A/N: So this has probably been done over and over, but ever since I read Hunger Games I always wondered what Peeta was thinking. So...this is what I think might be running through his mind. I hope I do him justice, He's such a wonderful character. Sorry if he comes across as too feminie. Hope you enjoy. REVIEW ARE MUCH APPRECIATED (:

PS: I do not have Beta, so I apologize for my grammical/spelling errors.

~NotAnOriginalUsername.

"PEEEE-TAAAAA MELLLLL-ARRKKK!" I sit up straight as some sort of screeching noise fills my ears.

I rub my eyes, my vision blurred from sleep. Blinking I make out my red faced mother in the morning light shining through my opened window. She's tapping her foot impatiently, raising her eyebrow. I scoot away from her at the sight of the wooden spoon in her hand.

"Do you know what day it is?" Her voice is filled with irritation.

My heart drops as I realize what she means.

"The reaping," I say, running my fingers through my hair.

"Just because you don't have any baking to do, doesn't mean you get to sleep until some UNGODLY hour. It's mid-day. You have two hours," She snaps before exiting my bedroom in a hurried flourish.

I get out of bed, walking over to the window. Outside the streets are empty; no coal miners out for work, no children on their way to school. Today's the day of the reaping; the day they choose the oh-so-lucky tributes.

One boy and one girl from ages twelve to eighteen are chosen from each of the twelve Districts to participate in the annual Hunger Games. There's a drawing to chose – of course, we must keep it fair – and each year your name is entered, another entry is added on. So when you're twelve, it's entered once; thirteen, twice and so on. Being sixteen, my name is entered five times. In reality that's nothing compared to some of the boys from the Seam.

There's a tesserea that you can sign up for if you're hungry, or poor. It supplies you with a year's supply of grain and oil, but there's a catch. With each tesserea you sign up for, your name is entered another time. Some people have their name entered more than forty times.

My chances of getting chosen are much smaller, but I can't help the dreadful feeling that rises in my gut each time I think about the reaping.

I turn from the window and walk over to my dresser, picking out a pair of my nicer clothes; a blue button down and a pair of white slacks that have been slightly darkened with coal dust. Tucking the clothes under my arm, I walk down the hall towards the single bathroom.

I turn on the shower - we're one of the few families in District 12 to be blessed with one – and undress. My broad shoulders barely fit in the small space, and I almost fall from shock when the cold water hits my skin.

After washing I get dressed, not bothering to fix the wrinkles in my shirt, or comb my blonde waves away from my face. . Downstairs I can hear my mother yelling at my oldest brother, Jace. He no longer has to worry about the reaping; last year was the last time he had to enter his name.

I pause for a second, looking at myself in the mirror. I furrow my brow at the face staring back at me.

"They won't pick you. The odds are in YOUR favor…for once," I mumble to myself; almost laughing as I somewhat quote the infamous Effie Trinket.

Sighing, I go back to my room and sit down on my bed and pull on my shoes. For a few minutes I stare out the window, watching as people begin to make their way to square. All smiles are absent today, the grimness in the air swallowing all happiness that the Capitol tries to associate with the event.

My father knocks on my door, opening it slightly.

"Hey son," He says, attempting to smile.

I nod, getting up and walking towards him. He wraps one arm awkwardly around my shoulder. I never noticed I was taller than him.

"Don't worry too much," He mumbles as we start to walk downstairs. "The odds of you getting picked are…extremely low."

I don't say anything.

Downstairs my mother and brothers are waiting for us. My mother is still flushed with anger; come to think of it, she always is. Or maybe she's just naturally red. I could never really tell. My brother Caleb is biting his lip, his foot tapping in nervousness. My mother smoothes my hair away from my face roughly and tries to remove the wrinkles from my shirt.

She steps back and examines us all, then she opens the door and we make our way to the square.

Outside camera crews line the tops of buildings, watching us like we're prey. People sign in and file into the square. The reaping is another way from the Capitol to keep track of everything, since everyone has to go. There's a roped off section for the ages twelve through eighteen, and I separate myself from Caleb and cram myself in with the rest of the sixteens.

I focus my attention to the small stage set up on the Justice Building and the two glass balls, the podium and the three chairs it holds. In one of the chairs sits the mayor, the top of his tall head balding. Next to him is Effie Trinket, fresh from the Capitol. She's our escort and very alien like with her pale pink hair and bright green suit. The sit next to them is empty, reserved for the only person – that's still alive – that's won the Hunger Games from District 12; Haymitch. Of course, he is absent as always – probably filling himself with toxins.

I wrinkle my nose and look up at the mayor as clock strikes two.

He tells the same story he does every year. How Panem rose, its thirteen districts and the beautiful Capitol that rules it. Then how the Hunger Games came to be; a result of an uprising from the districts. Twelve were defeated, and the thirteenth seized to exist. As a punishment, the Hunger Games were created.

The Hunger Games has simple rules. Two tributes – a boy and a girl – are called from each district. They then are set into an outdoor arena, which could be anything the Gamemakers wish it to be, and are set to kill each other. The last one standing is the winner. The worst thing about the Games is that they are to be treated as a celebration; the Capitol requires this.

After he finishes his speech, he begins to read the victors from District 12. In the past seventy-four years we've only had two.

As if on cue Haymitch staggers onto the stage as his name is being read; obviously drunk. He hugs Effie and then settles into his sit. The mayor rolls his eyes in embarrassment, and then hands the microphone over to Effie.

"Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be EVER in your favor," Her voice is so bubbly I almost throw up. She tells us what an honor it is for her to be here, but it's obvious she's disgusted by us.

I cross my fingers behind my back silently and looks down at my feet.

"Ladies first!" Effie's voice rings throughout the crowd.

I hear rustling as she reaches into the glass ball and pulls out a slip.

"Primrose Everdeen."

My heart stops. Did I hear that right?