Disclaimer: I own nothing in this story, all characters and settings belong to Suzanne Collins. I'm just a fan with a penchant for writing and an idea that sparked in my head.
1
"I volunteer!" a shrill scream tears through the dreary crowd. Every face turns to stare at its owner. "I volunteer as tribute," she says again, this time with more control in her wavering voice.
The crowd murmurs amongst themselves shifting at the sudden outburst. Slowly, each face turns to the stage that Effie Trinket stands on. Her painted pink lips smile though there is an uncertainty in her gaze.
"That is a very sweet sentiment my dear," she speaks in a high-pitch tone that is laced with the air of a citizen from the Capitol. Effie bats her ridiculously long lashes as she smooths her shaking fingers through the pink curls that are piled a top her head. "The rules state that only the name called for The Reaping is to participate in the Hunger Games. Perhaps better luck next year."
I look over my shoulder to the distraught face of Katniss Everdeen. She is upset because her younger sister of only twelve has been selected as a participant for The Hunger Games. It is an annual stint that the Capitol started after rebels in the districts tried to overthrow the hierarchy. There were once thirteen districts, now there are only twelve. As punishment and to remind us that things are to remain as they have the Capitol created an arena where one boy and one female from the ages of twelve to eighteen were plucked from their district to fight to the death. Out of twenty-four boys and girls only one of them was declared a winner.
And Katniss Everdeen's frail, younger sister had been chosen to go into the pit.
Tears rush down her face now as she stares up at Primrose being escorted to the stage. Effie smiles, waving Prim toward her like a lion tricking a rabbit into it's den. She takes Prim's small hand in hers lifting her arm high above her blonde head. Prim's blue eyes vacantly scan the crowd locking onto Katniss's face.
No one cheers to Effie's dismay. Instead they all look at Prim with utter despair. Prim would never hurt a fly. Now she was expected to fight for her life or be killed in the process.
Katniss lightly pressed the three middle fingers of her left hand to her lips then holds it out to Prim. One by one the rest of District Twelve followed suite. With shaking hands I do the same thrusting my hand toward the stage. It is a very old, rarely used gesture that was once in a while seen at funerals that our district would do. It meant saying goodbye to someone that you love and everyone loves Primrose Everdeen.
Especially Katniss. After the explosion in the mines resulting in the death of their father a maternal instinct was woken. Ms. Everdeen had snapped completely. Or, so my father had said. I didn't Katniss and her family well. The withdrawn behavior that Ms. Everdeen exploited was not something that I knew to be normal or not for her. Several times I had heard my father comment that it was "so unlike her" to everyone but my mother.
Because of Mrs. Everdeen's sudden emptiness it was Katniss who had turned to taking care of Prim. She risked her life going into the forest outside of District Twelve to hunt where she would sell her kill down at the Hob. This was after I had spotted her digging through our trash for fresh bread.
My parents own a bakery. We weren't exactly rich, no one in the Seam was. But, we were better off than most. I never had to fight to live the way that Katniss did for not only herself, but for her family too. At eleven years old she had the weight of the world on her skinny, frail shoulders.
My mother chased Katniss away despite the freezing rain that soaked into her muddy clothes. She threatened to call the peacekeepers on a young girl with large, sunken brown eyes and trembling cracked lips. I watched her collapse underneath a tree staring down at the bakery. She was dying, that much I was sure of. We had never spoke to one another before and she didn't even know that I existed but I couldn't just let her die.
I knew I would get in trouble. Even as I knocked over the bread resulting in its fall inside the oven I knew the repercussions would be worth it. The moments the bread touched the fire my mother swooped in with a wild look in her eyes.
"You stupid fool!" she shouted taking the paddle she had in her hand and slapping it across my face.
It wasn't the worst that I had had though it didn't make it hurt any less. Stars filtered through my gaze as my hand reached for the hot, swollen skin on my cheek. My mother ignored me turning her attention to fetching the bread.
Cursing under her breath she shoved the loaves into my arm. "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature!" Flinging her hands into the air she hysterically cried as I sloshed through the mud outside, "why not? No one decent will buy burned bread."
The rain was like ice on my warm skin. I couldn't imagine how this frail, hungry girl was still alive as she sat under the tree to shield herself from the cold. It bit at my hand as I tossed pieces of blackened bread to the pigs. They squealed and snorted in delight making enough noise to keep my mother from peeking her head out to check on me. When I was certain she wouldn't come outside I tossed the loaves of bread towards Katniss.
She stared at me for a moment, her sunken brown eyes large and hallow. I turned away to head back inside listening to her scramble for the bread. The next day at school I wore a shiner that bruised half of my face telling people that I had gotten too close to the pigs. Katniss came to class with more color in her cheeks and a apring in her step that had gone missing months ago.
Again, we made eye contact but neither of us moved to speak to one another, and we never made the time to try. Katniss had then started hunting outside the Seam and began to sell her goods to the Hob shortly after. She was far too preoccupied caring for her family that I never tried to speak to her after the bread incident. Katniss had far too much on her skinny shoulders to deal with that a schoolboy crush would have just seemed trivial.
Yet, here I stand with my eyes locked onto the girl who almost died outside of my home once more. Though, just as I expect she does not see me. Her eyes rest on Primrose and it is only her sister that she sees.
Effie clears her throat, the trained smile on her face refuses to falter. She crosses the stage to the ball that is filled with slips of paper containing the name of every male in District Twelve ages twelve to eighteen. Somewhere in that ball full of strips of paper my name is scribbled in neat print.
"Peeta Mellark," Effie cries out in a sing-songy tone. Her eyes glaze the crowd as everyone slowly turns to face me.
I stand transfixed looking at all the dirty faces that stare at me. I recognize every one of them yet they are all strangers. No one volunteers for me, not my siblings or my friends, not that they could-or would. Instead they watch with morose expressions as I climb the steps to where Effie and Prim stand. I do not look at either of them.
They mayor then launches into the Treaty of Treason as he does every year after the tributes are chosen. I do not hear what he is saying. My eyes are locked onto Katniss whose wide-eyed expression is trained onto Prim. She blinks, then slowly turns her attention to me. Her face is hard to read, her stare blank as though she is seeing through me instead. I cannot take her gaze anymore.
Only one winner could be claimed during the Hunger Games. If I came home it would mean that Prim had died. Katniss would never forgive me, she would never speak to me. I would just be a reminder of what had happened to Prim. I blink, uncertain as to why I'm even thinking such things. Any chances I had with Katniss were long gone before my name was even called out as Tribute.
I briefly glance to Prim as the Mayor continues to read the Treaty. There are tears drowning her pale blue eyes that spill onto her patchy, red cheeks. She fidgets with an untucked piece of her blouse that pokes out of her skirt.
We both knew it. Our chances of survival were skin to none. I don't know much about Prim but I know enough that she couldn't kill another human being. She is a healer, like her mother. Her hands are meant to save other from death not cause it. My chances are just as likely as hers, though. I had never been in a fight so much as killed anything. I even refuse to slaughter the pigs and chickens leaving that for my brothers to handle.
Perhaps if we're lucky enough our deaths will be swift, I think to myself as the Mayor finishes reading the treaty.
Effie holds out her hands toward Prim, then to me. "Your District Twelve Tributes," she squeals rapidly clapping her hands together.
No one claps. No one cheers. No one says or does anything but separate to return to their daily lives. Effie frowns, though I don't know what she really expected. The Capitol folks were all heads in the clouds. Effie's visit to the Seam must have been a culture shock to her high heels and pink wig.
I spare another glance to Prim as the Peacekeepers steer us away so that we can say our goodbyes to our families. Prim's vacant gaze is haunted just as I expect mine to match. What we're the chances that Prim and I have been chosen as tributes?
Everyone that is required to participate in the reaping had their names written onto one slip of paper. Some people, like Katniss and her best friend, Gale Hawthorne, had their names entered in numerous times for the tesserae where payment is rice and oil to feed their families. I know for a fact that Katniss did not let Prim sign up for tesserae and my family was well off enough that there was no reason for me to sign up. In a glass ball filled with thousands of names and it is Prim and myself that have been picked. It seems as though the odds are not in our favor today.
Author's Note: I got the idea for this story to a prompt I saw about what if Katniss didn't volunteer and Peeta swore to bring Prim home to her. I am really swamped with work, holidays, and other projects but if this gets a positive reaction then I may work harder on updating regularly. For now it's just a plot bunny in need of being dusted.