I didn't want to write this.
There is already a finely narrated account of the last Hunger Games and how the Capitol was overthrown, but Doctor Aurelius suggested the same thing to me that he suggested to Katniss: writing down every experience from my own point of view. It would help vent any pent up emotions and relive memories that I was suppressing, he said. I suppose that may be true. It was extremely hard, however. Wasn't painting enough? I argued. But she urged me to do this as well. She wanted to know my side, to understand my struggles and fears.
So here we are. Katniss's account of the 74th and the 75th Hunger Games should be enough, but if anyone is so inclined, this will be my own point of view. I do not promise anything of importance or depth, but I will describe everything as best as I can. I've been told I'm good with words, but writing them down is far different than speaking them. I only hope I can do justice to all the hardships and struggles the two of us went through.
Part 1: The Tribute
There is no chance of the bakery being busy this morning. I can tell by how quiet the house is when I wake up. Usually, my family and I are all up at the crack of dawn preparing for school and firing up the ovens for the day's quota of bread and other delicacies. Today, however, a hush is over the whole house and the bakery connected to it. Even my mother, whose raucous voice could wake the dead, is abnormally quiet. When I glance out of the window, I also notice that even though it's mid-morning, there are no kids from the town making their way to the schoolhouse. Even school is not in session. As I peer out of the window, I realize that all of this stillness could only mean one thing:
Today is Reaping Day.
I lie back down, staring up at the ceiling, hoping and almost praying that I'm wrong. Maybe it isn't Reaping Day. Maybe we just have a day off from classes, or the bakery is on a holiday. Of course, those are both outrageous ideas. School is always in session, with little to no breaks, and my parents would never take a day off from work, not if they want to eat. No, today is definitely the dreaded day of the reaping, whether I want it to be or not. As if to justify my suspicions, in bursts Cain, my older brother. He's not wearing a shirt and has a towel draped over his head.
"Still asleep? Lie around any longer, and you won't have time to clean up for the Big Day!" He exclaims in a singsong kind of voice, leaning against the doorframe.
I grumble something in reply and sit up slowly, not used to sleeping in this late, and still quite groggy. I can hear Cain chuckling.
"Come on, slow coach! There won't be much hot water left for your bath!" I watch as he sits down on the bed next to mine, drying his hair with the towel, having finished bathing himself.
Today is Reaping Day... Today is Reaping Day... The thought keeps turning over and over in my head as I follow my brother's suggestion and head to the bathroom. I let out a yawn as I turn the bath water on and test it. Fortunately, the hot water hasn't run out just yet.
Reaping Day. That means big screens, peacekeepers by the swarms, and the Hunger Games. I can't believe it's that time of year again. It feels like we are still recovering from last year's games; they come and go by so fast. I'm still trying to forget all the images the past year had bestowed upon us.
As I quickly wash myself, I can't help but wonder which two kids will be chosen to be this year's tributes for the games. It's the same sick cycle every year. To continue the established "peace" of all twelve districts under the ruling Capitol, President Coriolanus Snow hosts a grand, nationwide event called the Hunger Games. In these "games," one boy and one girl - ranging from years twelve to eighteen - from each district are "reaped" every year. They are then hoisted off to the Capitol to be put on display for the masses before being thrown into an arena of sorts. There, they are filmed for all eyes to see as they fight against nature, and each other, to survive and ultimately win. The catch? There can be only one winner.
Reaping Day is so aptly labeled the worst day of the year in our district. It is the long dreaded day in which everyone waits to see which two kids from their district will have their names picked to be the District Twelve tributes. The selections are random, as far as I know. Some years back, the boy and the girl that were chosen were from town, even though they hadn't had their names entered in that many times. Some other year, the tributes were as young as twelve years old. It's a cruel game of chance that every kid has to participate in. No one can skip this day unless you're near death. Try to and you are imprisoned.
I quickly dry myself with a towel once I deem myself clean enough and return to my room to get dressed. Reaping Day also means wearing your best clothes since the entire event is broadcasted for every district to watch. Now wearing a dress shirt and slacks, I slip on my best loafers and figure breakfast is in order. I can only hope that there will still be food left and I can hear Cain making snide remarks about the day as I walk down the hall to the kitchen.
"Not your cheerful self today, eh mother? I wonder why? After all, it is the Big Day! As the estimable Effie Trinket says, 'Happy Hunger Games'!"
He puts on a high-pitched voice to match the same bizarre accent that the Capitol lady uses. Effie Trinket. What can be said about her? The escort of District Twelve's tributes, she arrives for each Reaping with the cameras and the troops, making a grand speech and then picking two random names out of hundreds. One boy and one girl. Then she flutters away with the two chosen and introduces them to the entire Capitol, teaching them how behave for when they are interviewed on television.
That is the twist in the Games that really make them cruel: the people of the Capitol see it all as merely something enjoyable to watch. They can bet on which tribute they think will win and they send their favorite ones gifts so they can win. Yes, they will watch real children die, but think it is all in good fun. After all, there is always a game with plenty of participants to root for, year after year, and no game is ever exactly the same. Each arena has been different over the years: sometimes it's a desert, other times it's an island surrounded by water. Whatever the case, the arena is always designed with the idea in mind that the children have to learn to survive to win, as long as the other kids don't kill them first.
Cain always mocks Effie Trinket due to her strange accent and her outlandish Capitol looks. He calls her the Capitol Clown. Truth be told, I inwardly think that it's bit harsh of him, but it's hard to reprimand him for mocking a lady like her, someone who so gleefully selects the tributes while being so blind to the cruelties of subjecting kids as young as twelve years old to the horrors of the Hunger Games.
" 'May the odds be ever in your favor'!" He shoots my way as I enter the kitchen. Everyone is sitting round the table, except our mother, who is scrubbing some sort of pot in the sink. She looks the same as she always does, hair buried under a neckerchief of sorts, wearing a frumpy dress with an apron over it. My two brothers sit across from each other while my father is sitting on the end. It appears the bakery will not receive many customers today, as I suspected.
I ignore Cain's comments and his lopsided grin as I sit down by my father. Other than my brother, the room is silent - well, for a moment. We suddenly hear the whack a wooden spoon makes when it comes in contact with a skull. That is my mother's doing. She's hit Cain, who hardly flinches while the rest of us don't bat an eyelash. We all are used to that wooden spoon by now, especially myself.
"Oh will you shut up, Cain. No one finds it amusing," our mother grouses out. She makes a face as if she has eaten a whole pile of lemons. At least, that's what I think the face would look like, as I hardly know what a lemon tastes like. They mayor's daughter, Madge Undersee, told me what one tasted like once. She puckered her lips up in a similar fashion as my mother did just now to illustrate.
Cain makes a face too, as if he's distraught. "My dear mother, I would think you would show me and Peeta some slight amount of compassion, today of all days! We could be chosen just as easily as anyone else."
"Cain." My father speaks softly, but in a tone that holds a warning. While my father is quite a large man, fit from baking and hoisting big sacks of flour and other groceries, he is soft spoken and reserved. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, you listen. At this moment, though, Cain was not going to.
"Wouldn't it be the greatest irony if I was picked?" He continues. "It being my last year and all."
It would be ironic indeed, I can't help but think. Cain is eighteen, the oldest age qualified for selection. I just can't imagine it: being selected on your last year, just before you are free from it all. I take a deep breath and try not to think about that as I pour myself a small glass of milk.
"There's thousands of names. Some of the poor kids have theirs put in over twenty times or more. Odds are it won't be you."
My oldest brother Royal, ever the voice of reason, says this quietly as we pass around slices of crusty bread (stale as always, but we were used to it). He's not in a joking mood, but who would be on a day like this? Cain falls quiet with the look Roy gives him and just munches away on his bread, the crunching sounds filling the air.
It's in this brief silence that I take time to study my two brothers. While Roy has the calm and steadfast composure of our father, Cain possesses a lot of the cynicism as well as the sharp tongue of our mother. Then there's me, the youngest son. I suppose I embody a little bit of each of these attributes. I'm not as quiet or patient like my father, but I'm certainly not as cynical or harsh like my mother.
I only think about myself for a second, however. The Reaping is a bit more of an important issue at the moment.
"Roy is right," our father murmurs as I receive my slice of bread. There's no butter today, it seems. A bowl of oatmeal is then slid my way and I eat in silence. My mother is soon talking for the rest of us, anyway.
"All I know is that it's all very vexing that you children have to go through this every year. If one of you is ever chosen, that would mean one less set of hands to help mind the shop," she gripes as she tosses the wooden spoon into the sink. Father sighs but only continues eating his oatmeal.
"Aw, don't fret, Mom. If I'm chosen, you'll still have Roy and Peeta," says Cain, shrugging. Father looks like he wants to say something but keeps it to himself. As for Mother, she just huffs, definitely not satisfied by Cain's remark. I glance over at her, but not once does she look at me. I might as well be invisible.
I begin to wonder, does it bother her that I, too, could be a potential tribute in a couple of hours? I suppose it wouldn't be that big of a loss. It would be the most sensible outcome, if it were to come to that. Since I am the youngest, I can't pull my weight around in the bakery like my brothers. I still go to school, and can only work in the afternoons and on the weekends.
The truth of the matter is, I'm not as needed as much as my brothers; not to my mother, at least. I now no longer feel very hungry.
"You boys had better finish your breakfast," Father suggests. As I've lost my appetite, I merely stir the oatmeal around in the bowl. He notices and I catch the sad look in his eye, as well as concern. I don't want him to feel any sort of guilt or remorse, so I smile to reassure him that I'm fine.
My poor father. Ever since I was little, I've looked up to him. I used to think there was nothing he couldn't do or handle, what with his quiet strength and steadfastness of character. Now that I'm older, I know better. He has one major weakness: my mother. He could never stand up to her, even when she "scolded" us. I've never resented him for that, though. He has his own demons to fight. I've heard him being screamed at enough to know that, and even though I've never told him, I've noticed the black eyes and scratch marks over the years.
As I watch him, I wonder what must be going through his mind at the moment. He saw one son survive his share of reaping, but still has to endure the risk of seeing his other two be chosen. It's frightening to endure being potentially selected, but it must be a nightmare for the parents too. To see your own child, being shipped off to be killed or forced to murder other children for survival... It is heartbreaking to think about.
We finish our breakfast and mother orders us to clean up. I see her stalk off to the sitting room.
"Here you go, big guy." Cain shoves a plate full of scraps into my hands. "Feed the pig."
There's no point in arguing, so I just make my way to the back door and outside to the pig pen. Once the plate is empty and the pig is happily munching away, I return to help finish cleaning. As I scrub my share of mismatching plates and cups, I notice my father is skinning something. A squirrel.
They are obviously fresh, and fresh squirrel means Gale Hawthorne stopped by earlier. And Gale Hawthorne stopping by meant that he was with- I shake my head and return to the scrubbing. Even thinking of her won't help my mood right now.
Mother disapproves of trading and buying game from someone like Gale (she says it hurts the family pride), but she's not around at the moment. Father works swiftly, removing the skin from the animal and then deboning it. He knows he has to work fast before she comes in and questions the origin of the squirrels.
He soon notices me watching him and a smile forms underneath his mustache. "Don't tell Mother," he whispers.
I smile and nod. "My lips are sealed."
Father, unlike her, has no qualms about this sort of thing. The meat supplied by Gale is some of the freshest we ever eat. Plus, he is from the Seam, the poorest part of the District, where the coal miners work and the children are half-starved.
It is easy to differentiate someone from the Seam from someone from Town. Their clothes are a little shabbier, their faces a little dirtier, their bodies thinner and their eyes hungrier. Several Seam children don't go to school. Things are so bad, that many who have bigger families even enter their names in for the games extra times just to receive items called tesserae. It's a kind of currency around the Seam, so I've been told, and it's used to buy food and other necessities. As a result, many kids from the Seam have entered their names in twenty times or more. With all this in mind, Father sees no issue in trading with several of them instead of charging them. Many times, I've heard him say he wished he could do more.
We are not wealthy, far from it, but we are undoubtedly better off than most families from the Seam. Helping them doesn't benefit us either, and it is usually frowned upon, but it is the right thing to do, as my father always says. He calls it the Golden Rule, and he lives by its principles. I daresay, I, too try to do so.
"Squirrel stew is always delicious," I comment, entirely in earnest. Father makes it with just the right amount of seasoning in the broth, with the meat at its most tender. Mix that with crisp vegetables and you have one fine stew.
He hums in agreement, and as he is finished with the preparations, covers the meat and stores it in the ice box for later use. It will make a good supper. I only hope I will still be around to taste it.
Now that we have everything cleaned up, we put some aprons on and help father around the bakery. Even though we all know it won't be very busy today, that doesn't mean people won't drop by. Plus, the reaping doesn't begin till after lunch time, giving us ample time to work and worry. By the time we do break to have a small lunch of sandwiches, we've gotten several rolls and biscuits ready for any customer needing bread for today's meals.
Time passes faster than any normal day working at the bakery, I feel, and soon we have to finish preparing for the Reaping. After washing our faces and dusting off the flour that somehow seems to get everywhere, Mother suggests we use some of Roy's precious hair gel for our hair as, she says, he doesn't need to worry about looking as presentable - unlike the two of us. Cain takes a large glob of it (just for the heck of it, I think), and slicks it through his hair until it is completely smoothed away from his forehead. As for myself, I only use a little bit of it. I really don't care about my hair. It's a bit curly and hard to manage anyways, so I just work it in there until the gunk is fully off of my hands.
Cain chuckles and shrugs. "Good enough, man." He's patting my back as we prepare to leave the house. But we're not finished yet. Mother eyes us up and down, tucking Cain's shirt in further and critically eyeing my hair. She then shrugs, herself.
"You will have to do."
We take that as leave to go and exit the house via the back door. The reaping will be held in the Town Square, so that's where we head. As I look around, seeing people emerge from houses, or walk up from the Seam, I can't help but think of all the times over the years that I ran around this place with friends. We'd play ball on the street or peer into the various shops, wishing we could receive even the smallest amount of spending money to buy one piece of candy. I have always loved the refreshing taste of peppermint and can remember longingly looking at the bright sticks of red, white and green sitting in crystal glasses, ready to be bought.
What am I thinking, I scold myself. I am acting like I will never see this square again. I could very well be overlooked as I have been for the past four years. There's no knowing whether luck will be on my side again or not, and that's the worst part of it. You never know if or when your luck will run out.
Slowly but surely, every young person from District Twelve arrives at the Town Square. I look around at the sea of faces, and everywhere it is the same: everyone is either stoic or scared, or about to be. Some are also tearful. Younger kids are clutching the hands of their older siblings as if for dear life, which is not too far from the truth. I can remember being the same way when I was twelve, gripping Roy's hand for support.
My heart aches for the younger ones. They look so small and terrified, especially the ones from the Seam. They are thin, weak, starving. I only pray that one of them will not be chosen. They wouldn't last one day in the Games.
As we near the center of Town Square, it is more apparent where the reaping will take place. There are Peacekeepers everywhere, taking names, drawing blood, and organizing the kids into two groups: boys and girls, from youngest to oldest. I see the huge screens set up, towering above us into the sky. They will broadcast the whole thing from the Mayor's introduction, to his speech, and then to the selections, for all of Panem to see. A podium and microphone are set up on the steps of the building, as are chairs where the Mayor and other officials will sit.
On the edges of the crowd of children are the families and adults, subjected to watch and wait - to see which two children will be reaped. As I stand there with the other sixteen year old boys in our designated spot, I eye the rest of the crowd. Everyone is quiet, everyone is grim. Just when I catch sight of Cain standing with the older boys, my attention is suddenly directed back to the steps of the justice building at the sound of fingers tapping on the microphone. The ceremony has begun.
Mayor Undersee introduces this year's reaping, giving the usual speech about the history of our country Panem. He talks about how we once were a unified nation, which as I recall, ended with an apocalyptic event that almost annihilated civilization. He describes how the surviving thirteen sects banded together to rebuild, each branching off to take charge of different industries under the watchful eye of the Capitol. These sects would come to be called Districts and each district still exports its individual industries to this day. Four disperses marine life for food, Seven disperses lumber, Eleven disperses produce, our Twelve disperses coal, and so on. This peaceful time of growth and unity ended with a war (also known as the Dark Days), which was mostly between the now-extinct District Thirteen and the Capitol. Needless to say, the Capitol won. He then goes on about how the Hunger Games were set up and why they occur every year. It's his routine speech. I could quote it and say it myself in front of the whole crowd if I wanted to, I know it that well.
After that, the mayor speaks about our District's tributes. We have only had two, and one of them has passed away. That leaves Haymitch Abernathy, a man who at this moment, has still yet to show up. None of us are surprised at this, though. Haymitch is never taken seriously. He shows up at every reaping drunk out of his mind, and falling asleep once he sits down after being introduced. I can safely say that he is also drunk every other day of the year too, not just at the reaping. I can't blame him for being an alcoholic, though. Who knows what horrors he saw during his Games? Being a victor either made you or broke you. Haymitch just unfortunately happened to be broken.
He finally appears, stumbling up the steps and we are all awkwardly silent as he makes quite a spectacle of himself. Stepping up to the mike, he shoves the mayor away and garbles something we can't quite make out. Afterwards, he tumbles into a chair, right next to the elegant Capitol Lady, herself. Things just get even more awkward as he tries to hug her, knocking what seems to be a wig on her head askew, while we all clap. I can hear a slight amount of chuckling that's unsuccessfully trying to be muffled, and I am certain that it's coming from Cain. He always did like watching Haymitch make a fool of himself during the previous reapings.
Not long after this, Effie stands up (quite relieved, too) to make her own tittering speech. I can just picture Cain's smirk, but I don't look back to see. I'm too distracted by the contrasting colors the woman is bestowing upon us. She's wearing a bright green suit that is no natural green color I know, while wearing a bright pink wig. Compared to the understated colors everyone in the district is wearing, it's honestly almost blinding.
"Good afternoon!" She greets in her overtly-cheerful manner. I suppose she has recuperated from being harassed. One wouldn't have thought that anything had gone amiss, had her wig not still been tilted to the side.
She continues on in her high-pitched Capitol accent. "Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" I have to admit, Cain can do a darn good job impersonating her.
As Effie continues her speech, going on about how excited she is to be here with us, I stop paying attention to her. Instead, my eyes wander again. I spy my parents to the far left and behind: my mother looking bored, and my father stern, with his barreled arms folded tightly across his chest.
I only gaze at them for a short while, turning my sights to other kids my age. When I look at the girls, I spy Delly Cartwright. She looks nice, with her hair pulled away from her face by a ribbon and falling behind her in waves. Delly and I have known each other since we were toddlers, and I have always held a brotherly affection for her. Though kids have teased us about getting married when we're older, I can safely say that this will never happen. It would feel like I was marrying my sister, not to mention Delly has jokingly told me that I am not her type. All that aside, she was always fun to play with when we were kids. She is not a tomboy, per se, but would always enjoy a game of kickball when put up to it. What I like about her the most, though, is how positive she can be. Somehow, she will always find the silver lining amidst the clouds.
One time when I was little, after receiving an especially harsh scolding from my mother due to dropping fresh rolls on the ground, Delly came to see me. She sat down on the back steps of our house next to me, petticoats and all, and slipped a peppermint chew in my hand. She had bought it herself. We didn't talk and she didn't stare at the bruises or bloody nose. She just sat there with me and held my hand as we sucked on the peppermints. I never did forget that kindness and I made sure to treat her just as kindly after that.
When our eyes meet, she works up a small smile and I give her one in return. You won't be picked, I wish I could tell her. I can't, though, and I'm glad of it. I have no right to tell her something like that. She is in just as much danger as the rest of us.
Effie now seems to be finished with her speech and is ready to begin the selections.
"Ladies first!" She proclaims. Stepping over to the first crystal bowl, she reaches in and fishes around before choosing a slip of paper. Everyone and everything is silent, even the nature around us. If I had a pin to drop, I would be able to hear it hit the ground.
In the sparse amount of time it takes Effie to unfold the paper, I look back at the girls again, but this time I'm not looking for Delly. Just as I am about to find the face I wish to see above all others, I hear,
"Primrose Everdeen!"
And I swear, in that moment, the entire district stops breathing.
. . .
I can remember the many times pale little Primrose would peer into our bakery windows, her pink button nose pressed up to the glass as she admired the cakes on display - cakes I had helped decorate. Those times were mostly when she would be waiting for her sister as she traded with people around town in secret with Gale Hawthorne. Father knew what they were doing of course, and there was an unspoken secret that he would keep his eye on Primrose when this happened.
It was on one of those afternoons that I decided to say hello to her. Her sister was running errands or trading and I could see Primrose's blonde head right by the bakery window. While my mother was preoccupied, I slipped out of the shop to talk to her. She was a tiny, scrawny thing with long braids and a handmade dress, most likely also a hand-me-down. As the youngest child, I could relate.
I smiled at her and said hello. She was too shy to say much, but did manage a hello in return. To combat her shyness, I gave her a sugar cookie, decorated with yellow frosting. It was from a batch that I baked myself, so it wasn't stealing in my mind. Besides, she just looked so lonely and frightened. I wanted to make her feel at least a little better.
"Don't worry," I told her as she nibbled on it. She probably thought the cookie was too pretty to eat, from the way she was looking at it. "I'm sure your sister will be back soon."
Primrose nodded and looked up at me. "Thank you..."
"No need to thank me. Just don't tell your sister." My voice sank to a whisper, as if we were sharing a confidential secret. I put my finger over my lips and playfully winked. She giggled ever so slightly and nodded in compliance.
That was how I met Primrose Everdeen, though after that encounter, we didn't really talk ever again. Even so, I would sometimes catch sight of her in town looking into the bakery window, and I would give her a smile. She always smiled back.
Everyone loves Primrose once they meet her. How can they not? She is a kind, tenderhearted girl, from what I've seen and heard. She's also compassionate with animals. Many call her the Flower of the Seam, which is very fitting. But as much as the rest of us may adore her, it is her older sister Katniss who loves her the most.
Katniss. I feel a tightness in my chest that gradually worsens as we all watch that tiny figure slowly walk towards the justice building, tucking in her shirt from behind. She looks like she's about to burst into tears, but holds it back for the moment. Two bright pink splotches dot her pale face.
What must Katniss be feeling right now? Primrose is the only family she has, apart from their mother and you would have to be blind to not see how much she means to Katniss. Everything Katniss does is for the well-being of that little girl. She sneaks out into the woods to hunt, and will illegally trade the game for necessities to keep their small family alive. I can't imagine how many times her own name is entered in for all the tesserae she most likely took. Now, to see the one person she promised to protect being sent to the slaughter like this without any say in the matter; it makes my heart ache for them both. And Primrose is only twelve years old... I clench my fists in despair and anger. It just isn't fair and it isn't right.
Suddenly the silence is destroyed by a sudden bout of chaos. I hear someone call out Primrose's name, see Peacekeepers struggling with someone wearing a light blue dress, and, most shocking of all, a plea to volunteer. It only takes me a second to recognize that voice.
"I volunteer!" Katniss cries. "I volunteer as tribute!"
Everyone is staring, dumbfounded, including me. Even Effie is speechless for a minute. Then the mayor and district leaders begin whispering among themselves. I suppose they are trying to remember whether volunteering for someone is legal or not. The decision is soon made, though, and Katniss is told to join Effie up on the steps in her sister's place.
Primrose begins to scream and reaches for her sister as the rest of us just dumbly watch the heartbreaking scene unfold before us. Katniss tries to comfort her, urging her to go back with the others before Gale steps up and carries her away, crying out her sister's name all the while. Effie is jabbering on about how exciting this all is and I'm just standing there gazing up at the brave girl in awe. I can't help but notice how lost she looks while she dumbly tells Effie her name.
There really is no one else like Katniss Everdeen. She is one of the strongest people I know, with how she provides for her family. I say that I know her loosely, for we've never actually spoken, though we've been in the same class. That doesn't stop me from admiring her, though. Many call her antisocial and cold, but with the life she's led, I can't help but wonder if she is a victim of circumstance. In a place like District Twelve, I think we all are in our own way.
Effie is congratulating her and is asking for a round of applause, but no one gives it. Instead, slowly, one by one, people begin to touch their mouths with their three forefingers and then raise them in a salute. I willingly do the same. It is a sign of respect and a sign of farewell. We can still hear Primrose weeping while Effie tries to take control of the situation - our salute is something she hasn't had to deal with yet, it seems. Haymitch isn't helping either. He's drunkenly congratulating Katniss as well as shouting to the television screens before falling off of the stage. They have to carry him away on a stretcher. I think Mayor Undersee is going to die of embarrassment.
Effie decides that now is a good time to select the boy tribute. This is it, I tell myself. We all watch as she goes over to the second crystal bowl, digging deep down again. I feel my heart begin to beat faster as she pulls a paper out. My stomach won't stop churning. My hands feel a little clammy.
You're just one among many, I remember Roy saying. Odds are, it won't be you.
I deeply wish Roy had directed that remark at me as well as at Cain back then, because right now, I don't feel so well.
Effie has opened the paper. She's reading the name that is written there.
"Peeta Mellark."
The boys are stepping away from me, giving me a clear path to the steps and platform beyond. I see pity on many faces directed at me. I wonder why for a millisecond, but then it hits me.
It is my name that has been chosen.