CHAPTER 1

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I wake with a start, my eyes scanning the room for any signs of familiarity. As I slowly take in my surroundings, I remember. Today is the day, The Reaping. Some would say it is a day to celebrate. Usually, the only people saying that are those who cover their entire skin in dyes and tattoos. But for others, it is a day of preparation. Preparing for the possibility that for us, our odds will not be in our favour.

On a normal day in District twelve, I would rise early. My 18 year old brother Grayhem would charge into my room, shake me out of my slumber, and leave me to watch as a cloud of flour settles in his tracks. My head would clear to the sound of jabberjays, as my eyes would adjust to the dim light of the morning.

After changing into my bakery clothes, I would creep down the stairs to the bakery. The sole luxury of having a merchant father is the two storied house. But the grumbling stomach is evident enough that being a townie is no luxury. My father usually bounces around, organising the shop for the day, while Grayhem would stand at the counter with an amused look on his face. Grayhem tends to bark orders at Arthum, my other brother, who hastily obeys, bustling around the shop. When my brothers were born, my father gradually taught them to bake, so that one day, they could take over the bakery. The same happened for me. I have been able to bake a loaf of bread since I was five. Ever since, I have worked in the bakery.

In the mornings, my father wakes early as well. He is a kind man, the quiet type, who hates awkward situations. My mother would sleep until she deems necessary, only waking early on days such as today. Our small house is built above the bakery, which my father owns and runs. So if a loud noise is made, which tends to happen a lot in a bakery, my mother would hear it. The rest of the day would be spent with welts or bruises on our bodies, a result of my mother's anger.

Grayhem would work over the register my father bought from the Capitol, giving discounts to all the pretty girls who come to the bakery. My father would help occasionally out the front, but mostly out the back with Arthum and I. Arthum runs the ovens, baking them to perfection. Father makes the dough and pastries, while I decorate. Don't get me wrong, I love to frost the cakes. But my brothers tend to joke about how I got the 'woman's' job in the bakery. My brothers, incapable of thinking that... wait, I probably should have stopped at 'thinking'.

Anyway, today is no normal day. Today, instead of working early then heading to school, we work later, then head to the reaping. As I make my way downstairs, I ponder over thoughts of the reaping. Will I be called? What if Arthum is called? What would I do if he was called? What about me? Will I survive the games? What am I thinking? I cannot afford to think such dubious thoughts. The sharp smell of burnt bread wafts up the staircase towards me, shaking me from my thoughts. I bound down the rest of the stairs, two at a time, to reach the source of the smell. Arthum must still be getting ready for work, because he isn't downstairs yet. My father isn't in sight either. But Grayhem is leaning casually over the counter, talking to a pretty girl in a bright blue dress. She smiles sweetly at Grayhem, who then idly tucks a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. She giggles and blushes, batting her eyelids so hard that I'm scared they may fall off. Grayhem must have put a loaf of bread in the oven, and then must have been distracted.

"Grayhem, what's that smell?" I ask, a little too innocently.

Grayhem curses under his breath, then bounds across to the ovens. He brings out the bread, attempting to fix the scorched loaf. He curses again, chucking the hard bread onto the counter.

"Take this out to the pigs, why don't ya?" he says gruffly, trying to clean the soot off the ovens.

"Alright Grayhem" I sigh. On any normal day, sarcastic remarks and jibes would be bouncing off the walls at each other. But today, everyone is nice to each other. With the possibility that Arthum or I may be reaped, we try to stay calm.

As I make my way outside towards the pig pens, I try to force away the waves of déjà vu. Without success, my mind fills with the girl with the scared grey eyes.

My mother was helping in the bakery that night. Although what she was doing couldn't really be called helping. She stalked around, bossing me and my brothers to do whatever she said. As it started to rain, she went to bring in the soaked clothes that were hanging to dry. As I put two loafs of bread into the fiery ovens, the yelling started. I wasn't expecting it, so I ran to see what was happening. As I got closer, I started to make out a figure standing frozen, next to our bin. I moved cautiously closer, moving ever so slightly behind my mother's back, just to be sure. As I registered some of the words my mother was shouting, such as 'Seam filth', and 'Peacekeepers', I noticed her.

Offcourse. It had to be her.

Her dark hair was plastered to her frail face from the rain. Her thin fingers clutched the trash lid, white from the cold. I remember my reaction to seeing her, so close to my home. She had looked so fragile, that I wanted to wrap her in my arms and never let go. As she slowly replaced the lid, still rigid with fright, her gray eyes flickered to me. My heart skipped a beat, as I took in the girl I was so fascinated by for years, standing so close. I had always noticed her at school, but ever since that day she sang in front of our class, I was a goner. Her eyes lingered on mine, as a flash of recognition crossed her face. She slowly backed away from my mother and I, fear returning to her eyes. My mother returned to the bakery, ordering me to get the bread out of the ovens. But I stayed and watched the girl with the fascinating gray eyes trudged to the pen that held our pigs. I watched as Katniss Everdeen slumped against a tree, looking so weak. I panicked. I was filled with the urge to help Katniss, although she probably didn't even know my name. Me, Peeta Mellark, a townie. Why would she want to even know me? I ran back inside to the ovens. The brown loaves sat just high enough above the flames on a shelf, not to be scorched. As I pushed the bread into the flame, the shelf toppled down, creating a loud clatter. My mother came running, screeching accusations at me as she fished the bread out of the flames. All that was running through my mind was the image of Katniss, slumped in the rain, and the urge to help her. Out of nowhere, my mother grabbed the metal pole used to place the bread in the ovens. She swung it, and pain swelled across my cheekbone. I grabbed the bread, and ran outside. The images of Katniss filled my mind as I sloshed towards the pen. My mother was screaming at me, but the pain was blinding.

"Feed it to the pig you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burnt bread!"

I tore off chunks from the burnt parts and tossed them into the trough, as my mother went to help a customer. I considered talking to Katniss, trying to help, but I didn't have enough courage. I threw the first loaf of bread in her direction, hesitating slightly to see if she would grab it. I took my chances and threw the other, quickly returning to the bakery. I watched quietly from a slight crack in the door, as she stared at the loaves, a look of disbelief plain on her face. She shoved the bread under her jacket, clutching it tight. I wished I could have given her more. I wished I could have given her everything.

At school, she would walk past in the hall, and I would try my hardest not to stare at her. I tried so hard to not acknowledge her but that afternoon, as a stared at her, she caught my eye. I panicked at being caught looking, so I turned away. But not before I saw her bend down and pick a dandelion.

I shook my head as of to rid them of the memories. As I slowly returned to the bakery, I noticed that it was much busier. My father is bustling around, trying to provide for the swelling crowd of customers. Grayhem takes orders then shouts loudly to Arthum. At the sight of me, Arthum releases a sigh of relief.

"Where have you been? Grayhem has been barking orders at me nonstop!" he says, raising his voice slightly over the crowd.

"Feeding the pigs. Grayhem burnt another loaf this morning." I say.

Arthum's eyes bulge at this. "He is so idiotic sometimes Peeta." He says.

"Who is?" a voice behind me says. I turn to find Grayhem standing behind us, a smirk on his face.

Before either of us could answer, he says "Hurry up. There are people waiting. We have four hours to bake as much bread as we can before the reaping starts."

Arthum turns to me, rolling his eyes, causing me to laugh.

"I wonder what the arena will be this year." He asks me.

"Let's talk about this later Arthum. Grayhem's right. We need to have everything ready." I say.

The reaping is at two, so there are usually crowds trying to buy bread. After the reaping, everyone is expected to celebrate. And they usually do, out of relief that their children are 'safe' for another year. Every family, except two. Every district has to provide two 'Tributes'. One boy and one girl are selected at random, from the ages 12 through 18.

Why?

To fight to the death.

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