Prologue

One week before the reaping.

I stare out into the trees for a moment, breathing in deeply and inhaling the scents of the forest. I would be perfectly happy to spend each and every day under those leaves, but I have responsibilities, and wandering around in the forest does not count as being responsible.

Apparently.

I sigh, and I heft the axe in my hands, flexing the muscles in my arm before hurling it into the stump in front of me. It sticks into the wood with a satisfying thud and I smirk at the criss-cross pattern of welts that mark its surface. It's much easier out here; I can lose myself in the repetitive motion, and just forget about everything else.

Unfortunately, my little brother has other ideas. I heave the axe back out from the wood, pulling my arms back over my shoulders and preparing to take another swing, but just as I ready myself to do so, I hear footsteps scraping along the grass behind me. "Johanna," a little voice calls out and I spin around, letting the axe fall to my side.

"What is it Ash?" I say with a sigh, taking in the scruffy form of my little brother. His clothes are torn, and the bottoms of his grey trousers coated in mud. He probably hasn't had a bath in days – which means that it's up to me to force him into one.

"Mama said to remind you of the time – you have your rehearsal in twenty minutes," he smiles a toothy grin up at me, obviously proud of himself for being able to remember such a long message.

Thanks for the reminder, Ma. She's been so enthusiastic about it the moment that I'd announced I'd gotten a part, but I can't help but think that it's come at just the wrong time. Just as she's started to get even worse, and I don't know if I need the extra pressure on my shoulders right at this moment. Still, I know that I'm going to be selfish, and do it anyway, because I'm enjoying it too much to back out now. I tell myself it's because it's about the only good thing going on in my life right now, but really I just don't want my suck-up of an understudy to get to step in and take my place.

"I'm coming," I tell him, and shove my axe back into the stump. I know that it'll stay safe at the bottom of our garden – no one usually ventures out as far as the stream apart from me. As I follow Ash back up the overgrown path, I cast one last glance back at the gurgling brook, and suck in another deep breath of air.

Ash slips a muddy little hand into mine, and I stiffen slightly; I still haven't gotten this maternal thing down just yet. "When will we see your play?" he asks as we step into the house. I make him wipe his shoes on the mat before I answer his question.

"In a couple of weeks," I tell him, feeling a stupid grin break out onto my face as I imagine opening night. This is the first play we've done at school for years, because we can never work up the money to pay for all the props, and the costumes. And, truth be told, I've missed the exhilaration of stepping up onto that stage in front of a room full of people and becoming someone completely different.

"Are you the main part?"

I snort in response to this; according to our director I'm far too unreliable, and unmanageable to be awarded the main role. Not that it particularly bothers me; I could tell from the smile on his face that he thinks I'm good, and people don't think that very often about me. "Go tell Ma to get some rest," I instruct Ash and he nods his head brightly, "I'll see you later, alright?" He throws his spindly arms around my waist and I squeeze him awkwardly– he smells like the forest. He's probably spent the morning running around outside with Aster. I can't help but feel I should be keeping a better eye on them.

I dart out of the front door, yelling goodbye over my shoulder and hearing a vaguely muffled response coming from upstairs. It must be Ma. My stomach contracts slightly; perhaps, if I were a good daughter, I would go up and say goodbye to her properly. Wrap my arms around her, and tell her that I love her. But I can't face that room anymore – it hurts too much to see her wasting away like that.

I shake my head, forcing myself to concentrate on the play. But I throw another glance backwards as I drag my rusty old bicycle along the garden path, sighing as I spot the tyres which are pretty much flat. Still, taking this thing will be quicker than walking, and I'm already late.

I pedal furiously, wincing every time the tyres hit a stone, but I revel in the whoosh of the wind against my cheeks and the green blur of the trees that rush past me. I yell out in exhilaration, letting the wind carry my voice away. It's so much easier when I don't have to worry about pleasing anyone else. I always have to pretend to be someone I'm not. I suppose that's why acting comes so naturally to me.

All I really want to be is free, but dreams like that don't come true when you live in a place like Panem.

I arrive in town about half an hour later, screeching my rusty old bicycle to a stop outside the front of the school. I'm definitely going to get yelled at for being so late. I chain it up quickly – not that anyone would actually want to steal it. I mean, the thing belonged to my dad when he was my age, so I wouldn't have thought that it would be particularly appealing to bike thieves.

I dart into the school hall; they've started without me. Miss Prissy-Queen-Bee is doing her monologue, and I roll my eyes at the lack of emotion in her words. They only chose her for the lead because she's pretty, and popular. I normally zone out whenever she's doing a scene, even when I'm up on stage with her, which means I get yelled at for my lack of reactions.

Well, I get yelled at in rehearsal no matter what I do, so I might as well carry on blocking her out.

"Johanna," Mr Oakley spreads his arms wide as he spots me entering the room, and he signals for Daisy to come to an end. "You're late," he calls out.

I simply shrug in response, "I'm always late," I reply. I'm really not in the mood for him to have a go at me – it's not as though I was even needed in this scene.

"Johanna!" I twist my head, and grimace as I spot the source of my name. "I almost had to step in for you."

Yeah, well sorry you didn't get the chance. I glare at Nysa, whose smile quickly fades and I shove past her. "Am I even needed yet?" I demand impatiently, drawing a look of consternation from Mr Oakley.

"Please don't speak to me like that," he says in a placid tone. I just narrow my eyes at him; if he didn't need me here, then there were plenty of things that I could have done at home. Ash's bath, for example, and I'm sure that Will won't be planning to make a start on dinner anytime soon. Dad's been covering more and more extra shifts recently, and so it's been completely up to me to pick up the slack. I wish Ma didn't look so sick, then I could actually resent her for this. It's not like I asked to suddenly become a parent figure to three needy little kids. Not that Will is even that little really, he's just a lazy sod.

"Yes sir," I reply with disinterest. I don't particularly care what he thinks about me. Him, or anyone else in this room.

He raises his eyebrows at me, "go backstage and get ready for your first scene. We'll need you in about five minutes." Nysa darts after me as I rush up the stairs and brush past the curtain.

Once I'm on stage, I wait for my cue in anticipation; this is my favourite part of the play. It's the scene where my character releases her frustration, and anger, and I get to do just the same when I play the part.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus, to leave all thoughts of Ma behind and become the woman who has just lost everything that she ever loved. Who has to face the agony of dealing with her broken life all by herself.

"You pushed him away," Rook, who plays the male lead, exclaims, his eyes meeting mine and then flittering away. This is the man who killed my character, Nessa's, family. "You pushed them all away."

And so I step into Nessa's head, and imagine how I would feel if I returned home to find my family dead. I imagine the anger rushing through my blood, the need for revenge that would overwhelm me. I can feel the anguish, and the pain so vividly that it may as well be real. My hands clench into fists as I picture wrapping my fingers around the knife in order to seek vengeance against the man who had destroyed my family. I hang my head in horror, not wanting anyone to see the hurt in my eyes.

I open my mouth to speak my lines.

I bang through the front door, slamming it behind me as I enter the house and I call out, "Will?" I yell at the top of my lungs, listening to my voice echo throughout the house. He pokes his head around the doorway leading into the living room.

"Jo? There's no need to yell," he says placidly, and I clench my fists in frustration.

"I guess you haven't started dinner yet?" I snap viciously; I feel exhausted, and would nothing more than to just collapse onto my bed and sleep off this sorry mess of a day. But, of course, now I have to make tea, get Ash and Aster to have a bath, put them to bed. And tend to Ma. I stomp my feet in frustration as he shakes his head, and gestures to the collection of woven baskets which lie on the wooden floor of the living room. "Are you kidding me?" I shriek at him, releasing my anger at him, "this is all you've done all day?"

"I just wanted to make some money, to help Ma." As much as I may feel like howling in fury and smashing all of his stupid baskets, his words ring in my mind. After all, isn't that the exact same reason why I've been taking so much extra work recently? The doctor warned us that if we can't get her the medicine soon, then she doesn't stand a chance. And every time I go into her room, and take in her twig like arms and legs, I just want to screw up my eyes and pretend that none of this is happening. Because she is dying and we don't have the money to do anything to stop it. "I'll start it now," he continues when I don't respond.

I just shake my head, and run my hands through my hair, tugging it slightly at the roots. "That's my job," I mutter, "mine and Dad's. You don't worry about making money, just cook the meals." Not that there's all that much in our cupboards anymore; most of our money has to go on Ma, as much as she may protest about it.

"I want to help," he says, meeting my eyes with desperate dark ones of his own. He looks as tired as I feel, with dark shadows under his eyes, and pale skin. The walls in our house aren't particularly thick, and I've heard him waking from nightmares every night this week. I take a step towards him, and he flinches, perhaps thinking I'm about to give him a whack or something. A pang of guilt rushes through me, and I ruffle his soft brown curls.

"You can," I tell him, "you can help me make dinner."

I'm just chopping the carrots, and watching Will carefully as he peels the potatoes when I hear a cry from upstairs. I almost drop the knife in my panic and I start into the other room, convinced that something has happened to Ma. I've reached the bottom of the stairs, when Aster suddenly comes hurtling down them, so distracted that she crashes into me with a thud. I take in her tear stained face and her pitiful little sobs. "What's happened now?" I ask, resignedly.

"It..it's Ash," she says, sobbing harder and trying to wrap her arms around me. "He... he kept... pinching me. And...Mama was...she was...sleeping. I...only told him off...for making noise...but then...he..."

"Then he started pinching you."

She nods, her chin trembling as she extends her arm and shows me the pink marks on the inside of her wrist. I roll my eyes; I could really do without this right now. "ASH!" I yell up the stairs, "you'd better get down here right now."

There's a thud, and then I hear his feet scampering towards the stairs. His head appears round the edge of the banister, his wide set eyes peering down at me anxiously. "Did you pinch your sister?" I demand. He shakes his head, tossing his curls.

"I didn't pinch her," he whines, "she's making it up." He points down at Aster who then breaks out into even louder sobs.

"I can see the marks on her arm. She wouldn't exactly pinch herself, would she?" I pat Aster's head; the biggest show of affection I can bring myself to cope with.

"She's a liar," he shrieks, stomping his little feet and sending reverberations running down the stairs. Will darts through from the kitchen, still clutching a potato in his hand.

"What's going on?" he asks, glancing between me and Ash with confusion painted across his face.

"Just, look after Aster would you?" I mutter, pushing her in his direction. He instantly wraps an arm around her shoulders, and I feel slightly envious of the way in which he's such a natural. He should be the one in charge, and not me. Only fourteen, and he's so much better at this than I am. "Come on Ash, down you come."

He starts down the stairs, taking them one at a time with his head hanging down. The minute he reaches the floor, he tells me, "she was annoying me. She kept saying how Mama loves her more than she loves me. And I only pinched her once." I just raise my eyebrows at his words, "fine, I pinched her three times." He folds his arms tightly across his chest and glares up at me. "She deserved it."

"No one deserves to be pinched," I tell him calmly, privately wishing that I could pinch him for causing so much fuss while I'm trying to make dinner. "Go and apologise to Aster."

He shakes his head obstinately, "I won't. She should apologise to me first – she started it."

I take his shoulders, and turn him round to face Aster. "I won't say sorry," she mutters.

I exchange a glance with Will, who simply shrugs in response. Thanks for the support kid. "What if you apologise at the same time?"

Ash just starts screaming and I want to clamp my hands over my ears. Or, alternatively, his mouth. "Ash?" I try to call over his yelling, but his screeching drowns me out. I groan with frustration – I don't have time for this. "Why do you have to make everything so difficult?" I shriek at them, before shoving past Will and slamming the kitchen door behind me.

I can't keep pretending as though I can cope with this – I'm no good at filling in for Ma. I press my hands to my eyes and lean my elbows onto the kitchen counter. It's covered in crumbs – just something else that I need to take care of.

I start chopping up the carrots once more, bringing my knife heavily down onto the worktop, hacking at the carrot viciously in an attempt to quell my anger. For Panem's sake, can't they manage to avoid an argument for one measly minute?

I huff, and stomp around the kitchen, chucking vegetables in pans and stirring the wooden spoon haphazardly around in the pot.

The result is a watery, brown, weak imitation of Ma's stew. Well, it's all the others deserve really, and so I yell out for them to get themselves into the kitchen or their dinner's going straight in the bin. Which is probably where it should go anyway. But that would be a waste of food, so it's an empty threat. And they know it.

Still, they come anyway. "You alright Jo?" Will asks, looking at me with a concerned expression as the three of them cross to the table with tentative steps. I sigh, pressing a hand to my temple – I didn't mean to upset them, I would never deliberately set out to do something like that. But I just get so angry with them – I glare at Will, infuriated with the fact that, once again, it was left up to me to prepare the dinner. Even though I shouldn't be annoyed because he was taking care of the little ones, something which I'm clearly incapable of doing anyway. But rational thoughts have never helped to calm me down, and they certainly don't work now.

I ladle the stew out onto the chipped plates, relishing in slopping it impatiently into them despite the fact that I manage to splash some onto my top. I slam each one down onto the table, not particularly caring when some spills over the edges, even though dad would tell me off for wasting food if he saw me. I pour some out for myself, and then leave the rest of it for dad. I'll take some up for Ma later, but she's usually feeling quite sick around this time. Anyway, I know that dad prefers to eat with her when he gets back from work.

"How long was it that time?" Ash asks eagerly as he emerges from beneath the surface of the water, his hair slicked down against the side of his cheeks.

"Umm... Twenty seconds, " I blag quickly. I had almost fallen asleep right there on the bathroom floor rather than counting how long he managed to hold his breath for this time.

"Only twenty?" he sounds disappointed.

"That's right," I say, trying to suppress a yawn behind my hand. "Why don't you try again?" I really wish that he wouldn't though. Aster has already been bathed and put to bed, so once I've persuaded Ash to get back out of the tub then I can finally collapse onto my own mattress.

"You weren't counting properly," he suddenly wails.

"No one likes a sore loser," I point out, "and anyway-" My words are cut off when Ash crashes his little fists down onto the surface of the water, splashing water straight into my face. I stare at him furiously for a moment as drops roll slowly down my cheeks.

I snatch the sponge out of his hand, and fling it against the peeling wallpaper. It bounces off and then ricochets against the floor. Ash looks at me with shock on his face. I take one look at him, and feel the anger filling me up once more. I dart out of the room, and across the landing, planning to slam my door before I feel the need to start screaming at him. But before I can reach the sanctuary of my bedroom, a voice stops me.

I push open the door and poke my head inside. I've tried to avoid this room, and Ma, as much as I possibly could for the past six months. I take in the sight of her now – her sunken cheeks, and the heavy shadows under her dark eyes. "Jo?" she asks gently, and suddenly, stupidly, I feel tears welling up in my eyes, pricking my eyelids trying to make their escape.

"I can't do it Mama," I find myself whispering, hating that I have to show my weakness in front of her. I'm supposed to act strong, and capable in front of her. She opens her arms and I want to shut my eyes to avoid seeing how bony they are. But I cross the room without hesitating and wrap my arms around her, needing her to comfort me.

"Johanna," I hear her begin, but I quickly jerk backwards. I don't deserve her sympathy after the things I've done tonight. Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the coins that I earned earlier from clearing our neighbour's yard. She shakes her head as she sees what I'm holding. "If you earned it, you keep it," she tells me firmly, closing my fist back over the money.

"Take it," I mutter, "I want you to use it for your medicine. I know it isn't much, but I'll make more, and then we'll have enough soon. Because dad made quite a lot yesterday, and-"

"Johanna," she murmurs softly, holding my gaze with her dark eyes. I know that I was blathering on, but that's just what I do when I get uncomfortable. She wraps her arms back around me once more and I bury my head into her shoulder, feeling just as I did when I was a little girl. I have to find enough money for her somehow; I have to make her better, because I don't know what I'm supposed to do without her. I'm not quite ready to lose that feeling of being just a child quite yet.

I do not own The Hunger Games, otherwise Johanna probably would have played a much bigger role.

I am planning on doing Johanna's story right up until the end of Mockingjay, but I can't promise that updates will be particularly regular. If you read this far, then please review. Thanks :D