Peeta's Hunger Games

by Mea1

The story through Peetas point of view. His relationships with family, his daydreams about Katniss, and how he ultimately decides to sacrifice himself in the chance of saving her. Events in this fic are inspired by accounts in the book, filled-in with moments from the movie and lastly, my imagination.

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Dawn is breaking. I have been up for a couple hours at least. So have my dad, my mom and my two older brothers, the idiots. Life begins early in District 12, a coal mining community. But our mornings as bakers start dark as pitch. Before the sun rises. Before anyone rises. It could be worse. Much worse. Coal mining, the backbone of our district, is dangerous. Not that myself or any of my family and friends would know. Many men and women have given up their lives cracking away at the seam underground for wages that barely cover the cost of food and no chance to do anything different. No one's died from baking bread as far as I know.

Pink and orange blends of light silhouette the trees outside the window. I pass it carrying hot bread from the ovens to the cooling racks. The air is more tolerable in this part of the bakery where the windows are thrown wide open and away from the burning ovens. Beads of sweat on my brow are threatening to drip in my eyes.

"Race ya, Peeta," my oldest brother says speeding past me with a bread tray. Before I can object he nearly takes out our mother as she turns the corner. Good thing she held on to the bag of sugar she was carrying. If that ended up on floor my brother and I would get beat for sure.

"Damn you boys! This isn't a playground! Where do you think you are?" She yells at both of us even though I don't deserve it. I hardly ever do but I'm convinced this is the only way she knows how to communicate. "You could have dropped all the bread I spent all afternoon kneading. And for what? Racing around like pack of wild dogs?" She goes on and on. My tray is getting heavier by the minute and yet there is no end in sight. "I don't care if today's reaping day, work still needs to be done. People still come in for bread. It's how we make our living, you know!"

Like I never put two and two together in my sixteen years as a bakers' son, I think. I feel the heat from the tray burning through my oven mitts. The lines in my mom's face are beginning to relax or tire out, I don't know which. The end is near.

"I may not be able to get rid of you anymore," she throws an evil eye at my brother. "But you...," she nods at me then walks away with nothing more.

Of course, only my uncompassionate mom in all of District 12 would say such a savage thing to her sons on reaping day. Other families, I imagine, are holding their children tight never wanting to let go. Probably slept in their beds with them or watched them sleep or comforted their nightmares. Our mom's biggest peeve is that her three sons never think. What is she thinking here? The reaping is the worse day in all of District 12. The Capitol may call for the country of Panem to rejoice but, truly, it is an anti-holiday. It is the day that marks the beginning of the annual Hunger Games. Two young people, a boy and a girl tribute, get shipped off and told their only hope of return is to kill twenty-three others. The odds are not favorable. This? This is what my mother would prefer? My cold dead body?

The last of the bread is on the cooling rack and I pause to think, if I ever have kids of my own, they would only know my joy. I'm past spiting her. I leave that to my emotionally challenged brothers. I get through most of my early morning chores without incident. I stay away from my brothers and my mom.

Because mornings are busy with baking and attending to customers, in the back, just steps away from the ovens, is a small dark table where my parents lay out food for us to grab and nibble on while work. Mostly day-old bakery items, small pats of butter that needs to be used up, a handful-sized jar of homemade applesauce, sometimes fresh goat's milk or cheese if we're lucky. My dad is hovering at the table facing out the window that looks out back to our apple tree. He takes slow measured bites and chews repeatedly, like a cow would. Where one of my mom's tirades could fill a book with the number of words she spews my dad is the exact opposite. Like he's been given a set number to words to speak in his entire lifetime he must choose the few he utters with great care.

"Morning, dad," I say. I see the back of his head nod.

I pick up a stale bun and gnaw on it. Some water helps me push it down. My dad shift his weight slightly, a movement I interpret as jumping out of a chair. "See if your mom needs help," he says. Code for make sure the coast is clear. I'm about to make an illegal trade.

Taking a hard swallow I finish the bun and head to the front of the bakery where my mom sells our goods. I just need to tolerate five minutes-tops-in her presence then I can resume my mom-free morning. Today is the reaping so customers are few and far between. Afterward, however, business will pick up. The relief that their families have remained whole is cause to celebrate. Except for those two families... the two who have one less child. Their lives will have changed forever. The reaping will be worse for them every year whether they have more children to offer up or not.

I find my mom needlessly sweeping the porch since there is no one around to buy bread yet. She must need to stay busy in order to keep from complaining. What a tiring life to be so angry all the time. I stopped trying to explain to myself how she got that way. I don't dare ask her, I doubt she'd be truthful about it anyway. All those years locked up in pain, the inward truth about it would be hard to admit. My dad offered an abridged version, "Your mom is the way she is." Thanks, dad.

Looking out into the town square I spare a sweeping glance as dozens of Peacekeepers prepare for this afternoon's event in an organized fashion. Banners hang from the Justice Building baring the seal of Panem. A small stage is set-up. A microphone and chairs are put into place. Rope barriers square off where the children between the ages of twelve and eighteen will stand in horrified anticipation to find out if their name is called. Sturdy scaffolding surrounds the square on top of which dozens of cameras will perch in hopes to capture the one golden shot of television magic. The lead story that could define this year's Hunger Games.

I step out on to the dust free porch and hand my mom the dust pan. She looks at me with her tired eyes and gives me a hint of a smile, a thank you. There is a little bit of remorse in those blues eyes. Eyes like mine. She is sorry for what she said to me.

"Empty the ovens, did you," she says in a bark but a soft one. I nod. "Good. Check on the rises. They might need punching." She sends me away with a jerk of her head. I'm all too happy to leave her.

By the time I get back the breakfast table my dad's visitor had come and gone. He's already gone to work skinning a squirrel. He looks up at me and says, "It wasn't who you hoped." I guess my face was an open book.

Katniss.

A girl I can't stop thinking about. A girl I know never thinks about me. A girl I've never spoken to. She's a girl from the Seam with dark hair and gray eyes like steel. She's probably just as tough as it too. What could she ever see in me? A boy who bakes bread for a living. I'm not a miner covered in coal dust. I don't hunt like she does or like her boyfriend Gale, don't know the first thing about it. I'm too busy, covered in flour and sugar, wielding a pastry bag. I can frost a mean cake. I sigh leaning into the doorframe feeling the usual defeat. This realization I come to on a daily basis, sometimes twice in a day. Yet my mind travels to her and I have to take that painful journey back to reality again. Well, at least tonight we'll have a bit of fresh meat after the reaping. I think I'll go punch that bread.

My brother and I step into the marketplace, dragging a hand truck behind us. Not many are open for business this morning for the obvious reason. But since we have a standing order for flour and sugar and such to pick up our suppliers agree to open just for us. They greet us kindly knowing we'll be in the reaping. Our eldest brother is over eighteen and therefore no longer eligible. But not us younger two. My name will be in the big glass ball four times, one for every year since I turned twelve. My brother has two more than I do. His chances slightly worse than mine.

We load several bags of flour onto the truck. Tossing the awkward bags down with enough force that it makes a boom each time we drop one but careful enough that we don't split the bag. I can't even think the kind of lashing we would get if such a mishap occurred. Like the rest of the town the owners have lost their tongues and remain virtually silent. They have children too and their minds are preoccupied with worry. When they bid us farewell I see they worry for us too.

Heading back to the bakery hauling several hundred pounds of flour, in the distance, I spot a familiar gait walking in the direction of the Hob, a rundown coal storage building that is now used as the black market. Her braid waves across her back as she trots holding on to her game bag. She doesn't notice me. Never does. But I keep watching Katniss until she steps out of my view. How many times will her name be put in this year? More than four even though we're the same age. Seam folks, the miners, have it tougher than the merchant class. That's putting it mildly. Not just because of their occupational hazard. My family has enough to eat but not in the Seam. 100% of the starvation occurs in their part of town. Predictably, my mom has no patience for the starving. My dad, on the other hand, is a kinder soul, one that I alone inherited. Both he and I, and most of the town crowd are aware of the difficult choices that Seam families have to make. To keep their families fed a child twelve or older can sign up for tesserae, a portion of extra grain and oil for themselves and each member of their family. The cost is your name will be put in extra times for every tessera plus the mandatory yearly entry for each year you are eligible for the Hunger Games. Katniss has a single mother and a little sister. To avoid dying of hunger she took advantage of this program. It is perverse the way the Capitol takes advantage of the poor, almost ensuring their children are sent to the Games. I cringe at the hard truth, that 'Katniss Everdeen' is printed on twenty pieces of paper this year. Her odds are worse than my brother's.

I feel a jab to my arm but don't react. I know it's my stupid brother trying to take me out of my reverie. He thinks I don't notice him until I punch him the gut.

After we unload the flour into the pantry my mom orders us to get ready. She must be caught up with all her work because her usual demanding tone is back. After bathing I find a newly pressed white shirt and tan pants waiting for me. I slowly get dressed, too slowly for my mom as she barks a reminder for me. The nervousness is creeping in as our time to leave gets closer. The morning flew by as time does when you don't want it too. But now that's it's just after 1 o'clock, I want to get it over with so my heart can beat at its normal pace again. I enter the hallway when I hear my mom, "So help me Peeta, you better not make us late!" I roll my eyes at my dad who just exited his room. He chuckles slightly then gives me a hug. Not a one-armed macho hug, but with two arms and a reassuring pat on the back. He releases me and I see his sad smile. I return it in kind.

"You should comb your hair more often," he says and goes down the stairs.

My brother and I make our way to the town square just steps from our storefront. We sign in and shepherd ourselves into the holding area categorized by sex and age. I catch the eye of my good friend three rows ahead but we say nothing. The dryness in our mouths and the rapid heartbeats prevent it. Afterward we'll breathe a sigh of relief and find our voices then.

On stage is Effie Trinket, escort from the Capitol, in a lurid green suit crowned with a disturbingly bright pink wig. At least, I hope that's a wig. Disturbing and lurid are common words to describe Capitol people. Mayor Undersee is seated next to her and then there is an empty chair. The town clock strikes 2 signaling the beginning of the reaping. I feel the heat of the sun and from bodies surrounding me emanating it. The tension in the square thickens. Oh look, the mayor is talking now. When did that happen? The pounding in my chest is so loud it's affecting my hearing. I doubt any one is paying attention anyway. In between the sounds of what feels to be my heart trying to free its way out of my rib cage I hear pieces of the history of Panem and the creation of the Hunger Games. Okay, I'm not missing anything new. This stuff is droned on enough during lessons at school.

Someone new has arrived, Haymitch Abernathy, the only surviving victor of District 12. In our local history, there have only been two Hunger Games victors . A Haymitch-sighting is rare. I catch glances of him as he walks to the Hob to by drink, no doubt. The way he's walking now, towards Effie, it's clear he's been drinking all night. There goes Effie's hair - yup, it's a wig.

Effie makes what she believes to be covert adjustments to her wig as she clicks her heels on the stage to the microphone. Almost over. It's almost done and I can go back to my life. Her usual "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor! Ladies first!" rings perfectly in my ears. Apparently, my mind knows when to switch my ears back to hearing things outside myself. Very clearly, like a bell, she says, "Primrose Everdeen".

I feel my eyebrows knit in confusion. Everdeen... That's Katniss' surname... That's Katniss' sister - the little girl that knocks at our back door and trades her fresh cheese for bread with my dad. I've seen him look at her with sad eyes as he gives her more bread than what the cheese is worth. Good for you, dad. What must be going through his mind at this moment? I can't imagine what her mother is feeling and don't ever want to know...

A sharp breath escapes my lips as I hear Katniss calling for her sister. The anguish in her voice chills me under the hot sun. It penetrates my bones. This must be Prim's first reaping. Is she even old enough? She barely looks eleven. The outside ring of people are aghast. It's rare for first-timers to be called but it does happen and when it does the hearts in our district collectively break. To know that this young child will face off against a 200-pound, 18-year old is despicable. The Games isn't about keeping the offending districts at bay, it's about keeping us frightened and humiliated and hopeless.

Katniss is shouting now. I force my ears to work again and then I hear her.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as Tribute!" Katniss screams making sure she is heard by all. Making sure her sister is safe. My friend glances back at me. He's caught me watching her a few times but had the decency not to tease.

Prim is screaming, screeching, as Gale rips her from the skirt of Katniss' dress. The crowd is holding its breath. Aside from Prim's protestations I don't think it could be any quieter than it is now unless we all drop dead. Katniss takes the stage, her demeanor so calm in the face of death. I want her to win, of course, but there hasn't been a winner in our district since Haymitch and he won over 20 years ago. Katniss will need to overcome that 200 pound nearly adult man. Thinking about it more I bet she could do it. Scale a tree and shoot him in the eye like she does with squirrels. I feel a little ray of hopeful sunshine that she might be ok, she might have a chance. Now Effie is asking for applause for Katniss' bravery but not a single person stirs. I don't think anyone has let out their breath yet. Then a few start it, more follow and so do I. Bringing three fingers of our left hand to our lips and we hold them out to Katniss. We say "thank you" in this silent gesture. More than thank you, really. It's a great sign of admiration and respect. Still, Katniss remains a statue.

Staggering along the stage, and blocking my view of Katniss, Haymitch begins to address the crowd. He's not near a microphone so I can't hear what he's saying. Regardless if he was amplified I'm sure we'd only hear slurring. It appears in his drunken stupor he understands the circumstances which brought this brave girl before us. She'll go down in history as the girl, the first District 12 citizen, to volunteer for the Hunger Games. Infamously, it's the more affluent districts like 1, 2 and 4 that groom their young into fighting menaces, illegally I might add, but no one's ever been called on it. Naturally, volunteers in those districts are abundant every year ready to conquer or be defeated for the honor, the glory, the pride. Essentially they buy into all the Capitol propaganda. Here in District 12 we view it as sacrificing innocent children for no good reason. My thoughts are safe in my head but I look around in case there are mind readers. No one ought to hear them. Independent thought outside of the Capitol's strict parameters of what is an acceptable line of thinking will be construed as treason. Treason in any country, I imagine, is dealt with an unspeakable punishment.

Haymitch is still slurring. His arm is around Katniss' shoulder almost as he's using her for a crutch. He's shouting something, pointing to one of the many cameras filling the square though all of them appear to be trained on his every jerky movement. I see Katniss' expression falter for a second. She's worried yet she's trying to stay strong. For what? For who? Her family, no doubt. Primrose is the apple of her eye. She's staying strong for her. Speaking of strength, every muscle is straining in Haymitch's body to keep himself upright, fighting with his alcohol-infused brain that's seems to want to shut down. He promptly falls off stage in a clatter and lies unconscious. A stretcher arrives to cart him away.

Effie takes center stage again but I keep my eyes on Katniss who has her hands behind her back, staring into the distance. Effie's high-pitched voice is saying something again but I can't catch what it is. Regret and sadness begin to weigh me down. This afternoon has lasted a week and here we stand only half way through the reaping. My thoughts travel in their waywardly way... All those days in school since kindergarten I've watched her. She's caught me looking too. Our stares met a few times but I always look away. I've seen her and her sister come look at the decorated cakes through our window. Did she notice me peering through the glass? Unlikely. All those missed opportunities I let slipped through my fingers, my feet rooted to the ground, my voice lost in fear. Why? Because, well because... I haven't worked that out yet. But now, I won't have that chance again. The despair hits the pit of my stomach like I swallowed a lump of coal. If Katniss survives and returns as a victor, I'd say my chances will be even slimmer. Although, with the victor's riches she would enjoy a life that knows no hunger. She could buy all the cakes in our window that her sister admires and more. Who knows, Katniss might become a daily customer. I'm slightly cheered up by this far from reality scenario. I'm daydreaming again, in one of my Katniss reveries from which I find it hard to recover because in my mind it's more pleasant than my reality.

But that's when I hear it. My ears in perfect working order again. In Effie's pasty hands she is holding a slip of paper. She calls out with absolute clarity, "Peeta Mellark!"