Hello again.
So, I got about a hundred views on Salvage within the first three weeks of it being published. My thanks to the people who have read, followed, favored, and reviewed it.
Again, I don't own the Hunger Games, bleh, bleh, bleh. The story is mine, bleh, bleh, bleh. Enjoy my fourth fanfiction, bleh, bleh bleh.
The sharp, sudden chill in the air, the unexpected scent of fresh rain, the angry mutterings before a sharp retort. All three draw my attention away from the heat of the oven radiating out of the shut doors and onto my face.
It's my mother. The woman who has no patience for anyone or anything. How she ended up with my father the baker, among the most compassionate in District Twelve, still remains a mystery to me. My father, who listens more than twice as much as he talks, only watches when there is nothing important to say. When his witch of a wife gets to me or my brothers first, or he's simply not around.
Standing in the doorway, her head poked out just far enough to keep herself out the pouring rain. She's screaming at someone. That's nothing new.
"Keep moving! There's nothing to see, and nothing for you! Do you want me to call the Peacekeepers? They'll be here in a second to take your pathetic self away to the stocks!" My family is one of the wealthier families in District Twelve. We might not have to go into the mines to dig for coal and come home with empty bellies, but that doesn't mean my family isn't much better. We almost always end up only with leftover food that's gone stale; we can't afford to eat a lot of the things we bake. The smell of fresh bread is beckoning me back to the oven when my mother's next words seize my attention.
"I'm tired of seeing you Seam brats pawning through my trash!" Seam. It's the poorest part of District Twelve; the people living there generally have black hair with grey eyes, but all have a good amount of coal dust on them. This grabs my attention enough for me to creep over to my mother, curious as to whom she was making a racket at.
I recognize the girl, whose small figure shivers violently- from the rain, eyes wide with fright, face pale, not blinking. Katniss. Her black hair fell around her shoulders. The rain had drenched it enough to plaster it on her face so it looked like a curtain. I can see from her light grey eyes that she is scared, on the verge of tears. She timidly places the trashcan lid back on the can, afraid to anger my mother even more. Katniss' eyes catch me, peering out from behind my mother. They beg me for help.
"Always too lazy to go get your own food! Now clear out of here, or those Peacekeepers will!" My mother slams the door shut, blocking my view of the girl, but her expression is now seared into my mind, demanding I do something. I turn to the oven, where the three loaves of bread that have been captivating me are almost done baking.
My mother rushes past me, muttering angrily to herself. My eyes follow her retreating back, landing on my father, who points expectantly at the three loaves of bread. Silently pointing out that I should check on them.
Grabbing a thick towel marked with countless burn marks from years of use, I fold it over until it covers just enough of my hands. Doing this lessens the chance my hands will be burned, or that the towel will catch fire. The oven door opens easily, opening to the side, an improvement since my eldest brother tripped over the open door and almost got his hair burnt off when he was about eight. Anyway, I rap my knuckles against all three of the loaves. The resulting noise is hollow, which is how we I know that the bread is done baking. The smell overpowers me, bringing up Katniss' desperate expression on my face.
Before I know it, two loaves are in the oven, landing in the center of the coals. My forearm is hot; I had used it to send two loaves carelessly into the fire.
"You stupid goat!" A flash, and one side of my face is throbbing. I don't, or rather, can't, feel any part of my face bleeding, but the throbbing is mirroring my rising heartbeat. Stars flash before my eyes, and I hurriedly blink them out of my eyes. When the stars clear from my eyes, they focus on my mother, clutching a rolling pin in one bony hand. Her face, marred by heavy scowl lines and flashing eyes, scrutinizes me angrily. She seizes the two burnt loaves, seemingly oblivious to the heat, and thrusts them in my arms, scalding them slightly. "Feed those to the pigs! No one in their right mind would buy burned bread!"
I open the door, feeling the blast of rain hit my face and fill my nose. She is still outside, but further away, as if she was heading home. Our eyes meet, grey against blue. Katniss' eyes plead once again. I walk out into the rain, scraping off some chunks of the burnt stuff onto the ground, for the pigs to come get when they feel like it. Looking away, over my shoulder to make sure my mother wasn't around, I toss one loaf out the door, making it a point to toss it as close to her as I dare. The second one goes further, I can tell by the fact that there's a longer pause between the loaf leaving my hand and hearing the confirming thud on the ground. I don't wait to give her any signal that those loaves are meant for her; I'm closing the door and walking away, trying to keep my face emotionless, that of an ashamed boy.
That night, I'm getting ready for bed, my mind solely on Katniss Everdeen. Footsteps sound behind me, and I turn to meet my father.
"The bread." That's all he says. Two simple words. He's not very talkative, but he watches and listens. By doing this, I know that he wants to hear about the burnt loaves.
"Mother was yelling at someone, but I hear 'Seam brat,' and I go outside and I see Mrs. Everdeen's daughter, Katniss outside. She was starving, so I burnt some bread and gave them to her so she wouldn't be hungry. Because we can't afford to give away fresh bread and-" My rambling is interrupted as I notice my father's face for the first time; it is warm, friendly, and full of compassion.
"My dear boy, her father had the most wonderful singing voice. Sadly, he has passed on." Of course. I had only heard that there was a mine explosion and that many people died. I had no idea one of the people was Mr. Everdeen. "I could've married her, but she loved him. And I let her fall in love with him. Sometimes, you should let someone you love go, for if they come back, they were always yours. Unfortunately, I learned she was never mine to begin with." He ruffles my head fondly, then blows out my candle.
That night, my dreams are filled with the sight of Katniss Everdeen, her lovely voice from when we were five. My father keeps an eye on her and her sister, for love of Mrs. Everdeen. But I bet she doesn't know I exist. That horrible revelation drifts off with me as I fall asleep.
Like I said, it's short, and probably not one of my best. But when inspiration hits me, it nags at me.
Peeta might seem a little out of character, but the idea nagged at me for like three weeks.
Thank you for your time. Ciao!
~daydreamer626