From the Eyes of the Boy With the Bread
Author's Note: Hello, everyone kind enough to read my first story. This is my attempt at Peeta's point of view of the first book, and I'm beginning with the reaping. This is probably not an original idea in the slightest, but I wanted to give it a try. Peeta is one of my favorite characters in the series, so I'd really like to input his point of view, since we don't get to know many of his thoughts and feelings during the books. I am going to tweak the dialogue a bit from the book, so as to make this more of my own, even though everything belongs to Suzanne Collins.
Reviews would be great, but are not necessary. So, let's get started. Enjoy!
The Unexpected Reaping
Lying in bed, I stare up at the ceiling, pondering how the events of the day will play out. My mother told me I could have the day off today because of the specialty of the day, but I declined the abnormally kind gesture of hers; we can never afford to take a break from work, not in these tough times. All efforts are required for our business, the bakery, to succeed, and even one day of relaxation can be detrimental.
The wooden planks that cross my ceiling look worn and degraded – why I am spending my time examining the structure of our poverty-stricken home? Well, I will admit, we are better off than many other families of the district, such as those of the Seam. The Seam is one of the poorer areas of District 12. Hundreds of families are starving there, even with the aid of the tesserae; it's very hard to watch. I know I'm lucky to be the son of bakers, but sometimes, I can't live with myself when I know my fellow district members are suffering.
And frankly, I've seen this type of suffering one too many times.
"Peeta!" I hear my mother call from the lower level of our home, the bakery floor. "Will you be ready to leave soon?"
"Err-" Considering that I'm still in bed, I'm afraid that would be a negative. "I'll be down in a few minutes!" I yell downstairs anyway.
Stretching, I climb out of bed, and walk toward the mirror. My thick, blond hair is messy, so I comb it out a bit. I then pull on some of my nicer clothes: a sky blue colored shirt, a pair of straight brown pants, and some simple brown leather shoes, and I decide I look presentable for the proceedings of the day.
I leave my room behind, and traipse down the rickety staircase of our home to the first floor, trying to relax and prepare myself for the day. My mind wants to believe today will be fine, but my heart aches with a sense of newly-discovered fear…
"Ready, son?" my father looks over to me, an attempted aurora of hope in his voice that does not reach his eyes. I know he's nervous; the chances of me getting picked rise every year.
"I suppose," I say. Honestly, I just want to get this reaping over with. I intentionally slept late today, knowing I wouldn't have school because of the reaping, but my chores have piled up quickly, and some of the cakes I have to decorate will take quite awhile.
"Hurry, hurry, you two," my mom snaps. "The reaping begins in ten minutes!"
We scramble out the door of the bakery, and adopt a quick walking pace toward the town square, the location of the reaping. I attempt to clear my mind of all negative thoughts, but my heart has begun to beat fast, making itself a known fear in my body.
There is a large crowd already fanned around the quickly constructed stage in front of the Justice Building. I discern that females and males are divided once again, so I begin to make my way toward the front of the male section, since I'm getting closer to the maximum age for these ridiculous reapings, being sixteen this year. Before I can get far though, someone grabs the scruff of my neck from behind and whips me around - I turn to see my mother inches from my face.
"Meet back right here when this reaping is over," she whispers, not releasing her grip, waiting for my response.
"Don't I always?" I answer, waiting for her to let go of me. She glares at me for a minute, and stalks off to the adult section of the growing crowd. My mother and I have never really gotten along; she just cares about work and business and profit – she never bothers to notice the beauty of our trade.
Glad to be free of her clutch, I meander through the population of District 12 to my section, just as I hear a booming microphone static to life from the stage. I turn to see the mayor adjusting the microphone, and beginning his speech. It's the same one every year – informing us that he hopes we have a winner this year, willing us to try our hardest, and of course, the reading of the infamous Treaty of Treason, which states how the districts went awry and rebelled against the Capitol, hundreds of years ago.
I've heard this speech so many times now that I could probably recite it in my sleep. So I tune out the words of the mayor and adjust my attention to my jumbled thoughts. I haven't even begun to wonder who will be chosen this year out of the guys section…will it be a young, hopeless twelve year old, or a strong-built boy of eighteen? I haven't heard rumors of anyone wanting to volunteer this year, so no relying on them this time around. I guess the luck will be against whoever is picked this year…
"Happy Hunger Games!" I hear Effie Trinket, our jovial Capitol escort, declare to the crowd. "I just hope we can have a winner this year!" she says, with an attempted smile. She's probably a little aggravated by this year of her career, seeing as our district hasn't had a Hunger Games winner in years.
The Hunger Games are the punishment the Capitol thrust onto the districts after the war; each year, a girl and boy, between the ages of twelve and eighteen, is reaped from a lottery-like system, and they become known as "tributes". If chosen, you are sent into an outdoor arena to survive by your wits, strength, bravery…or luck. It isn't surviving in the wild that's the most difficult part, however; you are forced to rival every other tribute that was chosen, and fight to the death. Simply stated, the last tribute standing "wins". In my opinion, nobody ever really wins the Hunger Games. If you die, well, you're gone. If you stay alive…you have to live with your memories of dying tributes and arena horrors for the rest of your tortured life. Everyone loses.
As Effie Trinket closes her preliminary speech, she ends with her signature line: "…and let the odds be ever in your favor!" Is that supposed to be reassuring? "Now, let's pick our tributes for this year's Games, shall we? Ladies first, I always say!" she exclaims, making her way to the glass ball filled with every girl's name; one of those flimsy pieces of paper holds the unavoidable fate of a young girl not willing to die.
Effie reaches her hand into the glass ball, and I can almost hear the entirety of the girl's section withdraw its breath. My heart begins to race, too; these reapings are always hard to watch.
Effie has latched on to a piece of paper, and is opening it up now. Clearing her throat, she puts on a big smile, and speaks the name loudly for the crowd: "…Primrose Everdeen!"
I don't think I recall the name. I suppose it's better that I don't know the person that's to die...
But wait – this girl, this tribute of our district…she's so small! She must not be a day older than twelve. Her first reaping, and she was chosen. I can see a hardened expression on Effie's face at this point, after seeing the first tribute – a small, weak person like this was not who she would've liked to represent her this year, I assume.
Suddenly, there's a yell from the crowd. It's inaudible at first, but she screams the words again: "I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"
I can't see who the volunteer is at the moment, but I'm glad the smaller girl isn't going into the Games. Her death would've broken the hearts of the whole district.
The volunteer tribute makes her way up to the stage, and I can only see the back of her now - a thick, brown braid of hair cascading down her back…
Wait…no…
The girl is on the stage now, and has taken her place. Effie has already asked, "And what is your name?"
The girl attempts to compose herself, and speaks in clear, confident manner, "Katniss…Katniss Everdeen."
NO. No, not her…she can't…she just can't…anybody but her…no…no…
I hadn't bothered to put two and two together. The young girl's last name was Everdeen. How did I not realize right away…
And now…the girl I love is going into these Games.
And the odds are not in her favor.