friends.
It's all I can take not to pass out. We go through the opening ceremony before I even know what is going on.
And then Effie Trinket is standing by the girls' glass ball. I realize faintly she just gave a speech about the honor of being chosen. "Ladies first," she trills, as bubbly as ever. Her hand drops into the ball at the same time my stomach drops. I find Katniss in the crowd, and ignore the butterflies in my stomach. Her eyes are closed as she mumbles fearfully the same thing I imagine I am thinking.
Not Katniss, I repeat. Please, don't be Katniss.
Effie pulls out a slip of paper and I stare at it, willing it to change its name to anything but Katniss Everdeen. Mazye Liens, I think. Desna Craist, Delly Cartwright, just not Katniss Everdeen; please let her be safe.
Effie clears her throat and says in a loud voice. "Primrose Everdeen."
I can't even register relief, because I know it won't come. All I can hear is the murmuring crowd before the sounds of Prim's screams reach my ears – not the real ones, of course; screams I've fostered and imagined as she is killed. All I can see is Katniss's beautiful little sister, blonde haired and blue eyed. I see her winning over the crowd with her sweet charm just to be returned in a box a few weeks later. And then I see Katniss. Her knees start to give out and a boy catches her. For two seconds I turn my attention back to Prim. Then Katniss is behind her.
Somehow she has made her way through the crowd of people. Her face is locked in utter astonishment. Not her, I think. She's going to take Prim's place.
And then everything holding me together falls apart. A small choking sound makes its way out of my throat, but no one pays attention to me. My heart is turning black and shriveled as I hear Katniss give a little mewing, "Prim. Prim."
Then Katniss is running forward, bounding toward Primrose and my knees grow weaker. She grabs Prim and throws the twelve-year-old girl behind her. She looks so scared, and I find my feet taking a step forward as if to comfort her.
"I volunteer!" she screams. "I volunteer."
She says it so loud, as if she fears no one will hear her. But everyone hears, even Peeta Mellark in almost the back row.
The girl I have loved forever, marching to her death.
"I volunteer as tribute," she says in a strong voice.
"No!" Prim shrieks, but Katniss doesn't hear her. I barely do over the sound of Effie Trinket's microphone.
"Lovely!" the pink-haired lady crows. "But, I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we…um…" She trails off. Everyone is rusty of the volunteer-concept. Why go willingly into your death.
"What does it matter?" snaps the mayor. He stares at Katniss, a martyred pain on his expression. He must have some memory of her. Maybe because she stood in front of him five years prior as he gave her his condolences on the loss of her father. Maybe he buys her meat. "What does it matter?" he repeats. "Let her come forward."
Katniss tried, but Prim's arms are wrapped around her waist and refusing to budge. "NO!" Prim wails, her voice finally breaking through. "Katniss, no! You can't go!"
"Prim, let go," Katniss whispers harshly. I barely hear her from my spot in the crowd. Her face is strong and steady – a face I'd know anywhere. It's the face she wears at school, showing she is stronger than she really is. "Let go!"
Then someone breezes past me and scoops Prim up into his arms. I'm not surprised to see Gale Hawthorne. He also wears the same agonized, tortured look of pain. Prim thrashes, shrieking, in his arms. "Up you go, Catnip," I hear him whisper. Catnip? I think, despite everything else. He carries Primrose off to the crowd, still crying, as Katniss steadies herself and walks up the steps.
My heart tears in half.
"Well, bravo!" gushes Effie Trinket. "That's the spirit of the Games." It's evident in her voice that's she's thrilled to finally be part of the Games' drama. "What's your name?"
"Katniss Everdeen," she says slowly, in a steady voice.
"Well, I'll bet my buttons that was your sister! Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody. Let's give a big round of applause to the newest tribute!"
No one claps. Why clap for the fact that a girl like Katniss Everdeen is dying? Before I know it, I've lifted three fingers to my lips before holding them out to her. Soon, a lot of people around me are doing it before almost everyone is. This gesture is one of admiration, of respect. It's a gesture exchanged between loved ones.
But the moment is broken by Haymitch Abernathy.
Of the whole grand total of two people to win the Games in District 12, I almost wish the other one was alive instead of Haymitch. He won twenty-something years back, and came home with a will to get as drunk as he could. There was hardly a moment he wasn't sober. He staggers onto the stage, not a stranger to alcohol today. He throws his arm around Katniss's shoulder, shaking her. "Look at her," he crows, sounding victorious. Katniss winces away from him. "Look at this one! I like her. Lots of…spunk! More than you! More than you!"
He stumbles away from Katniss, towards the front of the stage and pointing at the camera. I hide my amusement, because all I can really feel is dread. Haymitch opens his mouth the say something more, but his attempt is useless. He barely manages to get a single sound out before he passes out and dives off the stage. Everyone is looking at him. Everyone but me and Katniss.
She lets out a little choked sound, before recovering her posture and holding her hands behind her back. She stares straight forward, as if the audience is beneath her interest. I'll visit her, I think. I'll go to her in the Justice Building and ask her to make it home safely, and maybe consider being with me when she comes home. Because I've loved her since the day I saw her in her red plaid dress and two braids.
Haymitch is taken away on a stretcher, while Effie Trinket rushes back on stage and tries to get the attention back to the Reaping. Clearly, this is more drama than she expected from meager District 12. "What an exciting day!" Effie trills. She tries to straighten her pink wig before continuing. "But more excitement to come…it's time to choose our boy tribute!"
Instead of the long, drawn out show of plucking a name like she gave for the girls' Reaping, she just digs her hand in and pulls out the first thing she can find. I can't even mumble a quick prayer for the safety of my friends before the name has left her Capitol lips.
"Peeta Mellark."
A strange rush of relief runs through me before I realize it's my name she called. The warm relief freezes and turns ice-cold, making me sick to the stomach with vomit. Guess I won't get to ask Katniss to come home to me, I think.
Katniss's face is stunned.
Somehow, I make my way up to the platform. I catch a glimpse of myself on the screen and I'm not surprised to see my expression locked in utter shock. I don't have to listen to the Treaty of Treason. I already know our history.
The world destroyed by perpetual disaster, floods drowning everything and earthquakes killing everyone. Arise and shine, the glorious city of Panem, who took control of the survivors with a new government divided into thirteen districts – I suppose because of what was the thirteen original colonies or whatever they were called back before the disasters. I roll my eyes as all of these relieved teenagers listen with apprehension as our history is finished. How the thirteenth district rebelled, and how because of it, Katniss and I will die in weeks to come.
The mayor finishes the Treaty of Treason, and it's time for the tributes to shake hands. With Katniss's small, strong hands in my larger, calloused ones, I feel a strange surge of relief I can't describe. I try to squeeze her hand, to reassure her she'll be the victor, but the muscles in my hand roll and spaz out.
There are only two things I know for sure. I'm not coming out of this alive. Even if I do become a victor, Katniss will be dead and I'll be lost without the girl I loved – and she will have never known how I felt. The other thing is that my feelings for Katniss have shifted. No, this isn't love any more. It's anger.