AN: All rights go to Suzanne Collins the author of this amazing book. Sorry if theyre are any spelling And grammar mistakes! Tell me what you think! Sorry about my bad paragraphing! This is the first chapter! Tell me whether to keep going or not THIS STORY SWITCHES BETWEEN CHARACTERS POV

*Katniss*

"Primrose Everdeen!" Effie Trinket proclaims as my twelve year old sister walks to the stage obviously choking back sobs. I would volunteer but then my mom and Prim might starve if Gale couldn't get enough food. I want to volunteer but I don't know if it's the right thing to do, I don't want my little sister to go into the arena. What did I do to deserve this, has somebody heard my constant complaints about the Capitol? Maybe there's cameras in the woods and Snow knows I've been going there, it wouldn't surprise me with President Snow's creepy aura he has. By the time all the thoughts have swam through my head it's too late too volunteer. Great I took too long to decide whether or not to say two words, now my sister is as good as dead. I look at my mom and she is a total wreck, now I get to force my mom out of deep depression and watch my sister die on national TV. I get pulled out of my thoughts again to hear the male tribute. Effie swishes her hand around the glass globe pulls out a tiny slip of paper unfolds it and states, "Peeta Mellark." 'Isn't that the bakers son?' I think to myself. Great now I will never be able to pay him back for saving my family.
(flashback)
All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12.
Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there
might be something in the rubbish bins, and those
were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or
rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but
my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately,
the bins had just been emptied.
When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread
was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in
the back, and a golden glow spilled out of the open
kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the
luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy
fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted
the lid to the baker's rubbish bin and found it spotlessly,
heartlessly bare.
Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked
up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and
did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick
she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing
through her rubbish. The words were ugly and I had no defence. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed
away, I noticed him, a boy with blonde hair peering out
from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school.
He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He
stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother
went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must
have been watching me as I made my way behind the
pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of
an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing
to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled
and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too
much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired.
Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community
home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the
rain.
There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the
woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and
I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed
towards me through the mud and I thought, It's her.
She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't
her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large
loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire
because the crusts were scorched black.
His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you
stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy
burned bread!He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts
and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery
bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a
customer.
The boy never even glanced my way, but I was
watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red
weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she
hit him with? My parents never hit us. I couldn't even
imagine it. The boy took one look back at the bakery
as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his
attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in
my direction. The second quickly followed, and he
sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door
tightly behind him.
I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine,
perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean
for me to have them? He must have. Because there
they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness
what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my
shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and
walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into
my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life.
(flashback ends)

I listen to the final words Effie says then watch Peacekeepers escort away my sister and the boy with the bread.

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