A/N- Okaii, so this is my first ever Hunger Games fanfic, so please be honest. I created this character one day after reading the books and I decided to write a story in her POV. So, I here by announce, my first chapter of my story and I hope you like it x
Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, although I do own the character of Zinny x
As I run, the coins in my palm begin to press into my skin. Smooth, but hard. I daren't relax my grip on them, for the fear that they may disappear, like most things do around here. However, it's not the discomfort in my hand that makes me wince. It's the throbbing in my feet that seems to have crept up on me, in this last half mile of running. Each step appears to hit the dry ground harder and on occasion, small darts of pain shoot up my lower leg.
If that's not unpleasant enough, my throat feels as dry as a desert. As if every drop of moisture just evaporates in the hot air that encases my sweating, exhausted body. If this were a normal day, then I would collapse in a heap on the floor, and take a few minutes rest. Except, today isn't a normal day. Most definitely not a normal day.
No matter how loud my throat calls out for water, my feet call out for a break, my head calls out for a wet flannel; I won't stop. Not even for one minute. By the position of the sun, I would guess it's coming up for eleven. Typical.
I'm on the brink of collapse, when the familiar sight of the bakery fades into view. If I could just keep going for just a little further... then maybe, just maybe I'll get there in time...
I don't have the energy to open the gate, so I just climb through the gap in the crumbling wall and walk for the last few steps up to the side door. My hand is about to grasp the handle, when it swings open, only to reveal a very stern looking woman of about 40. My mother.
She says nothing, but just grabs me by the forearm and practically pulls me into the back room of the building.
The smell of soap greets me, as mother releases her grip on my arm and walks to the back of the room behind a torn curtain. I take this as an opportunity to inspect my sore arm. As I imagined, it's stained a lovely shade of crimson. I rub it lightly, relieving a bit of pain and returning some of the paleness of my normal skin colour back.
My eyes scan the room and I spot the source of the soap stench. A large, metal bathtub sits in the middle of the room, filled to the brim with pink tinted bubbles. At this point, mother re-enters, wielding a bar of soap and a wide bottle of shampoo. Her eyes meet mine and I know what she means.
I begin to unbutton my dirt-covered shirt and dump the rest of my clothes in a tidy heap on the floor beside me. I then step into the water. Steam is rising from the surface of the water and a horrible stinging sensation covers my body as my cool skin meets the steaming water. I squint my eyes slightly as the scented liquid pours into my open cuts, cleaning out dirt and infection.
Before I can even get used to the temperature, a fat, yellow sponge with gaping holes is plunged into the water beside me. Mother then begins scrubbing me from head to toe, leaving my skin red raw and tingling. I didn't know a sponge could be so deadly as I try not to show the pain I'm feeling.
Not very long after the sponge, comes the shampoo. It feels cold on my wet hair and sends a small chill down my spine, only to be quickly demolished as the heat from the water takes over again. Hands are then rubbing all over my head, nails scraping my scalp as the shampoo is worked into my long locks. White foam and bubbles trickle down my face, some into my eyes and some creating swirling patterns of elegance on the surface of the clear liquid. I wipe away the chemicals from my eyes, attempting to ignore the stabs of pain that comes after.
By the time my mother is finished and has left the room, I'm left feeling sore, but very, very clean. Probably one of the cleanest I've been.
I step out of the bath, my feet resting on the cold tiles of the floor and my hand grabs the towel that's folded on the table nearby. I wrap it around my shivering body and gently rub myself dry, before walking over to the far corner of the room.
Hanging, limp, on the back of a chair is my dress. It looks perfect, untouched by human hands, and yet it seemed almost...fatal. Needless to say, I felt my fingers reach out and begin to stoke down the smooth, silky surface of the emerald dress. By the texture of the material against my skin, I can tell it must have been expensive; the quality is fantastic. How my parents could afford it, I wonder, but I won't ask. It just seems, impolite. It was given to me for my eighteenth birthday, so I should just accept as a gift and be pleased. Nevertheless, I can still wonder.
Cautiously, I lift it up from the back of the chair and drape it over my body. The base of the dress hangs just above my ankles and swiftly swishes from side to side when I walk. The neckline is fairly low, sitting just above my chest and leaving space for a necklace. I stand infront of the long, misted mirror and study my appearance. From the neck down, I look beautiful... Looking upwards, the rest of myself, my true self, is different and not so beautiful. And surely, the dress looks out of place. That is why it's meant for special occasions, when you're not supposed to be yourself. Special occasions like today.
Today is the annual reaping for the Hunger Games. This is where two tributes, one male and one female, are randomly selected to compete in the year's games. The rules of the games are simple: kill, or be killed. Twenty-four tributes, from all twelve districts, are placed in an arena and basically have to fight to the death. The last person standing, wins.
Sounds simple, enough. But it's not just the other tributes you have to be careful about. The Capitol always set up traps which can kill you, or as it is quite common, you die of starvation. Only the ones trained for survival win.
This is the Capitol's sick idea of entertainment, but I can dig deeper and I know it's done to show how much power they have over the districts. They use the games as a distraction from the hidden meaning and use our fear of being chosen to their advantage.
This year is the 74th games, and fortunately, I turned eighteen last week so this is my last and final year to be a possible contender. So far, the odds have been in my favour, despite my name appearing over forty times in that deadly bowl of injustice. Why so many times? Sacrifice, I suppose.
Firstly, my name is in there a few times as of my age, but the other thirty or so times? That's voluntary. But who in their right mind would volunteer to increase their chances of being chosen by such a great amount? People like me would. These teens that can sign up for tesserae for extra food for their families. It keeps us alive. I keep us alive.
Sure, we own a bakery business, but the only bread we get is the ones no one else wants. The stale, rock-hard bread. With the money we get from trading our goods we buy supplies, like flour and eggs. Not much room there for grains and oil etc. And that is why I sign up for tesserae - a lot.
No matter how hard Peeta begs to help me, I refuse to let him sign his name up. He's my younger brother and I need to save him as much as I can from becoming a victim to the Capitol. So, instead, I sign my name up on behalf of both of us. Obviously, this comes with consequences, but ones that only effect me. Ones that still keep Peeta safe.
The door gently becomes ajar and I can make out my mother standing behind it. I walk over, trying to adjust to the long dress that swings back and forth around my ankles and open the door.
Her pale blue eyes flick up and down my body, as if she's checking to see if I'm perfect enough. Far from it, I think as she takes me upstairs.
We come into her and father's bedroom and she beckons for me to sit at her dressing table.
I sit down and look into the cracked mirror that stands before me. The frame around it is cracked also, and you can really tell how old it is.
The rest of the table is painted with a dusty coating of white, decorated with delicate carving of flowers and vines, climbing up the legs. Even through it's age and damage, it's beautiful.
My mother has had it almost all her life and it seems a part of her now. The way she sits by it everyday, gazing into the mirror while she combs her hair. The same way she did when she was my age.
Trying to think of my mother as a late teen is almost impossible. Now, she's so obsessive over little things like housework, or the crusts being even around a loaf of bread. To think of her as a peaceful, teenager in love seems so different to herself now. But one things remains the same. The fear of the reaping. Except, there's no fear for herself, but for her children.
I know she fears us being chosen as much as she did for herself, all those years ago. Maybe even more. Although she might not show it, I know how she feels. I've heard it.
The night before Flynn's first reaping, she would weep for the hope that he wouldn't be chosen. The same happened the year after. And the year after that. Every year. And even now, I still hear her whimpers and snuffles before the dreaded day. After today, she'll only be weeping for Peeta's safety, as Flynn and our other brother, Freddie have passed their reaping days. I will have too, if I get through today.
I sit silently, as mother combs my auburn hair, that hangs just below my chest, and then twists it up into a French plait at the side of my head. I've worn this style every reaping, since I was twelve and it wouldn't feel right without it. Sort of like my trademark.
After my hair is done, she makes me stand up and twirl around the room for a bit. By the look I see on her face, I know that this is what she wants me to be like everyday. She wants me to be the daughter she can dress up and try new hairstyles on in the evenings. But that's not me and it will never be me. In a way, I feel guilty of depriving that from her. So the least I can do is let her dress me up for the reaping.
By the time I've finished my miniature fashion show, tears are pricking in mother's eyes, forcing her to quickly blink them away before the rest of the district can see them. I give her a warm smile, and surprisingly, it's returned.
I link my arm through Peeta's and on my other side, I link my father. We lock the faded door behind us and slowly walk to the town square. Holding our heads up high, but our hearts down low, as we make our way to the place where hearts break and tears are shed.
We say goodbye to our parents, as well as Flynn and Freddie, before we're separated ourselves and ordered into groups. We manage to whisper good luck to each other, then we turn away and line up to be told where to stand.
Peacekeepers are calling out names of the girls that fit into the age twelve category and it's not long before they're sent to the back of the crowd. The youngest always stand at the back, the oldest at the front. I've made my way forwards through the year, and now it's my time to be at the front of the crowds, facing the foot of the wooden stage in which holds the bowls of names.
Many names are called out, moving through the ages, until they finally reach my group.
My name isn't one of the first to be called, with having Mellark for a surname. But when the leader calls out Zinnia Mellark, I'm suddenly feeling nauseous.
Getting through the crowd is easy, seeing that the majority of the girls are younger than me, and I'm allocated a place in the line to stand, typically the front line.
I keep my face emotionless, just like I do every year, but that's more that can be said for the girl next to me. Her face is red and blotchy, her eyes streaming with tears that fall down her face and drip off her pointed chin. My hand reaches up to her and I give her a pat on the back to show some kindness and support. It seems to help a bit, because as I do, she sniffs and wipes away the tears from her damp cheek and smiles back at me. This is quite an emotional place.
We all stand in an echoing silence until the Hunger Games anthem begins to play. The familar tune is all to much for one of the girls two rows behind me, as she breaks down into a state of panic. I've never been much of a crier, I prefer to keep my emotions bottled up inside me. But, if that's her way of 'dealing' with this trauma, then I can't blame her for that.
Effie Trinket trotters on stage, wearing one of her normal outrageous outfits, along with a curly wig and make up that can be spotted even in a darkened room. Following her, staggering up the stairs, is Haymitch Abernathy, the only living victor from District 12.
He won the games twenty-four years ago, which was the second quarter quell. This meant that it was the 50th games, which promised an even harder year than the forty-nine ones before. So, instead of twenty-four tributes, there were double the amount, leaving Haymitch against forty-seven other tributes. Goodness knows how he won! Well, whatever happened in that arena has definitely scarred him for life.
As he takes his place, standing behind Effie, you can see that he's swaying. Clearly he's very drunk, as usual. It seems that the effects from being a tribute has lead him down the path of an alcoholic. Not pleasant to be around, but nothing can compare to what he's been through.
As the anthem dies out, Effie, her usual bubbly self, announces the seventy-fourth Hunger Games reaping. A ripple of anxious grumbles waves across the square. This is the time we dread each and every year.
A welcoming speech by Effie soon ends and the moments we've all been standing here for begin. She now stands behind a large, glass bowl, filled with tiny slips of paper. On each one a name is written.
"Ladies first!" Effie announces, waving her hand in the bowl, skimming across the slips that sit on the top of the pile. "May the odds be ever in your favour"
The catchphrase sticks in my head. I think about how many slips contain my name and work out that the odds are not really in my favour. I've been lucky all those years, but is my luck about to end? Will one of my entries be chosen? What if one is chosen? What happens then?
I don't have time to answer the last question, because Effie's thin fingers have clasped around one slip of paper and she pulls it out. Opening the slip of paper delicately, reading the name and then delivering the result.
My heart seems to come to a shuddering halt, as her mouth opens and the name she states echoes around the crowds.
"Primrose Everdeen"
Gasps from the people bounce of the walls caging around us. This thing usually happens when a twelve year old is chosen to be tribute.
I look through to the aisle separating the boys from the girls and see Prim, her fists clenched, walking up towards the stage. My heart feels a slight twinge as I notice the tears beginning to trickle down her sweet face. She looks to innocent to be part of something so brutal and cruel as the games.
She almost reaches the stage, when a cry from behind stuns her. It's someone calling her name.
I turn around and see a girl running towards her, before she shoves Prim behind her arm. I recognise her instantly. Katniss Everdeen. Prim's sister. Someone I don't get on with.
"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!" She yells out loud, her arm still holding her sister back.
Voices murmur around the audience. No one has volunteered in years, so this is a bit of a shock. Not for me though, as I realise that I would have done the same if it were my sister. But she's not my sister, she's Katniss's.
Wails and screams come next, as Prim is lifted up and removed from her sister's waist. It's heartbreaking, but what Katniss is doing is the right thing. No one could let a little girl like Prim become part of the games. She's too sweet, kind and wouldn't hurt even a tiny animal. Never mind another person. Maybe Katniss isn't as bad as I thought...
Once all the commotion has died down, Effie announces for the boys to be picked. It's only now that I feel the relief wash over me. The truth remains clear now. I'm not a tribute. I never have and never will. I'm gonna live.
"Peeta Mellark" A high and unforgettable voice slits through my thoughts.
Wait a minute... Did she just say... Peeta Mellark?
A/N- Ahhh, this chapter was really hard to write :/ But anyways, hope you liked it and by all means, read if you want more! And reviews would be greatly appreciated and don't forget that I love you all x
Review please so I know how you feel about it x It would make me smile, but i'm not gonna force you x
Thanks, FireflyLlama XD