The blisters on my hands are especially red today. Shoving a scorching hot metal shovel into an open oven fire for four hours straight tends to have that effect on hands. Albeit I didn't exactly need to inflict this torture on myself. I just need a distraction. Because today… well today is the day. The Reaping. District 12 will have two children plucked from its dwindling population and two different families will grieve. Two different families will face knowing that their children won't return. 12 hasn't seen a victor in years, and the chances of one this year…
"Peeta! What are you doing – you're burning them!" and a pair of elbows and hands more damaged than my own shove me out of the way and rescue the burnt remains of the final batch of loaves. "You stupid, useless boy! Go get changed, its nearly time. When you get back you'll be paying for this."
I duck my head and leave. Best not to argue with her when she's mad, I should know, it just leaves me with a red mark splattered across the face. Our house has exactly four rooms… if you could even call it a house for that matter. One is the kitchen, one the bakery out the front and one is the room my parents share, and the last is the room that the kids shares. We're not the least wealthy in the district, what with the bakery to provide a relatively steady income, though we're not exactly far from poverty. There are five of us; myself, my mother, my father and my two siblings. I am the middle child, my older brother is 21 and is safe from the reaping, and my younger brother is 11, too young to be entered. Me, I'm 16 and am able to be entered, but with only 5 entries it's unlikely I'll be chosen.
The rules of the Hunger Games are simple really. There are 12 districts which surround the capitol, and from each of these 12 districts one girl tribute and one boy tribute must be selected from the reaping bowl, which contains the names of every child within the district, to compete in the Games. Each child within the 12 districts between the ages of 12 and 18 are eligible to be Reaped. It is stated that when a child turns 12, their name will be entered into the Reaping bowl once. When they turn 13 their name will go in twice, and so on until the child reaches 18 with a total of 7 entries. However, any one child, if they so wish, can opt to enter their name in a second, third, fourth, fifth time each year in exchange for tesserae, which they can then exchange for a meagre portion of grains and oil to support their family. I, myself, have never had to do this, as my family can sustain itself on the bread we make at the bakery and the income we earn from it. However there are others not as fortunate who may have their names entered over 40 times and are far more likely to be Reaped. This, of course, can create divisions between the people of each district, inducing resentment in those who live in poverty for those who live comfortably. But, that is what the capitol wants, isn't it? To have us divided, to keep everyone from unity. Because unity within and among the districts could mean a problem for the capitol.
When the 24 tributes have been chosen, they will each be taken by train from their respective districts and shipped off to the capitol, where they will have time to train to survive in the chosen arena for this years games. The arena could be anything. One year it was nothing but a deserted wasteland, where contestants struggled to find water, shelter, food, and many died from starvation. The gamemakers (the people responsible for putting the arena together) learnt from that mistake. To have the tributes slowly die from starvation doesn't exactly make for a good show, now does it? Another year they had an arena filled with poisonous animals and plants. So, instead of the tributes fighting each other to the death in a bloodbath as the capitol so craved to see, the tributes were picked off one by one by the elements within the arena, which similarly made for bad television. Each year the games get more cruel, more twisted, more bloody as the gamemakers learn from their mistakes. The people of the capitol want to see blood. The gamemakers comply. The fear within the districts builds each year. The divide among individuals in the districts grows greater.
I stand in front of the cracked full length mirror and reach a hand up to pull down the collar of the white button down shirt. I've put on my best pair of pants, the best shoes I own, and have combed back my hair so that nothing stands on end, a challenge in itself. I don't look anything like myself. We're expected to dress up in our finest clothes and parade into the town centre like well groomed pigs ready for the slaughter. It's what President Snow demands from us.
I leave the room, unable to look myself in the mirror a moment longer. As I'm ducking out the door my mother halts me. "Where do you think you're going, boy?" she asks, her voice low and filled with menance. I turn to look at her, but a blur of skin blocks my view of her. My face immediately burns and everything goes black for a second. When I can see again, she's standing there, scowling at me as though I'm filth she found on the bottom of her shoes. "You burn my bread again, you'll get worse than that. Get out."
I slam the front door shut and storm outside, moving past the pig sty and onto the main road to the town square. I can already feel a red mark sweltering under the skin of my cheek, but I ignore it, falling into line behind a group of teenagers moving in the same direction. I'm looking down at my feet, hands in my pockets, shame blistering in my stomach when I hear a familiar voice in front of me and nearly stop walking altogether.
Katniss.