Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins and I do not own The Hunger Games trilogy, or any characters or plotlines she has created. In short, I own nothing.
I lean down to untie my boots before they leave coal tracks on the wood floor of our cozy home. I have to stand up again and lift my feet to my knees, one after the other, to pry them off. I know they're definetely too small now, and not only that, but the laces are threadbare and the rubber soles are peeling. I can't afford the small amount to pay for another pair, though, because even with the doctoring my wife does, and my hunting and mining, there's still nights when we're all in bed without dinner.
My daughter waits in the doorway to the kitchen, the height off the walls dwarfing her instantly. My wife has done her hair nicely in a little twist, and her eyes look bright. I assume they ate a good lunch, but she's always my way of telling.
"Hello, Daddy," she calls out, cheerfully. Daddy was her nickname for me for the past couple years, since her sister was born, and I haven't the heart to ask her to choose a more age-appropriate name for me. I'm sure she'll grow out of it in time.
"Hello, Sweetheart." I match her even tones. "Where's your mother?"
"She's making dinner now," she says, the look in her eyes even brighter. Dinner? I'm surprised, I didn't know we had enough food. I went hunting yesterday and got an average haul, but it would only do for one night and then lunch the next day, or at least that's what I thought.
I watch as my second daughter comes up behind my first and hugs her around the waist. We're lucky to have children who don't argue or fight with each other, or anyone, really. Primrose and Katniss get along quite well, and although at this point the age difference isn't huge, as they're both still children, Katniss looks after her sister well.
Katniss takes her by the hand and leads her away into the kitchen, were the smell of strawberries is wafting through, followed by that of the regular rabbit.
"Daddy's home, Mommy," Katniss says, and I can hear her from here. She's not shouting, but noise travels well throughout our home, through the thin walls.
Before I head to see my wife, I walk briskly to our bedroom to put on something more respectable. My work outfit is covered in black coal and dirt, and anything it touches will only be the same. Even leaving it in the house, which I usually try not to do, results in even more coal dust settling on everything. I hang it from a specified hook on the wall, sending a mental reminder to myself to hang it outside before I go off to bed.
I pull on a more respectable outfit, a pair of brown trousers with slightly frayed, long bottoms that I have to turn over a couple times to avoid tripping over them, and a plain red shirt without any patches. I inspect my reflection in the cracked mirror leaning against the wall, which would be a large saftey hazard if it ever fell, which it hasn't. Satisifed, I head back down to the kitchen to greet my wife.
As I enter the room, I am surprised to see the three of them seated, undoubtedly waiting for me so we can eat as a family, the table layed out in quite the stretch of food. What is probably the last of the potatoes I managed to gather yesterday have been mashed, a luxury that almost never happens. Half a loaf of bread sits appetizingly on a small plate, and the strawberries I didn't sell to Mayor Undersee have been taken off the vine and placed into a small bowl. The only thing that has been served is the water, sitting in pristine little glasses around the table.
My wife stands when she sees me, and pulls me into an embrace. I kiss her, lightly on the cheek, and notice she smells sweet, like the strawberries, and also fresh, like the grass in the meadow. I wonder if she took the children to play there today, maybe after Katniss's school had finished.
"Quite a lovely dinner," I say when we break apart. "Not at all what I was expecting."
"Well, Katniss told me you promised you'd take her into the woods after dinner, so we may as well eat the rest of this now."
I try not to let my shock show as we both sit down. I don't remember promising Katniss that we'd do that today, but I have made a habit of allowing her to go along with me since she turned seven, so she's gone seven or eight times now. It's not like she's a burden either, but I was looking forward to getting some sleep tonight, which I doubt happening if I'm up half the night in the woods.
"Right you are," I say as we begin to serve ourselves, Katniss helping Primrose with the mashed potatoes. There is silence, no talk yet, so I initiate conversation myself.
"Reaping day tomorrow," I say, and Katniss looks up, eyes wide with shock.
"That's not fair," she pouts, "I don't like reaping day."
I exchange half amused, half upset looks with my wife as we take a look at both of our children. Primrose, who doesn't yet know about the Hunger Games, and Katniss, who undoubtedly hates them. What a contrast their faces are, always are, actually.
"I know, Sweetheart," I say, using my special name for her. Sweetheart. The nickname that only I am allowed to use, no-one else, according to Katniss. I'm quite sure that Prim wants one too, but she learns by watching, so having just turned three, I'm assuming that whatever I call her she'll call herself. I can only imagine my youngest daughter introducing herself as some term of endearment.
Although she is not yet old enough to be involved in the reaping, Katniss at least understands it. Although sometimes I question if it is a blessing that she is so smart, or a curse, because of the things she often says about it in public. Our Peacekeepers aren't half bad, turning a blind eye to my hunting, looking the other way from some men's alchohol problems, but society just won't accept things like that, even coming from a child. In fact, they'd probably blame me.
"Still much longer before they're both eligible, Katniss and Prim together," my wife says, but we both know that the day Katniss alone is entered in the reaping is soon to come, and it worries us. How would we survive with Katniss in the Hunger Games. The chances of her getting drawn are slim, very slim, but if you underestimate things, it will often turn out against you. Something that my mother always used to say.
"Don't worry," I say. "They won't enter the Hunger Games, as long as I'm here." And now I know that they won't, because I'll protect them. As long as I can.