As I struggled to drag open my heavy eyelids, I immediately knew there was something wrong. It was my nose, rather than my brain, that detected the problem. Of course, I realized, I was missing the comforting smell of baking bread that I usually arose to. My father never baked fresh loaves on reaping day. It wasn't just the fact that no one bought anything, I just don't think he felt like it. There was something about the normality of the process, the warm crusty batches arriving steaming out of the oven, that felt wrong the morning of the reaping.
There was nothing normal about this day.
Besides, my family, like me, are probably taking the opportunity to sleep in for once. That was one of the only good things about this whole situation. One small positive amidst a sea of plain wrong. I stretched and slipped out of bed, wondering if anyone was awake yet. I looked at the clock: 8.00am. Right, so much for getting a lie in. I wandered to the kitchen, thinking I might make us all a nice reaping breakfast. I had brioche toasting under the grilll and was frying some eggs when my father walked in.
"Morning son" he mumbled
"Hey dad"
"How you holding up?"
"Oh you know me, just making food, as usual" I chuckled, but stopped quickly. The noise sounded odd resonating in the echoing kitchen.
Dad gave a sad, half smile and suddenly I was 5 years old, gazing in admiration at his strong able hands as they kneaded the dough, with another batch of perfect rolls calling tantalizingly from the oven, knowing all I wanted to do when I was older was be like him. Then it was December and I was 12 years old, and my father watched proudly as I iced my first Christmas cake. Summer of last year, and me and my father smile across the room as our family celebrate my first brother, safely making it to 19. But then my mother came bustling in, and all those memories disappear in a haze of smoke, to be replaced by the cruel reality of what's to come. My brothers followed her yawning and scratching their heads. I sighed. Here we go.
A few hours later and the whole town were gathered in the square. I was shepherded into the area of 16 year old boys. Lucas, my brother was in his last year of the reaping, and my other two brothers Fern and Rowley were older than 18. They no longer had anything to worry about as far as the Hunger Games were concerned. Only for me did they have to worry about, and Lucas. I don't think they do anyway though. Our family love each other, but we have no deep connection. It is very 'me first' when it comes to us. Everyone is concerned about their own safety before anyone else. I can't blame them, the way the world is now it is easy to become selfish. I just wish I knew there was definitely someone I could count on. Someone who I knew had my best interests at heart. I became annoyed with myself then. This was no time to get sentimental.
I waited nervously, feeling ridiculous. I didn't understand why we had to dress up all fancy. My mother had forced me into a chair and gelled all my hair back. I was dressed in a pale blue suit. I didn't care what I looked like for Gods sake! Why did it matter? If I was being sent to the capitol, what difference would it make if I had a silk tuxedo or a second hand t-shirt on? They would kill me either way.
I saw a bobbing pink wig progressing up the steps to the stage, then the rest of her ridiculous body came into view. Effie Trinket. She announced the reaping in District 12 every year as far as I could remember.
"Welcome, welcome, to the 74th annual Hunger Games!" she trilled. I had to resist covering my hands over my ears. I blanked out for the next 15 minutes as the dull meaningless introductions were relayed, and the mayor bored on with the story of the rebellion and the district downfall. I managed to keep consciousness enough to hear Effie call some poor souls name and I saw a petite blonde girl make her way up to the stage. A 12 year old, how unfortunate. I saw her little blouse become untucked from her skirt and I couldn't help sighing with the rest of the crowd. It really was a piece of bad luck. I heard a scream then, an agonized scream that ripped through my body and shook me. The girl turned to see an older girl running up to her and pushing her behind her back.
"I volunteer!" she yelled, "I volunteer as tribute!"
She was called up onto the stage and it was only then that I realized who it was, what had just happened.
Katniss. Katniss Everdeen. The girl I had watched, had longed for, for so many years. Ever since…that day, I had felt a connection with this tough yet vulnerable girl. Subconsciously I had always watched over her, trying to make sure she was kept safe. And now here she was. About to be sent to her death. This couldn't be happening! She could do this though, I thought frantically. She's strong, brave. She could win this. She needed to! I hated myself for wishing the death upon whomever was called next, but it had to be. Whichever boy went with her must die. I couldn't stand to watch someone come back home that was not her. It was impossible to think. The only way was for the boy to die. Her district partner, whoever it was. I didn't care who was going with her. As long as he didn't come back. As long as he dies.
This thought was the last that went through my head before Effie Trinket dug her hand into a bowl once more.
"Peeta Mellark!" she called.