Bread Makes You Fat
Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games unless Suzanne Collins is secretly an English teenage girl.
Peeta's Perspective
'Katniss!' I screech, perspiration drenching my face, each sweat bead trickling as gently as rain.
She rotates towards the direction of my scream; her midnight black hair flagellates her face, her stormy, fearless eyes, deathly – the eyes of a hunter. I see Katniss' agile body in a fierce crouch behind a tree towering ominously over her, indistinguishable from her opponent. Her teeth are gritted, as if she's furious, her dark eyebrows furrow.
"It's no use," Katniss growls to herself – unaware that I'm staring, staring right at her.
"Katniss, please, just listen," I beg, my voice breaking at the end. I should be sturdy, solid, strong, for Katniss, like Gale, but right now, I just need Katniss to listen. I need Katniss to listen to my begging.
She keeps fumbling with her bow and arrows; they've got her full attention. However, by the creasing in her forehead, and the way her nose slightly crinkles, it's obvious it's broken, it's obvious it's useless. Her hands glide caressingly over the bow, mumbling words which I'm sure could get her beating from the peacekeepers if repeated.
"Please, please work," Katniss whispers, the problem's notably clear now - the string has snapped. Funny, I'd always expect it to be unbreakable, similar to Katniss, now it's useless. Katniss uncomfortably shivers; she's probably not used to being vulnerable.
Snap! My head gyrates to the sound of the noise, most likely a twig being broken, or bones, like the fragile young girl I killed. The fragile young girl I murdered, just to ensure Katniss' safety. Katniss isn't safe now.
Rapidly, the mutts - the malicious wolves which look disturbingly like the other tributes, amble portentously towards Katniss. In astonishment she stands up, preparing to fight without her bow and arrow. The most valuable weapon for her survival broken, just like her chances to win the battle against the mutts.
Before I can interfere, a slight wolf, with more of a fox-like structure, complete with a sleek scarlet coat, lunges at Katniss –
I leap out of bed, my body a trembling earthquake. The relief that it was just a dream overwhelms me. Katniss is still alive, still in the fortification of her own home. Her new home.
The victor's village is incredibly isolated. Haymitch can hardly be considered as company, due to him being unconscious the majority of the time. Prim, Katniss' younger sister, is probably attending school, learning how pointless coal is. Mrs Everdeen is perhaps pottering around her house, and it's slightly uncomfortable between the two of us, ever since she disapproves of the fake relationship I had with her daughter.
Katniss is probably out hunting, providing food for Gale's family.
Thoughtlessly I wonder downstairs to the kitchen, and open the old, worn-out, leather book, my favoured cookbook. I flick the pages till I reach the certain page I want, one-hundred and eighty-five – the recipe for Cheese Buns.
Heedlessly I begin mixing in ingredients, until I am adsorbed in my own world of baking. My stomach sometimes feel empty when I bake, it reminds me so similarly to the rolls of the other districts, and more importantly the other tributes. Such as Rue, the young girl that Katniss seemed to be fairly fond of.
It takes about half an hour for the succulent aroma to echo through the house, despite the unpleasantness of my dream, the smell of buns create an appetite. Before I devour one, I glance at the time, it's around mid-noon, Katniss should return from hunting to visit her mother.
Before I know it, I've assembled the cheese buns on a plate and I'm heading in the opposite direction of my house, towards Katniss' house. Without hesitation I knock politely on the Everdeen's grand pristine white door, so alike the rest of the doors in the area.
The grin which etched on my face was unavoidable when Katniss opened the door. It may have been weeks since we last had a decent conversation together. Since Katniss was occupied with hunting and pretending to design a clothing line, whilst I painted and occasionally made bread.
"Brought your favourites," I offer, feeling slightly exultant with the smile Katniss returns, eyeing the cheese buns greedily.
"Come in," Katniss suggests, her agile body moving swiftly towards to peach and cream kitchen. Despite the familiar appearance on the outside, our houses look incredibly different on the inside; Katniss' mother keeps her house neat and organised, with healing herbs in every room, mine is just a cluttered mess of creative ways of perceiving the past.
We head towards the oak table where I place the cheese buns. Katniss strolls to one of the many cupboards surrounding the room and reaches for plates and cutlery, highlighting her slim waist when she stretches. Katniss has a very nice waist.
She returns, still smiling and hands me knife and fork, "What would Effie think if we didn't eat without them?" Katniss sarcastically asks.
"Capitol forbids," I answer, with results to both of us laughing, like it used to be in the cave. Before our conversation could result into unnerving silence, Katniss reaches for a cheese bun, the one with the most cheese on the top. Typical.
"This is good cheese buns," Katniss grins whilst chewing.
"Yeah," I agree, "I think cheese buns would have to be my favourite all-time food. I could eat it for every meal. Or just constantly, without stopping."
Katniss raises her eyebrows, stops scoffing her cheese bun, and states "Then you'd get fat."
"No, why would I get fat?" I question, generally puzzled why Katniss would come out with that statement. Although it's probably one of those sarcastic, witty moments, the ones which Katniss and Haymitch are renowned for, however, Katniss seems in a more serious temperament.
"Because bread makes you fat," Katniss declares her piercing slate eyes narrow.
I contemplate on responding with a witty remark, but I find myself mutter "Bread makes you fat?"
Katniss nods, picking off the cheese off her buns. I'm suddenly engulfed by a lack of appetite and I can only remotely hear myself mumble a pathetic excuse to leave, I think it resembled frosting on a picture, or painting a cake, I can't remember.
Moseying back to my house, feeling horribly conscious of my body, or perhaps my overweight body, the only prominent thought is that maybe tonight Katniss will not be the subject of my nightmares.
In all fairness, I couldn't help myself. If you do not realize this is parody – you are a deprived child. I regret nothing.
Breathless