The Boy With the Bread

DISCLAIMER-of course I do not own the Hunger Games or any of the characters -_-

This is supposed to be a funny story told in Peeta's perspective about the day he gave Katniss the bread.

Hello, it is I, Peeta Mellark, the baker's son. Victor of the first Hunger Games depending on how you look at it and victor of the second Hunger Games which is even more depending on how you look at it. Yes, as you may think presently, right now, maybe in past lives, I have looked like a cowardly fool. But, remember, I was once like you. A little boy…with big dreams.

It all started that cold rainy evening. The mist covered the dark sidewalks and no one was out side. It felt almost Puritanical if you know what I mean. I was in the kitchen-by the hearth, waiting for the raisin nut loaf to be nice and ready and come out of the oven. It felt nice in that golden room shielded from that harsh and literally cold environment I have learned to call District 12.

So, here I was philosophically thinking when my wench of a mother came trodding in. "Yer gonna bern me leef!" She said in her uneducated accent. She slapped me across the cheek and pulled the raisin nit loaf out of the oven. It was clearly blackened. "Look what yee deed! Yee leetle weerthless scum of ee humeen being, you!"

The bread was burnt and so were my spirits.

"GO FEED EEET TO THE PEEGS! ONLY PEEGS WOUL LEEK THEET BREED!"

I rubbed my sore cheek. I think she had fractured something. I trudged my way through the mud to where the pigs were kept with the raisin nut loaf in hand. Than I heard a whimpering. It was little at first, than grew into a cry. I had heard that cry somewhere else before. I didn't know where but I did know what it was. It was a cry of utter defeat. The cry of someone who wants to stop living. I turned around so I could see the recipient of that cry of utter defeat. Lo and behold it was Katniss Everdeen!

Katniss Everdeen had always to this day amazed me in every way. Although at that time I had never expressed this amazement to her. She hunted-with an arrow. She lived in the seam and was quiet and smart and fascinating. But now she looked sad, and defeated. Nothing like I had always made her out to be. Her appearance wasn't very spectacular either. She looked frail and skinny and her clothes were tattered and worn and soaked by the rain. She sat hunched, on the floor, crying. I threw the raisin nut loaf to her and ran quickly back inside, not looking back. I wondered if she was okay? I wondered if I had done the right thing. Yes. I said to myself. Of course I had done the right thing.

I ran up to my bedroom, which I shared with my two older brothers, country wheat and Brioche. They were at Study Hour at school which lasted for about three hours (I had no idea why) and was generally, in my opinion, an UTTER waste of time. I took out my diary which I kept safely concealed under a floorboard under my desk so no one would find it. I had written some pretty deep stuff in there.

Dearest Diary, (I wrote)

Today I saw the most wondrous sight. Not wondrous as in amazingness and not amazingness as in happiness. No, I saw something sorrowful, dejected, depressed, downcast, despondent, miserable, melancholy, forlorn, crestfallen, heartbroken, inconsolable, blue, dismal, down in the dumps, blah.

What do you say, what do you do if a girl cries against the rain?