As sunlight finally begins pouring through my window, I remain motionless, resting my head between my knees. Just like every year, I am made to wait the dread out in solitude. There is no reassurance that my mother can offer me. I believe that she is incapable of it. I am no longer even sure if she loves me, if she ever did. The possibility of her being the only parent in Panem not concerned for the welfare of her child is all too real. Not even the reaping can bring her to appreciate how precious her children are. At least, I have heard other parents refer to their children as precious, or as a blessing. Every day, I doubt that she believes this more and more. My father is not any better. He has a business to run, and whether or not today could result in him losing a child cannot change that.
There is a sharp knock on my door, and behind it I can hear my mother calling me with shrill tones of frustration. Today is the one day of the year that I am guaranteed safety from her destructive anger. I wish that it did not take my life being on the line to be shown what little affection that I am given. But, some affection is better than none at all. Compared to the treatment that my elder brothers receive from her, one could say that I am being spoiled. I count myself lucky. I have yet to feel the strap of a hard leather belt by either of my parents' hands, while it is not uncommon for my brothers to be covered from their backsides to their knees in dark bruises and red welts. My father only used physical punishment in the form of spanking while we were younger, but my mother's abuse has continued into their teenage years. I suppose that being the youngest has saved me from such pain.
"Honey, are you alright?" she asks, her voice carrying through the thin wood of the door. She sounds too harsh, too forced to be consoling. The words that should bring me comfort only provide resentment and a deep, stinging wound. What more do I expect from her? I hear the click of my doorknob twisting open. It takes every ounce of my self control not to scoff or scorn my mother as she steps into my room. Honey. Since when does she address me with anything other than shouting? It feels alien, unnatural, and I know that it must be forced on her part. For the first time in four years, she is trying to comfort me before the reaping. My father must have said something to her. A part of me recoils at the sudden surprise, and I suddenly want nothing more than to shout at her until she leaves me alone.
But I have to give her credit for trying.
Silently, I lift my head up from where it had been resting on my kneecaps, and my bed creaks with age as I move. My eyes meet her's, and I am sorry to see that my initial suspicions are correct. Her expression holds none of the pain or concern that her voice should have carried, and her icy eyes are boring into me with one emotion, and one emotion only: disgust. I can see it in every line of her face. Why? I ask her silently, and I know that my attempt to remain emotionless has failed. My mother's face becomes darker, more disapproving. She plants her hands on her hips, and assumes a dominate posture. She glares down her nose at me, but it's been long since I have grown used to my mother's dark looks. When I was younger, her glares and glowers would cause me so much hurt it felt as if my heart was being ripped out. But I have learned to block the pain, just as I have learned to deflect her harsh words and high temper. The only way to deal with my mother is to submit, let her cool off, and then hope for the best. It was a lesson that I had learned quickly, and one that my brothers never seemed to grasp. Perhaps that is why I am her favorite.
"Peeta," she says firmly, her blue eyes conveying a flash of irritation, "You haven't eaten. It's nearly ten." As the words leave her mouth, I know that I'm in trouble. She's never approved of my habit of locking myself away in my room on the day of the reaping. Perhaps she believes it cowardly.
"I know, Mother." I say, setting my exhausted and dull voice bouncing off the inside of my skull. It's the first time I've spoken since last evening, and my voice is heavy and cracked from being unused. I realize just then that I have not had anything to drink yet either, and that my mother is probably right about eating. But I can't make myself care.
A raised brow shows that my mother does not appreciate my attitude today. When does she ever appreciate anything that I do? According to half of her screaming fits, I am a useless waste of space. "You'd best watch your mouth, young man," she says coldly, and her lips curl into the smallest of a snarl. To her, the sleepiness laced throughout my voice could have been sarcasm. More than likely, she is only looking for a fight, and I have given her an excuse. The fire that has sparked in her pale eyes is now blazing in intensity, staring me down as if she hopes to melt me with her gaze alone.
Whether I simply have not gotten enough sleep of late, or I have truly come to an end of the line with my mother, I cannot be sure. All I know is that I am tired of her constant anger, of the pain and stress that she piles upon our family each day. Before I can stop myself, I sigh heavily in pale frustration, and I immediately regret it. My mother's eyes go wide in shock, and her expression grows darker than I have ever seen it. She stares at me for a moment in disbelief, and I find myself swallowing with trepidation. I haven't tried facing her in weeks. Since I have learned how to deal with my mother there has been little reason to cross her, to place myself in the way of her destructive path. And now I have.
The silence that fills my little room is nearly deafening, and after a few moments of watching my mother to try and determine what she is going to do, I tear my gaze away from her's, and begin glancing around my room nervously. Things are never pretty when my mother is silent. Angry screaming fits are ugly, but when she's fallen silent you know things are bad. My eyes take in the plain brown floors, the unadorned walls, looking everywhere but at my mother. After what feels like an eternity, she finally speaks, her voice soft, like a deadly caress.
"What was that?" Her voice is at least an octave lower than I am used to hearing it, and it makes chills run down my spine. I continue to intently study my shoes in hopes that the situation will diffuse itself, but I'd just as soon grow wings and fly. "Peeta!" she snaps, her voice at it's normal level of shrillness, and I nearly jump out of my skin at the volume she reaches. Before I can stop myself, my eyes pull up to reach her's, and I know that I'm caught. There's a triumphant glimmer in her eyes, and I know that she's preparing herself for the best screaming match she's had in a long while. My heart begins to pound furiously behind my ribs, and I can only hope that she doesn't decide to become physical.
I watch in something near horror as she opens her mouth, and I try to quickly prepare myself for the onslaught that's sure to come. But in that split second that hangs between her opening her mouth and forming words of disgust and hatred, I make a decision. I should not have to face this. Not even under normal circumstances, should I have to shrink around my house in fear of my own mother. My father is too much of a coward to stand up to her. That doesn't mean that I have to be a coward too.
"Don't, Mother." I say softly, catching her off guard. She does not look pleased about my interrupting her, and somehow, her gaze becomes even darker. "Not today." She opens her mouth and manages to make a noise of protest from the back of her throat, but I stand from my bed and brush past her. I leave my room without a glance backwards, not caring what mental state I've just put my mother into. More than likely she will be completely psychotic. I will be paying for this later.
I'll deal with my mother after the reaping.
I don't have enough resolve left in me to go through with a full blown fight, and I know that if I give her the chance, she'll take it. It's almost like she's addicted to fighting: screaming and shouting must have an opposite effect on me. I merely cower and hide, hold out and hope that it will be over soon, yet my mother seems to feed on it. Everyone in the District seems to have had an encounter with her terrible temper, and I don't believe that anyone really likes my mother. I love her, but increasingly, my love has transformed from that of an adoring love to more of a fearful love. I do not hate my mother, but I do not like her either. I used to think that all children were as mistreated by their parents as I was by my mother. And when I learned that it was just my mother who treated her children like this, I begin to wonder what I was doing wrong. I tried so hard to please her, but nothing seemed to work.
I still catch myself wondering what it is that I have done wrong to earn her abuse. Her harsh words have racked up over the years, and it seems as if each of her insults have been carved into my heart. No, I cannot forget my mother's screeching voice, or the way that my father stands by and watches. My brothers have learned to brush it off, and it never seems to bother them anymore. I have tried and failed to do the same. My mother says that I am weak, and that I am a coward. And with every passing argument that I shrink away from, I believe her more and more. As I begin my descent down the stairs to the bakery below, I realize that a coward cannot survive the Hunger Games.
I suddenly feel quite ill. I clutch at the banister, and my sweaty palms nearly slip off of the smooth surface. I have always known that I am not cut out for the Capitol's form of a reminder of our treason. It was exactly seventy-four years ago that the thirteen Districts surrounding the Capitol were drawn into submission by the absolute rule of the Capitol of Panem. The the thirteenth District refused to send their children as tribute to the shining city, and they were blown off of the face of the earth. Literally, we fight or we die. I have watched three hundred and thirty-six tributes die in the arena over my fifteen years of life. I have seen only fourteen victors step away from the arena. And today, there is a chance that my name could be drawn, and I could be joining the three hundred and thirty-six that I have seen die.
There are thousands of names, I remind myself. But there is always the possibility of my name being drawn, and this is terrifying to me. I stay where I am for a moment, allowing my fear to rush through me. Not even my own room is a sanctuary from my mother, not anymore. It seems like here on the stairs is the only place of respite that I am going to have. I try to take a deep breath, and I try to sedate the adrenaline rushing through my veins. I can feel my heart pounding again, the heavy beats thudding in my ears. My grip on the banister becomes white-knuckled. I hear a creaking noise from further up the single flight of stairs and I quickly look over my shoulder, hoping that it is only one of my brothers. The last thing I need is for her to come down and find me near panic. I freeze, not even breathing, and silently watch the top of the stairs for movement. It's dim, like everywhere else in my house, but there's just enough light that I can make out a subtle motion. I squint, trying to see what's causing the wood to sound in protest, and I am able to make out the feline form of my cat, Sesame.
Relief is immediate and my breath rushes out in a sigh. Sesame mews quietly and gracefully begins padding down the stairs. When she reaches me, she begins rubbing her thin body around my leg, purring softly as she does. I reach down and stroke her coarse coat, dismayed by the tufts of ashen fur that come loose. Sesame continues rumbling with contentment, her green eyes squinting shut. I mumble nonsense and she takes great delight in the attention that I give her. She continues to purr and her rough tongue darts out and brushes the back of my hand. I smile at her, and not for the first time, I contemplate the fact that she is the one source of my happiness. I had to beg my mother to let me keep her, and even then, there has been times where she has tried to kill her. Whether by strangulation or by downing, my mother has made it clear that she does not approve of my having a cat.
I cannot count the times that Sesame's piercing howls have brought me to anger. I forget myself, when it comes to this cat. When there are few things in this world that you truly care about, the lengths that you will go to protect them are limitless. It is the one thing that I am willing to fight with my mother over. And while she is cruel, and while I often doubt that she loves me, she seems to understand the need that I feel. The need that I have to call something my own. I've been told that my mother was independent as a girl. Perhaps she sympathizes with my will to be free. Caring for Sesame seems to be the one thing in my life that no one else has control over.
And then my door really does creak open. In the dim light, I can see my mother shutting my door behind her, and before she can turn towards me I shove Sesame away. She hisses as she's forced down a step, and I can see the human-like disapproval in her eyes.
"Shoo!" I say softly, waving her off before I stand back up. Sesame cocks her head in defiance, and mews at me again. I can hear the wood creaking loudly as my mother begins moving towards the stairs. I know that there is enough light for her to see that Sesame is with me, but I hope that she doesn't notice anyways. "Get," I say desperately, and I give her stomach a little push with my foot. Like all cats, she's good with her feet, and doesn't loose her balance as she's moved down another step. She meows loudly in protest, but she finally seems to get the picture. Arrogantly, she arches her back, and pads proudly down the stairs. But I don't have enough time to feel any better about it. Just then, my mother starts climbing down the stairs.
"Peeta," she snaps, "Why aren't you down in the bakery helping your father? You know that we'll be needing those extra cakes for after the reaping." There it is again, that sharp tone of utter disgust. It seems that she's recovered from her minor downfall back in my room. It's in my best interest if I pretend that never happened.
"I'll go now." I reply, submitting all I dare. I can only give in so far without seeming to be a coward. If I don't grovel enough, she'll think that I'm being defiant, and then there will be no escaping her anger - whether today is the reaping or not. Usually, I am able to use the reaping as a twisted sort of shield, but I know that I am in the calm before the storm. I say one wrong word, and I've earned myself a black eye. However, if I appear too timid, then she will think me a coward. She'll think that I am afraid of being selected to compete in the Hunger Games. According to her, death is nothing to be afraid of.
Can she remember when she was young enough to participate in the reapings? Can she not remember the fear that boiled in her blood as the Capitol 'escort' pulled the pale strip of paper from the glass ball? Does she recall the paralyzing fear that seems to block everything else out?
I look into her eyes, in false hopes of finding sympathy. I am only greeted with the all-too familiar disgust. We share the same blue eyes, but I can't help but wonder if her eyes have ever held the compassion that I know mine hold. Because if she does not feel it for her own flesh, for her own blood, what can she feel it for? Certainly not her husband.
"Well?" She asks sharply, startling me from my thoughts. "Go on! Your father is waiting for you." I only nod my head with acknowledgement before I turn away and head down the stairs. I'm sure she expected more from me: behind me, I can hear her huff in indignation. Did she expect more respect? Or did she expect me to grovel more than I already have? I can never seem to make her happy. My mother is beyond impossible to please. Sometimes, it feels like she's determined to be unhappy. As if she's made up her mind to hate me, no matter how hard I try to earn her love.
Will anything ever be enough for her?
I sigh quietly as I come off of the steps, and end up in the bottom section of our house. There is a room off to the left that my eldest brother is using for a bedroom - until he finds a place of his own. I turn to the right, heading towards the kitchens that supply our bakery. My daily work usually begins here, where I select the freshly made cakes to ice for the steady supply of customers. Cakes are extremely popular after the reaping, and grateful families usually come and buy the pastries in celebration that their family has remained whole for another year. The design of the cake never seems to matter to the customers on the day of the reaping: they are never very picky once the terror of the afternoon is over.
I step into the kitchen with vigor renewed in my step. I always feel better when I have a task at hand, when there is something that I can make myself busy with. My father has always said that the Mellarks do not have idle hands. Even my mother prefers to busy herself with housework than she does to lounge about. I think that her screaming and shouting is another way that she busies herself. You cannot do something repetitively by choice without taking at least some enjoyment in it. And it is not as if any of us are forcing her to behave this way. Anger is her weapon by choice. Not that any of us have ever given her a reason to need such a destructive weapon.
A gentle smile comes to my face as I move towards the back wall and pull one of the freshly made cakes off of the cooling rack. Carefully, I use the palm of my hand to support the cake, thankful that the wooden cutting board it's sitting on is cool. I've been burned before in the kitchens, and heat hurts like nothing else can. The scars that crawl up my father's arms prove that he's a seasoned baker, and I fear that if I stay in the profession I'll end up getting burned like that too. But it's all I know, and I suppose that burns will eventually heal.
I expertly settle the cake down onto the counter-top, allowing the wood to slide off of my hand gracefully. I've been icing cakes since my eleventh birthday, and over the years, I've gotten quite good. My mother used to do the delicate decorations, but once I proved to be better she gladly stepped aside. I'm still surprised that her pride allowed her to do so, but my mother always has been unpredictable.
"Four hours," I remind myself. Thinking back to last evening, I remember that I've done eight cakes already. Usually, we sell at least twelve cakes on reaping days. Of course, those who can't afford a whole cake will by pastries to share with their family, but my father will have already taken care of those. It will take at least half an hour to get myself presentable enough for the reaping, so that leaves me with three and a half hours to complete at least four cakes. Good thing they've already been baked.
The good thing about reaping days is that I always have more freedom to be creative with my designs. Usually, cakes are custom ordered so that the expensive sugar batter does not go to waste, and I'm frosting whatever is on the order form. But today cake purchases are guaranteed, and I can do pretty much whatever I want. I quickly stoop down to the bins beneath the counter, and I pull out an apron. After I tie the coarse white fabric over my clothing, I retrieve the fondant, and the tiny tubes of colored icing. As I place the tubes on the counter, I evaluate what I've got to work with, taking a few glances at the cake I've retrieved. It's a lemon one - a rarity in my father's shop. The ground up lemon powder that is required for the flavoring comes from District 11. Because trading is nonexistent between Districts, he has to place a special order straight to the Capitol for it.
When the supplies come for what he needs to conduct his business, like the jams and eggs he needs for his pastries, rarely is he given lemon. I'm tempted to ask my father if we can keep this cake for our own celebration even though we've never celebrated before. The last time I had lemon cake I was eight. Just being near the soft cake is making my mouth water. I've always had a taste for tart things. As I begin draping the white fondant over the circular cake, I realize that Mother would never allow for us to keep an entire cake, and to cut this one up would be a waste.
But that's alright. There will always be another one in a few months I can ask about.
After a few minutes of working thoughtlessly, I have the lemon cake covered in fondant. I smooth it out with the flat side of the scalpel that I use to curve colored designs of icing, and begin to think about what I could do with the color. A rare cake deserves a rare design. And as often as not, things tend to taste better when they look better. It's human nature: if your cake looks good, more people will want to eat them. None of us dare to say it, but more cakes are being sold now that I've taken over decoration than when my mother was in charge of it.
Distractedly, I pick up the red tube of frosting, and I squirt a little onto the center of the cake. I have all the time I need, and as long as it comes out looking nice I can do what I want. Slowly, I spread the sticky stuff out with the edge of my blade, careful not to cut the fondant away from the lemon cake. As I spread the red away from the center of the cake, it gets lighter until it eventually becomes a pretty shade of pink. I decide I like this, and then I pick up the yellow icing to see what else I can do. Silently, I let myself slip into my work without conscious thought.
Around forty-five minutes later I have a lemon cake completely covered with lilies, bursting with red and orange. I'm proud of how I manage the leaves, and they look nearly as life-like as the petals. As always, I've managed to mix the colors with near perfect highlights and shadows. It's taken years to cultivate this talent, and although there's always room for improvement, I'm proud of what I can do. I sigh in satisfaction, and survey my work for a moment. For an experiment, it's turned out quite well. I'll be surprised if it's not sold by the end of the day.
Even more carefully than I had the first time, I pick the cake back up, this time sliding both of my hands beneath the wooden slab to provide better support. It would be a shame and a waste if the cake fell now. I don't need both of my parents upset with me before the reaping. With caution I back out of the doorway out into the hallway, pass the stairs, and walk into the other half of the business: the room where customers buy the breads and tarts on sale. From there I make my way towards the window, and place my cake on the top display tier. It's tilted just enough for people to see the bright design from the window, but it's flat enough so that the cake won't fall to the ground.
Quickly, I slide the wooden platter out from underneath the lemon cake, and I wince as it nearly breaks in half. But with a stroke of luck I manage to save the pastry. Once the lemon cake has been settled, I take a step back and brush the powdery residue from the fondant off of my hands onto my apron. It really does look nice in the window, but I can't stare at it all day. There are more cakes that need to be decorated.
I spend the next few hours decorating an assortment of chocolate and vanilla cakes, icing each of them differently. I do another one with lilies, except they're pink and white, which is a nice contrast with the chocolate cake underneath. I use a vanilla cake for a little bird I saw hopping outside of my window the other day - I think it's a sparrow, but I can't be sure. There are other designs that I use, but decorating cakes is so mindless that I cannot be sure what I did without going back and double checking. And now that it's one-thirty, I don't have that option. I've got to get ready for the reaping.
I head upstairs to the only bathroom of the house. I'm lucky that we live in the square, because that means I can procrastinate until nearly the last moment about preparing myself. The same is not true for those who live in outlying parts of the District, or for those who live in the Seam. Because most people in District 12 cannot afford cars, people walk everywhere they go. For people who live in the Seam, they can hardly afford food to put into their bellies. There is an hour's walk ahead of them. I have all the time in the world, compared to them.
Quickly, I strip down to my bare skin and wash myself with cold water, a washrag and a bar of soap. I don't have enough time for a bath, but that's alright. This will be just as good. After I've cleaned myself, I run a razor along the scruff lining my cheeks to make sure I'm clean-shaven. Even if this could end up being the worst day of my life, I want to look my best. I usually try to deny that I've inherited my mother's near-deadly sense of vanity, but I know that in a strange way, I have. I doubt that anyone else here cares about how they look.
After I've cleaned up, I put on the dark trousers that are always saved for reaping days, and I button up a borrowed blue shirt. As I pull up the stiffened collar of my father's shirt and tuck the last button through the last hole, I glance at myself in the mirror. There are dark, pronounced circles under my blue eyes, and only their brilliant color seems to save me from looking like the waking dead. My face is hollow, and I look bone-weary. But who doesn't on the day of the reaping? Only a fool would not be worried.
I estimate that it's been about fifteen minutes. Time to be heading to the square. I run my hand through my hair, wishing that the golden waves were a little more under control. But there's not anything that I can do about that now. Silently as ever, I walk out of the bathroom and head down the stairs. Sesame greets me at the bottom with a lingering mew. I stoop down and scratch behind her ears and she purrs appreciatively. I have some time to pay attention to her, but I'd rather get outside and get the reaping over with. With a pat that has a sense of finality to it, I stand and head out the door. I assume that my family has already gone outside, as I cannot hear their usual chatter behind me in the bakery.
With not much time left until two, the square is already packed. I stand right in front of my house, overwhelmed by all of the people. There are about eight thousand people living in District 12, and it seems like everyone has come for the reaping. Attendance is mandatory for those of age, but desperate and frightened families usually come along for the ride. And there's always those who have no one else that they care about, who run amok through the crowd and bet on children. Of course, they have no way of knowing who has taken tesserae and those who have not. But they assume that children from the Seam have opted to have their names placed in the twisted raffle more than once per year, and those from the wealthier parts of 12 have not. It's disgusting.
A bird cries, and I look up to follow the noise. I catch sight of a mockingjay flitting past the camera crews perched on the rooftops, as if it is trying to evade being caught on camera. But it's not like the Capitol puppets are too concerned about catching sight of their failed muttation. No. They're too busy filming the fun that's soon to come. It's absolutely sickening. But it's not as if there's anything that we can do about it. Not only are we a District beneath the Capitol's rule, we are the smallest District. The weakest. Of the least consequence. There is a reason that 12 has not had a victor in twenty-three years.
And the only surviving victor is more shaming than not having a victor at all. Haymitch Abernathy is too drunk and too narcissistic to be considered anything other than a fool. He has all the money in the world, and what does he do with it? He drinks it away. He has the money to help the people of his District, and what does he do? Hole himself up in Victor's Village and ignore his people as they die of starvation. His one job, and his only job is to keep their children alive in the arena. In the fourteen Hunger Games that I have seen, and the six that I remember, District 12 has never made it past opening day.
It's hard not to resent him.
I look to the clock tower residing over the Justice Building, and I see that it's one-fifty. I have ten minutes to get to the sectioned-off place for the sixteens, but that's more than enough time. I have to hold my breath as I plunge into the milling crowd. There's so many people, I'm very near being crushed between them. I brush past the olive-skinned teenagers of the Seam, and I force myself not to look for Katniss Everdeen. I know that she's here, and I know that she's just as terrified as anyone else. Let the Capitol terrorize anyone they want, let them strip anyone else of their rights, let them allow anyone to starve that they want; anyone but Katniss. I want nothing more than to protect her from their tyrannical rule. Because Katniss Everdeen is different. I fear for her more than I fear for myself. And I know that if she's called for the reaping, I am as good as dead. I would rather die than see Katniss placed into the arena. But there is nothing I can do.
{{I had to split chapter one because I really wasn't liking how long the original one was. The place where I left off here isn't really the best breaking point, sorry! :( Read the next chapter. That ends more appropriately, I promise. Please rate, and I'm not afraid of criticism! :) }}
